──────────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────────

───────The Basics─────── Reducio Name: Hans Fransson Nickname: Hanzo Species: Human Nationality: Norwegian Age: 12 Year: Second Home: Flåm, Norway School: Durmstrang Blood Status: Pureblood Birthday: September 1st, 2007 Quidditch Player: Yes

─────Personality───── Reducio Anyone who dares lay eyes on the boy, can easily tell his exuberant personality. Though rather soft-spoken and shy, he’s an incredibly kind soul, a bleeding heart to all those in need of love and affection. His patience in others is commendable, as is his optimism unending. He is slow to get angry – and even then, he loathes confrontation. However, never let it be said that the boy is a coward. No, on the contrary, his bravery is very akin to that of a Gryffindor. He’s free-spirited, adventure-seeking, and doesn’t fear taking a hit.

────────Looks──────── Reducio Hanzo has a bright, friendly disposition, his eyes startlingly blue, almost gray, much like the waters off the Scandinavian Pier in which he lives, and his face forever smiling, a shiny set of teeth hidden behind ever-upturned lips. His hair, unkempt and wind-swept, takes the color of a golden, sun-kissed blonde, gently highlighted with a light brown at its roots, his skin porcelain, pale much like a vampire’s. He’s a small boy, only 4’8 in height, with gangly arms and a fair build, his hands small and nimble, much like a thief's, covered with small scars and natural markings. In addition to all this, though he be a small stick-like child, the boy is well-built, the result of his extracurricular activities of caring for his father's animals.

──────Backstory────── Reducio Hanzo has always been a bit prejudiced. After all, what is one to expect of such fine, pure blood? Well, to start off such a story, one would have to travel to the beginning. Hans Fransson’s story, in particular, began in the lovely country of Norway – particularly in the town of Flåm, a small fishing and farming village sitting peacefully on the edge of a rather magnificent fjord. The young boy, born to midwives, was proudly raised by two prideful, yet reclusive pureblood parents. Because of this, Hans and his sister Greta had been taught prejudice at a very young age, knowing only that wizards and all their facets were superior to that of the muggle race. Astrid Fransson, the boy’s lovely mother, was a well-traveled and esteemed wandmaker, Jakob Fransson, the boy’s father, a keeper of magical animals. Reared in such an environment, the boy had been taught labor at a very young age, garnering quite the work ethic and shortly learning that, with the right mindset, one was capable of anything. Hanzo had learned at a very young age what it was like to feel helpless. He was premature, small for his age, a little child in comparison to the hulking brutes of boys that inhabited his village. Perhaps you can imagine a small boy, with long gangly arms and a scrawny neck? He wasn’t sure why such characteristics made him different to his peers, why they’d ever decided to prey on his weakness at such an age. Perhaps he would never know. He’d always suspected the faults of the human race, and the hate and discord in which it entailed. He would never truly be able to explain to his parents the bruises that he’d garnered walking home from his muggle school each night, nor be able to tell Greta of their origins. He was weak, he was vulnerable. But that had never made him helpless. No, on the contrary, such adversity had taught the child to be strong, graceful in the face of the storms that God threw at him. He’d learned to be mentally unbreakable. It was in this way, that he’d grown in his years preliminary to Durmstrang. Hard work on his farm pushed him to be physically stronger, as did the bullying he’d endured in his village. Rather than letting himself get beaten by his problems, he’d learned to push past them, be a better person. It was in this way, that he also attempted to be a good image for his sister, Greta, for one day, she too might face adversity. Many years of endurance passed, as did many years of weathering the hardships of his small town. However, such patience did not go unnoticed. It wasn’t long before he’d gained not only the respect of the boys in his village, but his own parents, and peers of his fair town. He was no longer the frail, gangly weakling he’d been in grade school. He was no longer breakable by the fists and jeers thrown his way. His first instance of magic occurred one day when he was fishing with his sister and a couple of family friends upon the fjord in a rather massive boat. The fish, as it seemed, had utterly deserted the small fjord, leaving the merry group discouraged and without success. That was, before Hanzo had tried his hand at the art. Having spent the entire trip drawing on his notepad, he was shortly ushered out by his sister and a few of his friends. It was when he cast his net, that the fishing adventure finally became worthwhile – the net, as it seemed, had been chockfull of massive, meaty fish, enough to tilt the boat onto its side in mass. The group had been very impressed with his newfound skill, and had shortly shared with his parents what they had found. However, when asked by his family to use this unusual ability again, he found that it had sorely deserted him. He’d received his Durmstrang Letter a couple of months before his eleventh birthday. Upon reading the invitation with his own two eyes, he’d felt an immense surge of joy – perhaps there was more to learn, more to the world than the hometown in which he presided. What lay ahead for him? What challenges would he face?

──────────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────────

For Accessibility

Reducio

Name: Hans 'Hanzo' Fransson
School: Durmstrang
Year: Second
Appearance: 

Hanzo has a bright, friendly disposition, his eyes startlingly blue, almost gray, much like the waters off the Scandinavian Pier in which he lives, and his face forever smiling, a shiny set of teeth hidden behind ever-upturned lips. His hair, unkempt and wind-swept, takes the color of a golden, sun-kissed blonde, gently highlighted with a light brown at its roots, his skin porcelain, pale much like a vampire’s. He’s a small boy, only 4’8 in height, with gangly arms and a fair build, his hands small and nimble, much like a thief's, covered with small scars and natural markings. In addition to all this, though he be a small stick-like child, the boy is well-built, the result of his extracurricular activities of caring for his father's animals.
Personality: Anyone who dares lay eyes on the boy, can easily tell his exuberant personality. Though rather soft-spoken and shy, he’s an incredibly kind soul, a bleeding heart to all those in need of love and affection. His patience in others is commendable, as is his optimism unending. He is slow to get angry – and even then, he loathes confrontation. However, never let it be said that the boy is a coward. No, on the contrary, his bravery is very akin to that of a Gryffindor. He’s free-spirited, adventure-seeking, and doesn’t fear taking a hit.
History: Hanzo has always been a bit prejudiced. After all, what is one to expect of such fine, pure blood?

Well, to start off such a story, one would have to travel to the beginning. Hans Fransson’s story, in particular, began in the lovely country of Norway – particularly in the town of Flåm, a small fishing and farming village sitting peacefully on the edge of a rather magnificent fjord. The young boy, born to midwives, was proudly raised by two prideful, yet reclusive pureblood parents. Because of this, Hans and his sister Greta had been taught prejudice at a very young age, knowing only that wizards and all their facets were superior to that of the muggle race. Astrid Fransson, the boy’s lovely mother, was a well-traveled and esteemed wandmaker, Jakob Fransson, the boy’s father, a keeper of magical animals. Reared in such an environment, the boy had been taught labor at a very young age, garnering quite the work ethic and shortly learning that, with the right mindset, one was capable of anything.

Hanzo had learned at a very young age what it was like to feel helpless. He was premature, small for his age, a little child in comparison to the hulking brutes of boys that inhabited his village. Perhaps you can imagine a small boy, with long gangly arms and a scrawny neck? He wasn’t sure why such characteristics made him different to his peers, why they’d ever decided to prey on his weakness at such an age. Perhaps he would never know. He’d always suspected the faults of the human race, and the hate and discord in which it entailed. He would never truly be able to explain to his parents the bruises that he’d garnered walking home from his muggle school each night, nor be able to tell Greta of their origins. He was weak, he was vulnerable. But that had never made him helpless. No, on the contrary, such adversity had taught the child to be strong, graceful in the face of the storms that God threw at him. He’d learned to be mentally unbreakable.

It was in this way, that he’d grown in his years preliminary to Durmstrang. Hard work on his farm pushed him to be physically stronger, as did the bullying he’d endured in his village. Rather than letting himself get beaten by his problems, he’d learned to push past them, be a better person. It was in this way, that he also attempted to be a good image for his sister, Greta, for one day, she too might face adversity. Many years of endurance passed, as did many years of weathering the hardships of his small town. However, such patience did not go unnoticed. It wasn’t long before he’d gained not only the respect of the boys in his village, but his own parents, and peers of his fair town. He was no longer the frail, gangly weakling he’d been in grade school. He was no longer breakable by the fists and jeers thrown his way.

His first instance of magic occurred one day when he was fishing with his sister and a couple of family friends upon the fjord in a rather massive boat. The fish, as it seemed, had utterly deserted the small fjord, leaving the merry group discouraged and without success. That was, before Hanzo had tried his hand at the art. Having spent the entire trip drawing on his notepad, he was shortly ushered out by his sister and a few of his friends. It was when he cast his net, that the fishing adventure finally became worthwhile – the net, as it seemed, had been chockfull of massive, meaty fish, enough to tilt the boat onto its side in mass. The group had been very impressed with his newfound skill, and had shortly shared with his parents what they had found. However, when asked by his family to use this unusual ability again, he found that it had sorely deserted him.

He’d received his Durmstrang Letter a couple of months before his tenth birthday. Upon reading the invitation with his own two eyes, he’d felt an immense surge of joy – perhaps there was more to learn, more to the world than the hometown in which he presided. What lay ahead for him? What challenges would he face?
Is your character a Quidditch Player? Yes

Approved

Link to Hanzo: Here we are~

♛ Abilities ♛

Ability: Monster Hunter

Hanzo was afraid of a lot of things. Monsters weren’t one of them.

He hadn’t always hated the creatures. There was once a time when his thoughts would be entertained with the existence of the other races, his father telling him beautiful and vibrant tales of dragons and imps, women far too pretty for their own good, men who could change their faces at will. Good bedtime stories, if you asked him, the creatures dancing around the contents of his brain, leaving him breathless in wonder as he snored silently in the midst of the night. Mysterious, intriguing, in the same way that they were utterly terrifying. A fearful race, monsters were, one he had told himself at the time to always be wary of. There was no telling what they were capable of, what monstrosities they could commit, should they use their power for evil. And he was just a small child, insignificant in the sight of the world. Monsters were heroes, as much as they were villains. Monumental characters in the story one called reality, creatures that condescended humans in many more ways than one. Monsters were special. Monsters were good.

And, he’d learned to respect them, if not fear them in the slightest. It was funny, because he’d always recognized his fear for what it was – artificial, the body’s way of telling one that something was far from safe. A mere feeling. Feelings had always been false, he’d long since learned, as pain wasn’t anything to be afraid of, in the same way that sadness was only temporary. And, though he was far from fearless, he’d learned at a very young age that the feeling was unrealistic, in the same way that a unicorn could fly. If something was feared, then he would fear it. But never would the fear consume him.

He’d been naïve once, given monsters the expensive gift he called his respect. There were monsters everywhere he’d ever been – people with power, the ability to fix what was wrong in society. They were living in his house, attending his school. And, while some of the ‘monsters’ had been kind, loving, nurturing to his growth, the good majority had only caused him pain, strife, anxiety. Kids were mean, and people could be bloody horrible. No matter, there was no room nowadays for pity or depression in the life of the child. He’d long since come to terms with his demons, every day choosing to rise from his bed ready to fulfill his miserable existence. He’d learned to be strong. Fighting wasn’t physical, as much as it was mental – giving in to the propaganda of threats and fists only made one weaker, more prone to giving in to the clutches of the fear he so strongly despised. How a monster could ever use his power for evil, purely sickened the boy, making his stomach twist in agony and his eyes water in strife. The monsters he had once idolized were no more than crumbling monuments, burning with the fires of hate that billowed in his stomach.

The bullies that caught his eye now had horns, a tail, eyes red with the hate their souls held. All in his mind’s eye, surely, but that didn’t make what he was seeing any less real. They were his demons, the tormentors of his existence. His monsters. And there had been a day when he’d feared them.
But there was fear no more.

He’d faced his existence, and had deducted that the life he had chosen was perfect just the way it was. And, though he would never resort to his fists to settle his disputes, he knew that no monster could ever use him again. He was stronger than them, better on all counts, and he would strive to live up to that. A kind heart he was, there was a special place for monsters. The creatures his father had told him about were the villains of his story, and he’d sworn revenge. He would hunt them down. He would prove his worth.

Hanzo wasn’t afraid of monsters. They were afraid of him.

WC: 684

Year II: Comprehend Languages [Parseltongue]

Reducio

Hanzo, for as long as he could remember, had been burdened with a terrible bout of curiosity.

A sickness it was, or perhaps it was a blessing, should one count the constant pursuit of knowledge a beneficiary to one’s growth – while many adults had smiled upon the boy’s progressive endeavors, no words could dismiss the skepticism held within the mind of the third year, nor take back the years of bullying he had endured in his search for answers. However, though he’d found a great deal of trouble in his studies, he couldn’t find a reason to take back those years in favor of a different course. Now a master of four languages, he knew full well that his endeavors would come with great reward – but, of course, there was no reason to stop due his lengthy advancements. If he’d learned one thing from his endeavors as a Quidditch Captain, it was that one could never stop learning.

Perhaps this is what spurred the boy’s interest in Parseltongue. A difficult language it was, if not beautiful, the linguistics a fickle creature of its own in the way it twisted like the progression of a river, falling off the tongue like sweet water and pouring into the open air. From the first time he’d heard it, spoken from the lips of a customer in his mother’s wand shop, Hanzo had found himself wildly intrigued, perhaps even mystified by the strange, foreign syllables – being as strong-willed and astute as he was, it was a silly notion to consider disregarding the pursuit this strange new knowledge. A mere first-year at the time, he knew with a stark certainty what he was to do – it didn’t matter what his peers told him, whether or not it was possible, if he could do it. He would speak Parselmouth, some way, somehow. Rules, after all, were meant for shattering, were they not?

Learning the language was not in the least an easy endeavor – his studies, rather, took the span of two long years, and even at the pinnacle of mastery, he was still lost in the strange linguistics. The pronunciation, after all, was a mystery all in its own, the words slurring together and stated in a way that was distant to the young scholar, a foreign concept to his poor Norwegian tongue. No matter how much he twisted his lips, mouthed the syllables – no, the boy would never be able to speak the snake language, no matter how hard he tried, a fact that was only evident now that he had finally completed his studies. However, his hard work had bore some fruit – upon journeying out to his father’s garden on a particularly sunny day during his break, he could hear the cool tones of a snake nearby, the animal hissing in a language he could now understand perfectly. So he could, in the least, understand the words of the snakes. A smile would curl onto his face in the moment, his eyes bright as he shoved a fist in the air – a master of five languages! Way to go, Hanzo! [516w]

♛ Statistics ♛

Stamina: 4
Evasion: 10
Strength: 3
Wisdom: 10
Arcane Power: 4
Accuracy: 10

41/41 [+1 Quidditch Win via Rafael]

♛ Priority ♛

Keeper
Chaser 1
Chaser 2
Chaser 3
Second-string Keeper
Second-string Chaser
Seeker
Second-string Seeker
Beater 1
Beater 2
Second-string Beater

*Wrote the stats mainly for the Keeper and Chaser roles. Beating really wouldn't be a good fit, really want to help the Team in this way. If the first-string positions listed above aren't available, second-string works.

♛ Abilities ♛

Ability: Monster Hunter

Hanzo was afraid of a lot of things. Monsters weren’t one of them.

He hadn’t always hated the creatures. There was once a time when his thoughts would be entertained with the existence of the other races, his father telling him beautiful and vibrant tales of dragons and imps, women far too pretty for their own good, men who could change their faces at will. Good bedtime stories, if you asked him, the creatures dancing around the contents of his brain, leaving him breathless in wonder as he snored silently in the midst of the night. Mysterious, intriguing, in the same way that they were utterly terrifying. A fearful race, monsters were, one he had told himself at the time to always be wary of. There was no telling what they were capable of, what monstrosities they could commit, should they use their power for evil. And he was just a small child, insignificant in the sight of the world. Monsters were heroes, as much as they were villains. Monumental characters in the story one called reality, creatures that condescended humans in many more ways than one. Monsters were special. Monsters were good.

And, he’d learned to respect them, if not fear them in the slightest. It was funny, because he’d always recognized his fear for what it was – artificial, the body’s way of telling one that something was far from safe. A mere feeling. Feelings had always been false, he’d long since learned, as pain wasn’t anything to be afraid of, in the same way that sadness was only temporary. And, though he was far from fearless, he’d learned at a very young age that the feeling was unrealistic, in the same way that a unicorn could fly. If something was feared, then he would fear it. But never would the fear consume him.

He’d been naïve once, given monsters the expensive gift he called his respect. There were monsters everywhere he’d ever been – people with power, the ability to fix what was wrong in society. They were living in his house, attending his school. And, while some of the ‘monsters’ had been kind, loving, nurturing to his growth, the good majority had only caused him pain, strife, anxiety. Kids were mean, and people could be bloody horrible. No matter, there was no room nowadays for pity or depression in the life of the child. He’d long since come to terms with his demons, every day choosing to rise from his bed ready to fulfill his miserable existence. He’d learned to be strong. Fighting wasn’t physical, as much as it was mental – giving in to the propaganda of threats and fists only made one weaker, more prone to giving in to the clutches of the fear he so strongly despised. How a monster could ever use his power for evil, purely sickened the boy, making his stomach twist in agony and his eyes water in strife. The monsters he had once idolized were no more than crumbling monuments, burning with the fires of hate that billowed in his stomach.

The bullies that caught his eye now had horns, a tail, eyes red with the hate their souls held. All in his mind’s eye, surely, but that didn’t make what he was seeing any less real. They were his demons, the tormentors of his existence. His monsters. And there had been a day when he’d feared them.
But there was fear no more.

He’d faced his existence, and had deducted that the life he had chosen was perfect just the way it was. And, though he would never resort to his fists to settle his disputes, he knew that no monster could ever use him again. He was stronger than them, better on all counts, and he would strive to live up to that. A kind heart he was, there was a special place for monsters. The creatures his father had told him about were the villains of his story, and he’d sworn revenge. He would hunt them down. He would prove his worth.

Hanzo wasn’t afraid of monsters. They were afraid of him.

WC: 684

Year II: Comprehend Languages [Parseltongue]

Reducio

Hanzo, for as long as he could remember, had been burdened with a terrible bout of curiosity.

A sickness it was, or perhaps it was a blessing, should one count the constant pursuit of knowledge a beneficiary to one’s growth – while many adults had smiled upon the boy’s progressive endeavors, no words could dismiss the skepticism held within the mind of the third year, nor take back the years of bullying he had endured in his search for answers. However, though he’d found a great deal of trouble in his studies, he couldn’t find a reason to take back those years in favor of a different course. Now a master of four languages, he knew full well that his endeavors would come with great reward – but, of course, there was no reason to stop due his lengthy advancements. If he’d learned one thing from his endeavors as a Quidditch Captain, it was that one could never stop learning.

Perhaps this is what spurred the boy’s interest in Parseltongue. A difficult language it was, if not beautiful, the linguistics a fickle creature of its own in the way it twisted like the progression of a river, falling off the tongue like sweet water and pouring into the open air. From the first time he’d heard it, spoken from the lips of a customer in his mother’s wand shop, Hanzo had found himself wildly intrigued, perhaps even mystified by the strange, foreign syllables – being as strong-willed and astute as he was, it was a silly notion to consider disregarding the pursuit this strange new knowledge. A mere first-year at the time, he knew with a stark certainty what he was to do – it didn’t matter what his peers told him, whether or not it was possible, if he could do it. He would speak Parselmouth, some way, somehow. Rules, after all, were meant for shattering, were they not?

Learning the language was not in the least an easy endeavor – his studies, rather, took the span of two long years, and even at the pinnacle of mastery, he was still lost in the strange linguistics. The pronunciation, after all, was a mystery all in its own, the words slurring together and stated in a way that was distant to the young scholar, a foreign concept to his poor Norwegian tongue. No matter how much he twisted his lips, mouthed the syllables – no, the boy would never be able to speak the snake language, no matter how hard he tried, a fact that was only evident now that he had finally completed his studies. However, his hard work had bore some fruit – upon journeying out to his father’s garden on a particularly sunny day during his break, he could hear the cool tones of a snake nearby, the animal hissing in a language he could now understand perfectly. So he could, in the least, understand the words of the snakes. A smile would curl onto his face in the moment, his eyes bright as he shoved a fist in the air – a master of five languages! Way to go, Hanzo! [516w]

♛ Statistics ♛

Stamina: 4
Evasion: 10
Strength: 3
Wisdom: 10
Arcane Power: 4
Accuracy: 10

41/41 [+1 Quidditch Win via Rafael]

♛ Priority ♛

Keeper
Chaser 1
Chaser 2
Chaser 3
Second-string Keeper
Second-string Chaser
Seeker
Second-string Seeker
Beater 1
Beater 2
Second-string Beater

*Wrote the stats mainly for the Keeper and Chaser roles. Beating really wouldn't be a good fit, really want to help the Team in this way. If the first-string positions listed above aren't available, second-string works.