Link to your encyclopedia thread: Haru K's Ency
School Year or Adult Level: Second year
Stat Changes: +5 from graduations
Old - sta: 5 | eva: 7 | str: 5 | wis: 6 | arc: 5 | acc: 7
New - sta: 6 | eva: 7 | str: 7 | wis: 6 | arc: 6 | acc: 8
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Year 1 Charmer and Year 2 Advanced casting
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):

Charmer

Reducio

There are those that command attention. They enter a room and command attention by virtue of drama, of light, of extravagance. And then there are people like Haru Kobayashi—people who do nothing, and are front and center. He doesn't speak louder than a whisper, doesn't dress to impress, doesn't do anything to convince or to amaze. And people notice. People recall. Haru isn't out to win people over. He merely is.

It's difficult to put into words what's distracting about him. It's not really his looks, although by any standard, he's handsome.
He's got a smooth movement to his actions, a flowing, unhurried movement, and an elegant absence of formality that makes mundane actions—folding paper, manipulating his wand, pushing hair out of his face—seemingly intentional. No stiffness in him, no forced move. He never seems to notice how much people stare at him. And that lack of self-consciousness makes him all the more interesting.

From his first day at Mahoutokoro, Haru had that unsettling, charisma-driven magnetism that attracted professors and students in equal measure. No bigger jokes or masterly creations, just stillness. When he did utter words, they were softly, reflectively, and people would stop and listen—when he was as much not saying something spectacular as at all concessory of that spectacularity. His presence never overwhelmed a room; his presence occupied a room. His words were never necessarily persuasive by intent, but had a bizzingly unnatural power to break a pressure bubble, alter a mood, or bump a stream of talk along comfortably. There was never a move to posture—only a casual manner of existing that had a way of commanding other people's attention his direction.

What everyone loves about Haru is not manipulation, or even charisma by that term as loosely used. It's ambient. He takes space not as a flame does, but as a mist—gentle, incredibly transient, and irremediable to dismiss. It clings in your clothing. In your lungs. In your hair. Someone may wake him out of sorts, perhaps a little lost as to why precisely they suffocated—but suffocating there is. And not by chance. It's just Haru.

He speaks less than he listens. He leans to the outside of his head when other people speak, his head cocked to one side, quick little small nods, thoughtful glances, swift sips of a spurring friendliness at the corners of his mouth. These little gentler signs cause people to feel seen, though he has little to say. Students find themselves shifting a little closer, as if anticipating his blessing or anticipating to elicit some response. Adults appear strangely placated by his presence, as if his demeanor is so unarmed that it takes them by their own surprise. He doesn't demand people's affection, and people like him in spite of himself. He doesn't appear naive, and you can't remain angry with him even when he's in the wrong. And sometimes—with no conscious desire to do so—Haru is flirtatious. It's in his glancing up through his lashes when lost in contemplation. In his fingers moving reflectively around book spines when listening. In gentleness in his voice when you're nodding at him, or his lingering a fraction longer when you're speaking softly. None of it on purpose. He's not trying to flirt. But there's a perception anyway. His space is a personal one, a personal knowing between two of you. And sometimes people mistake that as something other than that.

He doesn't flirt, per se. But he unsettles people like a flirt would—without realizing how strained things are. He doesn't pursue relationships. Other people do.

He knows how to give space in a room and not to make it tension. He knows how to sit upright next to a person and not as if he's necessary to control what's going on. It's a kind of self-hold-back that's a rare commodity in a man his age. It makes him feel older, wiser, in control than he actually is. It makes other people trust him, when they shouldn't.

That unconscious smoothness has a price. His buddies get jealous. His enemies use him and then get confused as to why it's so difficult to stay angry.

It's hard to put into words what, precisely, makes Haru Kobayashi a “charmer.” It's not one thing. It's everything. His presence. His listening face. His quiet-into-a-room kind of quiet, his gentle undulation of focus that lingers after he's gone by. You don't necessarily require words to influence people. He doesn't necessarily require plotting or showmanship. His presence does. He's the distraction—dignified, quiet, and tireless.

And to all those attempting, actual frustration is here: It's not something that you will emulate. It's not something that which he will attempt. Charisma is not something that works on Haru Kobayashi. He wears it like a second skin.

Advanced Casting

Reducio

There are others who cast spells as some sort of game: loudly, instantaneously, and with flair. Great sweeping gestures, bellowing incantations, sparks flying hither and yon. These would-be wizards are usually under the illusion that strength is equal to power. Haru Kobayashi is not one of them. His magic is another kind—quieter, razor-sharp, neat. He casts with a sort of silky smoothness that speaks of more than raw talent. It speaks of control, discipline, and a deep, intuitive understanding of the architecture of magic.

It started as early as his first year, whereas others struggled with fundamentals—wrist movement, pronunciation, focus—Haru perfected them. And then proceeded to make them better. He did not attempt to make a spell functional; he aimed to make a spell efficient. Whereas others were good with “good enough,” Haru practiced until he was flawless. Every spell drained of excess motion. Every spell as tough as a knife.

This conscious style was taking its first fruits and his professors were amazed. His actions had miraculous consequences. His defensive charms lingered longer than older students. His transfigures were neater, more proficient. Magic no longer came in spats and flurries but in tidal waves—precise, sharp, conscious.

This was no talent. Haru never used talent. His afternoons and evenings are occupied by reading about theory, practicing motions in front of a mirror, refining grip, practicing pace and breathing. He researches how spell does work—how magic responds to intent, to feeling, to mood. He reads to learn, not by heart. He doesn't just spellcast. He creates them.

There's even a bizarre intuition involved. He waves half a spell and knows somehow its outcome is not merely successful, but better. His professors have pointed out this bizarreness of precision—how his spells always become better than average, especially when there's a time of urgency. It's not sheer strength that makes Haru powerful. It's calibration. While others wave their arms about, he gauges. While others bludgeon, he adjusts.

It's an art. It's as if you're viewing calligraphy on a moving page. His every flailing isn't by accident. His every enunciated syllable falls dead on beat. His poise and manner effectively camouflage the power of his manner—until the magic hits you. And then you see. His magic doesn't dribble. It kills, and makes what kills it all the greater because of how in control it is.

This humility has earned him silent endorsement, even from those in the advanced class. He doesn’t speak of his talents, doesn’t brag or prance, but when his turn again arrives to show off a spell, people pay attention. Not seeking spectacle or pyrotechnics, but seeking results. And Haru never fails.

The increased strength of his magic is not coincidental. It's the result of multiple levels of self-restraint, high to cross, and a mind that does not rest. Other people cast spells like they use a hammer, but Haru uses it like a blade—sharp, pointed, and deadly in its specificity. He lacks a feeling of bravado, but compensates with his aptness. And his aptness is getting steadily robust.

Coding: Removed spells and Potions portion

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[size=150][b][i]H. KOBAYASHI’S TRUNK[/i][/b][/size]
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[i][b][ sta: 5 | eva: 7 | str: 5 | wis: 6 | arc: 5 | acc: 7][/b][/i][/center]
[center][b][I]YEAR ONE | YEAR TWO |YEAR THREE | YEAR FOUR | YEAR FIVE | YEAR SIX| YEAR SEVEN[/i][/b][/center][/quote]

Link to your encyclopedia thread:RAFAEL KRAUS
School Year or Adult Level: Second Year
Stat Changes: +5 Graduation
Old-- Stamina: 6✦ Evasion: 9 ✦ Strength: 1 ✦ Wisdom: 7 ✦ ArcPower: 4✦ Accuracy: 8
New-- Stamina: 7✦ Evasion: 10 ✦ Strength: 1 ✦ Wisdom: 9 ✦ ArcPower: 5✦ Accuracy: 8

Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Year 1 Perfectionist
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):

Reducio

"There is a word that follows each of us like a shadow -- not cast by light but by the hopes, fears, and judgments of others. That word is expectation."

The resonant baritone voice trailed out of the gramophone, words pinging off the walls of Reinhard Kraus' study. Rafael stared up at the lacunar expanse above, eyes tracing the Gothic-Viennese arches that ran along the end of the room, windows stripped of the colour stains that may have once tainted the vaulted arches. The room lacked rococo embellishments, leaving a functional grandeur and brittle, yet intricate, tracery. Rafael sat contemplative, eyes adrift while his ears partly listened to the measured cadence of the wizard's voice as he went on to speak, "From the moment we are born -- wandless, helpless, magical but unaware -- we are met with them. Expectations from our families, our houses, our teachers, our friends." Expectations of brilliance, of bravery, of bloodlines. Expectations to behave, to conform, to lead, to stay quiet, to be loud.

Rafael picked up the jewel case on the desk, fiddling with the clasp idly. Then he hoisted himself off the swiveling chair towards the gramophone. "The only expectations you must meet--" the man was saying before the audio sizzled out, tonearm having been raised inches away from the record. Rafael returned his arm to rest. "--are those of your conscience," he muttered, the last words of the politician, face stoic as he secured the record back into its case before sliding it into the designated cabinet. The young Kraus then turned towards the piano across the study and made his way towards it.

It was almost a ritual, how Rafael would always listen to that one specific recording before playing the piano. At the ripe age of eleven, he felt ambivalent towards the routine and had just never once broken it. Now the words were seared into the back of his head, lips parted in silent recital of every syllable, every word, every pause.

Before Rafael stood an ancient but fair piano, its ebony tiles patinated with decades of fingers brushing across the keys to produce ethereal harmony. With quiet resignation, Rafael sat and brushed his fingers tentatively against the black and white before launching into trills, simply decadence rather than necessity, before he began to gaze at the sheet music long propped up on the fallboard. As his fingers deftly grazed the starting notes, Rafael felt a strange cognitive dissonance in mastering a Muggle craft to prove his magical worth. Was it truly necessary to expose one to the non-magical ways? The door to the study creaked open, and he instinctively stiffened, fingers poised momentarily. As the footsteps drew closer, the young Kraus drew a quick breath and launched into the first bar with careful articulation. Reinhard Kraus stood a little way in the distance, a presence that caused Rafael's hands to fly across the instrument maniacally. His silent pacing took a sudden stop as his son wavered, throwing the rubato off balance. The sharp intake of breath told Rafael a multitude of words.

Rafael bit back a flinch as his father placed a delicate hand onto his shoulder. "Precision, sohn son," He gave the shoulder a minuscule squeeze, "Passion without precision is merely indulgence." As the warmth of his father left him, the heir nodded meekly. "Yes, Vater Father." He straightened his posture, then began to play again, accelerando against his racing heart. Without another word, Reinhard left his son to his dwellings.

Expectations.

His finger twitched, and he faltered slightly. The pause was minuscule, but enough. Rafael exhaled and began to replay the piece. Wrong note. Replay. Forced diminuendo. Again. Again. "Again." Rafael was aiming for one thing and one thing only-- Perfection. Gritting his teeth, it had begun to hurt. His fingers were raw. Aching posture. Again, again, again.

Till he got it perfect.

Till he got it perfect.

12 years and a quarter old. Rafael allowed his mother to adjust his tie, slick his romulus strands backwards. Beyond the velvet heath curtains, he could hear the bustle and murmurs of the audience. He tore his gaze away from the unnerving sight and trailed his blue bayoux eyes along the slit of light climbing up the bergère onto the gramophone, where it had been temporarily placed. "As we grow, we carry them," the man was saying, voice muffled against the mumbles of the crowd. "Sometimes like a torch, other times like a weight." His commissure twitched before it stilled again, his attention now drawn to his mother. Gelvira caressed her son's cheek tenderly, searching for a sign of discomfort, distress. Dark, expressionless pools of blue gazed back at her. "Vater Father is out there." The statement lacked inquisition, yet she nodded, then gestured for him to take the stage. Rafael Kraus refused to budge.

His mother let out a soft sigh, then leaned in to offer him a fond kiss on his temple. "Ich glaube an dich, I believe in you" she murmured. Her subtle way of wishing him luck. He did not need luck. A subconscious hand drifted up to smooth out the wrinkles on his lapel, before slipping out of Gelvira's grasp into the spotlight. The gramophone's drone drowned in the collective applause, then vanished into silence, audio sizzling to a stop. A cue, Rafael thought to himself, to begin the performance. A flawless three minutes and twenty-nine. As Rafael slid onto the chair and lifted the hinged cover, he could almost taste a tinge of repugnance on his tongue from the hours, weeks, and months of practice. So many things to remember. One chance to get it right.

A perfect performance.

He displayed himself to be a captivating virtuoso, grasping at the keys, eyes fluttering shut, sealed lips melting into a feigned smile as his fingers danced across the keyboard.

A perfect performance. Rafael lingered on the pedal for a moment before tearing his poised wrists away from the keys. For the first time since exposing himself to the audience, he looked out. His ears were ringing. He was met with lofty silence, yet he could see hands clasping in repetition. Coincidentally, Rafael locked eyes with Reinhard. His father nodded slightly. A glint of surprise.

Perfect. For it is not in meeting expectations that we find greatness… but in surpassing them.

Link to your encyclopedia thread: Here you go!
School Year or Adult Level: 7th
Stat Changes:

Stamina: 9
Evasion: 20 + 1 = 21
Strength: 8 +1 = 9
Wisdom: 8
Arcane Power: 2
Accuracy: 20 + 3 = 23
(+6 dueling wins of Ileen | 1 2 3 4 5
6) | +1 quidditch win)

+5 from Graduation

Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Chaser's Interception
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Word Count | 525

Reducio

Her whole life seemed to evolve around the one thing she and her father both loved with all their heart's passion: Quidditch. Amina skillfully ignored most of her magic abilities and spent day and night on the broom instead. Many conversations she had had the past year and all of her experience told her one thing: She would become a professional chaser after she graduated. There was nothing else she was good at or that she wanted to do. It wasn’t even a choice. Quidditch was her life’s purpose and she had poured every free second into becoming the best of the best. Her reflexes were already extremely heightened from years of training and surprise attacks to keep her awareness up non-stop. But as always, it was time to rise to the next level - there was always room for improvement.
This time it was a lesson her whole family taught her on the broom directly via the game “piggy in the middle”. They all (meaning her three brothers, her father and herself) were hovering a few feet over the ground in the backyard of their tucked away vacation home in the countryside.
This was her family's idea of fun during family gatherings. Their mom wasn’t too excited about the fact that most of them will return with bruises or worse to the house, but knowing her children and husband, she just had snatched a book and disappeared mumbling some complaints into the living room.
Amina was the first “pig” in the middle. Her father weighed the quaffle in one hand and yelled so all could hear him. ”Let’s start flying around and passing the ball. As soon as Amina intercepts it, the person who threw it is the next piggy!”
Nikolai and Miro both made oinking sounds and Gerorgi just smiled quietly.
Amina snorted in a very un-lady like manner and stuck out her tongue at the other pigs. That’s right, practice the sound already, since we will swap places soon enough.
Her father didn’t wait for them to continue the game on a verbal basis and threw the quaffle hard towards Georgi. Simultaneously he shot towards the sky. Her oldest brother caught the red ball and only held it for a mere second before passing it towards the still laughing Miro.
The interesting quatro swirled towards the sky, Amina on the heels of the boys. After a very short time it was already clear that she and her father both were way above the flying skill level of the others. Although they were still very capable flyers, they all were leaning towards other friends. It didn’t take away from their reflexes. It took Amina a few tries before she snatched it right from Nikolai’s fingertips. Happily she noticed that her reflexes did most of the work. She didn’t even have to get into the game with her head that much. As soon as she saw a muscle twitch, a glance, an abrupt movement, she was there to intercept. And it got easier the longer they played it. Maybe she should start doing this in games as well instead of tackling people off their broom?

STATUS: Pending, Jabari ya Nyota, July 12th
- Trunk code does not follow the current trunk standardization rules. Please update coding to remove colors. Ability and stats update have been approved.

Link to your encyclopedia thread: Ency
School Year or Adult Level: Year 2
Stat Changes: +5 for moving up a year

New stats: [sta] 6 [eva] 8 [str] 10 [wis] 4 [arc] 2 [acc] 10
Old stats: [sta] 6 [eva] 7 [str] 8 [wis] 4 [arc] 2 [acc] 8

Year 1 ability:
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Obnoxiously Strong
Describe why this fits your character: Word Count 437/400

Reducio

Boram had never been good at controlling her emotions.

There were drawbacks to the way she felt, when she laughed, she laughed; when she felt how the tension in her muscles would harden slightly as her hands balled into fists...

Well, she would explode.

Like a short fuse, the string would burn quickly, and anger would consume her before any sense of logic could seep into the crevices of her mind.

She was like any other child. Boram liked having her way.

But life did not always bend to her will, and she would not always react in the way her parents expected of her. A proper young lady must know how to behave, and Boram was more unrefined than her mother would like to admit. In fits of anger, she would often forget to measure her strength. Tantrums were filled with the sounds of screams and things being thrown around, until something broke or someone got hurt.

Just like her first instance of magic.

Her father once told her she was a sword, that her strength lay in her rage, but an unrefined sword had a way of penetrating the skin with dangerous ease. Its blade creating a deep wound that would leave a nasty scar, a reminder of pain and anger.

As she grew, her screams shifted, her tantrums were not those of an immature child who had been denied a piece of candy, no. In her rage, it appeared her strength heightened. There had been an argument; her mother had been lecturing her over her desire to play quidditch instead of pursuing dueling. After a couple of exchanges, she ran off into the woods with a beater bat her father had gifted her a moon ago, where she had begun to strike a tree.

Loud cracks would soon echo through her family's forest, as the wood in her hands would splinter and break. Her gaze burned in anger, her arms swung with the strength of 10 men.

Until there was complete silence.

She had only been 9 years old when she had displayed such anger. Boram plopped down on the floor and panted as she attempted to compose herself. The bat completely shattered, her right hand pinky pricked by a splinter, but her eyes focused on the silver that glinted beneath the moonlight. After what felt like an hour, Boram slowly began to stand up while a huff escaped her. Ignoring the ache of the splinter, she grabbed what was left of the bat before returning to her home, where her father would have been awaiting her return.

Ready to give her the news.

Year 2 ability:
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Fearless
Describe why this fits your character: Word Count 473/400

Reducio

Her explosive nature often blinded her.

Where many would cower, Boram walked forth with her hands ready to grab the cause of her rage. Courage was not what her mother called it, but rather a brute barbarian who lacked the manners to be a well-behaved young lady.

Her father thought differently.

Warrior blood ran through Boram like an ancient fountain; her ancestors were not known for simplicity, the gentle and mystic reputation her mother had grown up in as a Park, no. They were forged in fire and blood, embelished in steel chainmail, with an arm raised as if their first cry were a cry of war.

Boram's father did not see her as a weak coward; he had always known she was exactly like him.

She was a child who adored her father's tales of his days as one of Durmstrang's Quidditch players. Often prancing around with her once neatly braided hair soon tousled as she swung a miniature-sized bat. As she grew up, her mind would race whenever she envisioned herself flying amongst the chaos her father had described. Adrenaline pumping through her veins at the mere thought of the dangers from not only getting pushed off her broom but also getting struck by a bludger.

Her mother vocally disapproved and caused Boram to display a destructive nature that they had once attempted to tame. In anger, Boram found herself doing something she would have hesitated to do before. A snap broke the thin chain when she spoke back to her own mother, her tone harsh with every word that left her lips in a mild sneer. When suddenly, her fight-or-flight reaction was delayed as soon as she felt a warmth cross her face.

And a sound echoed through the stone walls.

Her nose twitched before she pushed her mother to the side, hearing her father call out to her after the sound of a wooden chair dragged on the floor.

But she did not stay.

Into the forest she would go and not return until some time later. The door would creak open, the immediate area dark as she stepped inside, expecting to see her mother. Instead, her eyes would lock on her father's silhouette that stood by the fireplace, watching as the fire ate the wood without hesitation. The house was silent as if its insides had been emptied, the only sound coming from the crackle of the fire that seemed to feed life to the gutted house.

Boram would shift on her feet, unsure of what to say, when she heard her father finally speak. His tone was stern yet not as cutting as her mother's. She watched him take a seat with a sigh before giving her the news she had not expected to hear after what she had done.

But a warning was given, as well.

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[center][size=150]Trunk[/size][/center]
[quote]
[center][u]Statistics:[/u][/center]
[quote][center]Stamina: 6 | Evasion: 8 | Strength: 10 | Wisdom: 4 | ArcPower: 2 | Accuracy: 10[/center][/quote]
[center][u]Abilities:[/u][/center]
[quote]
[center]Year 1: Obnoxiously Strong | Year 2: Fearless[/center]
[/quote]
[/quote]

STATUS: Pending, Aiko, July 12, 2025
-Please remove the description of parental abuse. As per the Site Rating, parental abuse may be described vaguely or implicitly but not explicitly.

Link to your encyclopedia thread: Here
School Year or Adult Level: Second Year
Stat Changes: -
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Statistically Relevant +2 acc
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):

Reducio

Durmstrang Institute. Rafael crossed the icy grounds, one hand gripping onto his bowcase. Stopping a few feet away from no-man's land, the Young Kraus got down to his knees, his numb hands unbuckling the case. Inside was his third and final bow. The riser itself was made of sculpted Macassar ebony, dark grain streaked with near-gold veining and a mattefinish. It was cold to the touch, but Rafael could care less. His fingers traced the shallow engravings of 'Stille mit Geschick', runes almost invisible. He ran his palm across the limbs made of carbon fibre core sheathed in layers of bamboo and tempered black walnut. Rafael plucked the string, dyed of iron-grey, then lifted up an arrow to inspect it under the damp light. The shafts themselves needed sanding again. He straightened as he slid the arrow into position, fingers brushing against the fletching of dyed raven feathers. Then, without warning, he whirled towards a tree some distance away, and let go.

It hit.

Rafael paused, then exhaled, mist entailing out from his lips as he put the bow away. Reinhard had demanded he take time out of archery practise for dueling. Gabriel had insisted on honing the skills for dueling club. Rafael fished out his wand, before jutting it towards the same tree, his lips parting to utter an incantation.

A miss.

His jaw tightened. The cold enveloped his uniform and tightened his chest, but he shrug it off and raised his wand arm, poised and elbow tight to his side. His opponent was a tree--inanimate, predictable. Rafael struggled to imagine the success of his duels if he could barely score a hit on a target that failed to provoke him. There would be no time to methodically breathe and aim. Instinct and reflex would replace calculated preparation, a sloppy but effective technique. Rafael's fingers curled with intent.

Twice a week, taking time from his archery sessions. Rafael would stand in the open courtyard dusted with snow, robes shed for freedom of movement, sleeves rolled past his elbows. Surrounding him were floating target boards he had enchanted. Lifting his cherry wood wand, he murmured, "Flipendo." The invisible burst slammed the first target into the pillar, cracking against the stone and disintegrating. Rafael whirled to face another. "Flipendo." Missed. Slightly too far right. The target board hovered in place. Rafael's lips drew into a line. Unacceptable. He crossed the yard to the ledger he kept, and jotted down in concise strokes: Attempt 23: Missed. Off-balance on recoil. Note: Fix stance and adjust trajectory. He turned back to find his eyes drawn to one of the smaller target boards. Rafael raised his wand again. Exhaled. "Verdimillious!"

Bolts of green sparks cracked the board midair into a shower of dancing emerald. Rafael lowered his wand, only to hear slow, sedate claps from behind him. Gabriel Kraus would often join his twin brother in his training sessions, wearing his usual grace and easy smirk. Rafael may have been grateful for his presence, but he never did show it.

Rafael adjusted his stance without a word, chin dipped slightly, legs squared. Gabriel, meanwhile, rotated his wand with idle grace between his fingers. "Begin," he said. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, unhurried. “You’ll tear your shoulder if you keep tensing like that. Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Mm,” Gabriel hummed. With a flick, Gabriel cast "Tarantallegra!" Rafael deflected, barely. The jinx skated past his ankle and exploded against the grass. Rafael retaliated without hesitation. "Flipendo!" Gabriel swayed aside. “Too high. You always aim like you’re still holding a bow.”

"Expelliarmus." Gabriel flinched slightly as his wand clattered out of his hand, but offered a smile to his elder twin. "Better. But you’re leading with your wrist—makes you predictable."

Rafael growled. "I’m not predictable--"

“Mucus ad Nauseam!” Rafael dodged. He hadn't noticed that Gabriel had retrieved his wand. That was just juvenile.

“Gabriel,” he snapped, wiping phantom slime from his sleeves. “Can you take this seriously?” The mirth never left his twin's eyes despite the sobered expression. "I am taking it seriously. You’re the one trying to duel like it’s archery. This isn’t a still target, Rafi. I move. I react. I learn you." That was the problem. He relied too much on control. But Gabriel was right.

He learnt to stop overthinking. Stop calculating. Stop caring about producing a clean shot. He learnt to strike at the right time, precisely.

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[center][size=200]⛌⛌⛌⛌⛌⛌[b] THE TRUNK [/b]⛌⛌⛌⛌⛌⛌[/size][/center]
[quote][center][b][size=150]STATS[/size][/b][/center]
[quote] [center]Stamina: 7✦ Evasion: 10 ✦ Strength: 1 ✦ Wisdom: 9 ✦ ArcPower: 5✦ Accuracy: 8 [/center][/quote]
[center][b][size=150]ABILITIES[/size][/b][/center]
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Year 1: Perfectionist [reducio]
"There is a word that follows each of us like a shadow -- not cast by light but by the hopes, fears, and judgments of others. That word is expectation."

The resonant baritone voice trailed out of the gramophone, words pinging off the walls of Reinhard Kraus' study. Rafael stared up at the lacunar expanse above, eyes tracing the Gothic-Viennese arches that ran along the end of the room, windows stripped of the colour stains that may have once tainted the vaulted arches. The room lacked rococo embellishments, leaving a functional grandeur and brittle, yet intricate, tracery. Rafael sat contemplative, eyes adrift while his ears partly listened to the measured cadence of the wizard's voice as he went on to speak, "From the moment we are born -- wandless, helpless, magical but unaware -- we are met with them. Expectations from our families, our houses, our teachers, our friends." Expectations of brilliance, of bravery, of bloodlines. Expectations to behave, to conform, to lead, to stay quiet, to be loud.

Rafael picked up the jewel case on the desk, fiddling with the clasp idly. Then he hoisted himself off the swiveling chair towards the gramophone. "The only expectations you must meet--" the man was saying before the audio sizzled out, tonearm having been raised inches away from the record. Rafael returned his arm to rest. "--are those of your conscience," he muttered, the last words of the politician, face stoic as he secured the record back into its case before sliding it into the designated cabinet. The young Kraus then turned towards the piano across the study and made his way towards it.

It was almost a ritual, how Rafael would always listen to that one specific recording before playing the piano. At the ripe age of eleven, he felt ambivalent towards the routine and had just never once broken it. Now the words were seared into the back of his head, lips parted in silent recital of every syllable, every word, every pause. 

Before Rafael stood an ancient but fair piano, its ebony tiles patinated with decades of fingers brushing across the keys to produce ethereal harmony. With quiet resignation, Rafael sat and brushed his fingers tentatively against the black and white before launching into trills, simply decadence rather than necessity, before he began to gaze at the sheet music long propped up on the fallboard. As his fingers deftly grazed the starting notes, Rafael felt a strange cognitive dissonance in mastering a Muggle craft to prove his magical worth. Was it truly necessary to expose one to the non-magical ways? The door to the study creaked open, and he instinctively stiffened, fingers poised momentarily. As the footsteps drew closer, the young Kraus drew a quick breath and launched into the first bar with careful articulation. Reinhard Kraus stood a little way in the distance, a presence that caused Rafael's hands to fly across the instrument maniacally. His silent pacing took a sudden stop as his son wavered, throwing the rubato off balance. The sharp intake of breath told Rafael a multitude of words.

Rafael bit back a flinch as his father placed a delicate hand onto his shoulder. "Precision, sohn [revelio]son[/revelio]," He gave the shoulder a minuscule squeeze, "Passion without precision is merely indulgence." As the warmth of his father left him, the heir nodded meekly. "Yes, Vater [revelio]Father[/revelio]." He straightened his posture, then began to play again, accelerando against his racing heart. Without another word, Reinhard left his son to his dwellings. 

Expectations.

His finger twitched, and he faltered slightly. The pause was minuscule, but enough. Rafael exhaled and began to replay the piece. Wrong note. Replay. Forced diminuendo. Again. Again. "Again." Rafael was aiming for one thing and one thing only-- Perfection. Gritting his teeth, it had begun to hurt. His fingers were raw. Aching posture. Again, again, again. 

Till he got it perfect.

Till he got it perfect.

12 years and a quarter old. Rafael allowed his mother to adjust his tie, slick his romulus strands backwards. Beyond the velvet heath curtains, he could hear the bustle and murmurs of the audience. He tore his gaze away from the unnerving sight and trailed his blue bayoux eyes along the slit of light climbing up the bergère onto the gramophone, where it had been temporarily placed. "As we grow, we carry them," the man was saying, voice muffled against the mumbles of the crowd. "Sometimes like a torch, other times like a weight." His commissure twitched before it stilled again, his attention now drawn to his mother. Gelvira caressed her son's cheek tenderly, searching for a sign of discomfort, distress. Dark, expressionless pools of blue gazed back at her. "Vater [revelio]Father[/revelio] is out there." The statement lacked inquisition, yet she nodded, then gestured for him to take the stage. Rafael Kraus refused to budge. 

His mother let out a soft sigh, then leaned in to offer him a fond kiss on his temple. "Ich glaube an dich, [revelio]I believe in you[/revelio]" she murmured. Her subtle way of wishing him luck. He did not need luck. A subconscious hand drifted up to smooth out the wrinkles on his lapel, before slipping out of Gelvira's grasp into the spotlight. The gramophone's drone drowned in the collective applause, then vanished into silence, audio sizzling to a stop. A cue, Rafael thought to himself, to begin the performance. A flawless three minutes and twenty-nine. As Rafael slid onto the chair and lifted the hinged cover, he could almost taste a tinge of repugnance on his tongue from the hours, weeks, and months of practice. So many things to remember. One chance to get it right. 

A perfect performance.

He displayed himself to be a captivating virtuoso, grasping at the keys, eyes fluttering shut, sealed lips melting into a feigned smile as his fingers danced across the keyboard. 

A perfect performance. Rafael lingered on the pedal for a moment before tearing his poised wrists away from the keys. For the first time since exposing himself to the audience, he looked out. His ears were ringing. He was met with lofty silence, yet he could see hands clasping in repetition. Coincidentally, Rafael locked eyes with Reinhard. His father nodded slightly. A glint of surprise.

Perfect. [i]For it is not in meeting expectations that we find greatness… but in surpassing them.[/i]
[/reducio]
[right]Year 2: Statistically Relevant (+2 Accuracy)[/right][reducio]Durmstrang Institute. Rafael crossed the icy grounds, one hand gripping onto his bowcase. Stopping a few feet away from no-man's land, the Young Kraus got down to his knees, his numb hands unbuckling the case. Inside was his third and final bow. The riser itself was made of sculpted Macassar ebony, dark grain streaked with near-gold veining and a mattefinish. It was cold to the touch, but Rafael could care less. His fingers traced the shallow engravings of 'Stille mit Geschick', runes almost invisible. He ran his palm across the limbs made of carbon fibre core sheathed in layers of bamboo and tempered black walnut. Rafael plucked the string, dyed of iron-grey, then lifted up an arrow to inspect it under the damp light. The shafts themselves needed sanding again. He straightened as he slid the arrow into position, fingers brushing against the fletching of dyed raven feathers. Then, without warning, he whirled towards a tree some distance away, and let go.

It hit. 

Rafael paused, then exhaled, mist entailing out from his lips as he put the bow away. Reinhard had demanded he take time out of archery practise for dueling. Gabriel had insisted on honing the skills for dueling club. Rafael fished out his wand, before jutting it towards the same tree, his lips parting to utter an incantation. 

A miss.

His jaw tightened. The cold enveloped his uniform and tightened his chest, but he shrug it off and raised his wand arm, poised and elbow tight to his side. His opponent was a tree--inanimate, predictable. Rafael struggled to imagine the success of his duels if he could barely score a hit on a target that failed to provoke him. There would be no time to methodically breathe and aim. Instinct and reflex would replace calculated preparation, a sloppy but effective technique. Rafael's fingers curled with intent. 

Twice a week, taking time from his archery sessions. Rafael would stand in the open courtyard dusted with snow, robes shed for freedom of movement, sleeves rolled past his elbows. Surrounding him were floating target boards he had enchanted. Lifting his cherry wood wand, he murmured, "Flipendo." The invisible burst slammed the first target into the pillar, cracking against the stone and disintegrating. Rafael whirled to face another. "Flipendo." Missed. Slightly too far right. The target board hovered in place. Rafael's lips drew into a line. Unacceptable. He crossed the yard to the ledger he kept, and jotted down in concise strokes: [i]Attempt 23: Missed. Off-balance on recoil. Note: Fix stance and adjust trajectory.[/i] He turned back to find his eyes drawn to one of the smaller target boards. Rafael raised his wand again. Exhaled. "[i]Verdimillious![/i]" 

Bolts of green sparks cracked the board midair into a shower of dancing emerald. Rafael lowered his wand, only to hear slow, sedate claps from behind him. Gabriel Kraus would often join his twin brother in his training sessions, wearing his usual grace and easy smirk. Rafael may have been grateful for his presence, but he never did show it. 

Rafael adjusted his stance without a word, chin dipped slightly, legs squared. Gabriel, meanwhile, rotated his wand with idle grace between his fingers. "Begin," he said. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, unhurried. “You’ll tear your shoulder if you keep tensing like that. Relax.”

“I [i]am[/i] relaxed.”

“Mm,” Gabriel hummed. With a flick, Gabriel cast "[i]Tarantallegra![/i]" Rafael deflected, barely. The jinx skated past his ankle and exploded against the grass. Rafael retaliated without hesitation. "[i]Flipendo![/i]" Gabriel swayed aside. “Too high. You always aim like you’re still holding a bow.”

"Expelliarmus." Gabriel flinched slightly as his wand clattered out of his hand, but offered a smile to his elder twin. "Better. But you’re leading with your wrist—makes you predictable." 

Rafael growled. "I’m not predictable--"

“Mucus ad Nauseam!” Rafael dodged. He hadn't noticed that Gabriel had retrieved his wand. That was just juvenile.

“Gabriel,” he snapped, wiping phantom slime from his sleeves. “Can you take this seriously?” The mirth never left his twin's eyes despite the sobered expression. "I am taking it seriously. You’re the one trying to duel like it’s archery. This isn’t a still target, [i]Rafi.[/i] I move. I react. I learn you." That was the problem. He relied too much on control. But Gabriel was right.

He learnt to stop overthinking. Stop calculating. Stop caring about producing a clean shot. He learnt to strike at the right time, precisely.[/reducio][/quote]
 [/quote]
[center][img]/images/upload/gonmar.webp[/img][/center]
[quote][/quote]

STATUS: Pending, Aiko, July 12, 2025
-Please remove the color from your trunk code.

Link to your encyclopedia thread: here!
School Year or Adult Level: 3
Stat Changes: none
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Advanced Casting
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):

Reducio

Aurélie Nathalie Duval had only really dueled once in her entire lifetime. She'd had plenty of practise at school, from mock duels to drills to practising in her different classes where she learned the spells that she used. But a real, official duel against other people who were truly putting their very, very best into the game? It had only ever happened once, in the summer camp of her second year.

Now, while that may seem like a very short time for her to develop a keen interest into the sport, it had somehow happened. Perhaps it was the thrill of the sport, never knowing what she would face next, or maybe the daredevil instinct that she'd grew to rely on, or maybe it was just because it was the one sport that didn't require her to get on one of those cursed brooms. Whatever the reason was, Aurélie had taken a liking to dueling, and when the little French girl took a liking to something, that meant she worked hard.

Call it her odd perfectionism, call it an obsession, call it whatever you will, but once Aurélie knew that something mattered to her, she put her whole soul into it.

Suddenly, dueling practise was more than just about thinking quick on her feet and trying to evade spells. Suddenly, she focused on everything more, including the spellcasting itself. She created some exercises for herself, reasoning that if she was able to do all those things, then she would've succeeded in her self training.

She started easy, practising the incantations of the spells by themselves. She said them, over and over again, correcting the pronunciations, the pauses, the direct way she uttered them. Then she moved on to the wand movements. Her wrists ached from the amount of practise that she did, twisting them again and again in different shapes to make sure each one would allow her the best spell outcome. When Aurélie was satisfied with those two elements, she began with real targets. She spent hours in front of dummies and targets, doing the spells that she'd uttered and done the wand movements for, but this time together. In the beginning, her sloppy movements were evident, and she knew that there was much to improve on. But as time went on, her practises were more successful. Her spellcasting technique itself changed to be cleaner, more efficient, more effective. Sure, there wasn't a hundred percent success rate, but there never could be.

When Aurélie went to practises now, she cast spells better than she had before. Not only did she have the confidence boost, but she'd practised so much on her own that her body understood what to do almost instinctually. Maybe her advanced casting hadn't come to her naturally, but it had taken her a lot of hard work, and Aurélie was quite proud of the result.

479 words

Coding:

Reducio

Code: Select all

[b]Is your character a broom racer?[/b] [i]No.[/i]

[b]Is you character a quidditch player?[/b] [i]No.[/i]

[b]Is your character a duelist?[/b] [i]Yes.[/i]

[b]Stats:[/b] [i]Sta 7 | Eva 11 | Str 8 | Wis 8 | Arc 6 | Acc 9[/i]
 [url=https://https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=1003305#p1003276]PC Quidditch win[/url] (+1), [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=33759&view=unread#p1071962]Dueling win[/url] (+1),  [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=1179773#p1179773]PC Quidditch win[/url] (+1), [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=38724&start=100#p1291123]PC Quidditch win[/url](+1)

[b]Abilities:[/b] 

[i]Fearless[/i]
[reducio][size=100][i]Aurélie Nathalie Duval, for as long as she could remember, had always been a small girl. She had baby fat in her cheeks compared to all her friends who had outgrown theirs years ago. She had tiny limbs that could reach nothing unlike everyone else her age, who stood over her like giants. She had a pouty face that always reminded those whose gaze landed on hers of an infant unlike everyone else's matured faces. And Aurélie didn't like it. Because no matter how much she tried, growing wasn't something that no one could control.

"You will grow, my love. You will grow to a point where you will be towering over everyone else." Her mother, Élodie, would tell her lovingly. But Aurélie had stopped believing in her mother's fake words of affection quite early in life. If it wasn't possible for her to grow larger and better and bigger overnight, like everyone else, she set out to make sure that her smallness wouldn't affect her life. And no one could stop Aurélie when she was on a mission.

It was a slow process, and it took a lot of guts. Each moment that Aurélie hesitated to do something because she thought she was too small, she would get angry at herself. If everyone else could do it, she would think, so could I. And so she did. Every day she would do the impossible. She would climb trees and jump off them, trying her best not to be scared of the fall. She would run around for hours on end, not stopping until her body physically gave up, and then she would lay there, panting and staring up at the night sky. She would go into tight spaces where no one else would go and touch spiders when no one else would dare. She would laugh in the face of danger and scoff when someone said she was too small to do something.

It took a while, but soon, everyone forgot how small she was, how they were more powerful and tough. They forgot that they could probably do everything that she could better, just because they were bigger and stronger. And they forgot because Aurélie had learned how to master her fear. Now, it no longer plagued her. Sometimes, the moments of weakness would come and she would be reminded of her days before she'd steeled herself, but she would quickly gain control once again and become fearless once more.

Word Count: 412[/i][/size][/reducio]
[i]Perfectionist[/i]
[reducio][size=100][i]Aurélie Nathalie Duval was a realist. Not an optimist, a seer of bright things, not a pessimist, a seer of dark things. A realist. She saw the world for what it was, and because of that, she saw through all the lies that her extremely doting parents told her. One of those lies, the one that she heard most often, was about herself. "My dear Aurélie is the most perfect child in the world." They said, and she saw right through it. She wasn't the most perfect child, she wasn't even a perfect one. Still, she considered herself a perfectionist.

For her learning, Aurélie was taught by specialised tutors. In a normal school, a punishment would be handed out for not completing the assigned work. But at home? With tutors too afraid of the child's parents to punish? They would let some misbehavior slide. Now, Aurélie was a decent child. She cared about finishing her work early so that she didn't have to do it later, during her playtime. She cared about knowing the content of her lessons so that they didn't have to teach it to her again and cut into her summer break. So she never did anything worthy of punishment. But her assignments, completed hastily, were always given a disapproving glance by her tutors. "She has so much potential," they would tell her parents. "But she cares more for her childish games than her learning. If only she cared a little more..."

What Aurélie's tutors didn't understand was that there was a whole new Aurélie that did care. That cared so much for everything. That practically required everything to be absolutely perfect. That layer was only found when it came to extracurricular activities. For example, the Muggle sport that Aurélie preferred. Dance. According to her esteemed ballet tutor, a professional Muggle dancer that knew nothing of Aurélie's family's magical secret, Aurélie was a beautiful dancer who danced with as much precision as possible. Every single grand jete and pique was spotless. Every single jazz square and pirouette right on beat. Every single practiced move, her calypso and illusion in perfect control. Even in photography, she cared. About finding the perfect lighting. About striking the perfect pose. Everything had to be perfect for her.

So, yes, Aurélie Nathalie Duval might not have been the most focused student, but she was a perfectionist nonetheless, at least, in some sense of the word.

Word count: 403[/i][/size][/reducio]
[i]Advanced Casting[/i]
[reducio][size=100][i]Aurélie Nathalie Duval had only really dueled once in her entire lifetime. She'd had plenty of practise at school, from mock duels to drills to practising in her different classes where she learned the spells that she used. But a real, official duel against other people who were truly putting their very, very best into the game? It had only ever happened once, in the summer camp of her second year.

Now, while that may seem like a very short time for her to develop a keen interest into the sport, it had somehow happened. Perhaps it was the thrill of the sport, never knowing what she would face next, or maybe the daredevil instinct that she'd grew to rely on, or maybe it was just because it was the one sport that didn't require her to get on one of those cursed brooms. Whatever the reason was, Aurélie had taken a liking to dueling, and when the little French girl took a liking to something, that meant she worked hard.

Call it her odd perfectionism, call it an obsession, call it whatever you will, but once Aurélie knew that something mattered to her, she put her whole soul into it.

Suddenly, dueling practise was more than just about thinking quick on her feet and trying to evade spells. Suddenly, she focused on everything more, including the spellcasting itself. She created some exercises for herself, reasoning that if she was able to do all those things, then she would've succeeded in her self training.

She started easy, practising the incantations of the spells by themselves. She said them, over and over again, correcting the pronunciations, the pauses, the direct way she uttered them. Then she moved on to the wand movements. Her wrists ached from the amount of practise that she did, twisting them again and again in different shapes to make sure each one would allow her the best spell outcome. When Aurélie was satisfied with those two elements, she began with real targets. She spent hours in front of dummies and targets, doing the spells that she'd uttered and done the wand movements for, but this time together. In the beginning, her sloppy movements were evident, and she knew that there was much to improve on. But as time went on, her practises were more successful. Her spellcasting technique itself changed to be cleaner, more efficient, more effective. Sure, there wasn't a hundred percent success rate, but there never could be.

When Aurélie went to practises now, she cast spells better than she had before. Not only did she have the confidence boost, but she'd practised so much on her own that her body understood what to do almost instinctually. Maybe her advanced casting hadn't come to her naturally, but it had taken her a lot of hard work, and Aurélie was quite proud of the result.

479 words[/i][/size][/reducio]