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𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃

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Prat had claimed a booth among one of the several on the camp grounds, far enough from the chaos of games and duels but close enough to lure curious onlooked. A clean sign was also attached a hoarding; hand-lettered, that read:

Face Card

With his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, he sat taking the maximum amount of space he could behind a small table, which carried an open sketchbook, some charcoal, a few pencils he had brought from the muggle world and his trusty magic camera he had bought some time back. His lips were pursed and his eyes narrowed. Judgmental concentration set within them that suggested he could capture your likeness, flaws and all. A few spare seats sat across from him.

"Open for business," he called excitedly, not bothering to look up unless whatever voice that came through would interest him. He didn't offer compliments usually, those were reserved for the beautiful ladies who'd come sooner or later. He had plenty for them.

Beside him lounged Neoth on a plush cushion, his beloved Crup. Head resting on crossed paws. Every so often, the pup's tail thudded lazily against the countertop. Accepting ear scratches or curious greetings from passerbys. Campers were free to pet him, Neoth in addition made the perfect ice breaker, Something Prat was less likely to attempt on his own.

One critical Slytherin was ready to immortalize faces in graphite. Whether anyone liked the results? Irrelevant.

OOC INFO

Once three users have posted, I will close the thread to more participants and open it back once I've replied to the previous three.

Make sure to concise the whole interaction in one post. If you have any doubts, feel free to DM/Owl me.

Prat begrudgingly offers to do portrait sketches of summer camp attendees. He sets up a refined little corner with his sleeves rolled, sketchbook open and lips pursed in judgment. Users can come sit for a portrait before or after their events. They might be expecting flattery but what they get depends entirely on how they sit, how they behave, and of course a D20 Roll.

17–20: A shockingly regal portrait of you. You look like aristocracy. This might even emotionally move you.
13–16: Clean lines, strong details, you should be flattered. It’s clear he tried.
9–12: Your depiction is -a choice. Still recognizably human however.
5–8: It’s abstract. Possibly cursed, Baptize this one.
1–4: Prat has summoned a demon of ego and shame. The drawing is...not only unkind but offensive. You may or may not have horns.

You are free to react however you wish, this is me laying out examples on how the art would come out in an IC way. Prat is judgmental and perfectionistic, but does the work seriously. I, however, am looking for an equally comedic thread.

[Just to be clear, there won't be actual portraits, I am not a good artist and what little I do is for my own enjoyment.]

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Avis wandered down one of the many grass paths that were slowly turning to mud beneath the chaos of crowds moving through the stadium-turned-fairgrounds. In one hand was an opened bag of Bertie's beans. In the other was a bean that could've been either popcorn or earwax. The Ravenclaw grimaced at it before popping it into her mouth. She chewed for a moment before shriveling up her freckled nose in disgust. Definitely earwax.

She stuck her hand back into the bag once more, fishing around for a more trustworthy color when she caught sight of an interesting booth sign to her left. Face Card. She stopped for a moment, studying the booth and those currently occupying the area. In front of the small table sat a brunette she'd never seen before and behind it sat a Slytherin she recognized vaguely from an impromptu game of hop scotch during her first year. An array of drawing supplies sat on the flat surface between the two which piqued Avis' interest greatly. Was he drawing portraits?

The Ravenclaw glanced down the path in the direction she'd been heading and then back at the booth. The girl was supposed to meet her best friend at the booth she'd set up further down the row. Maisie could wait. She probably had customers to deal with at the moment anyway.

Absentmindedly popping another bean into her mouth, Avis strolled up to Prat's booth and dropped into a chair next to the brunette. She chewed her bean before speaking, which proved to be a large mistake.

A fit of coughing raged through her chest for a moment as she choked down the horrendous flavor. Once the coughing subsided, she smiled wanly at the booth owner.

"Sorry. Sardine," she said simply and gestured at the sign. "I'm here for a face card. After her, of course," Avis finished, gesturing to the girl sitting beside her.

Ripley had been walking the campgrounds contentedly for an hour now, letting the crowds carry him amid the a swirl of light and sound until he felt like a lighthouse himself. He was at home playing the seasoned tourist -- at peace in the mob, a flâneur of festivals. For his mother's job as a lifestyle journalist, they'd traveled to fêtes, festivals, carnivals, parades, pageants, and jamborees all over the world. He'd been a simple visitor, on floats amidst raucous crowds, and helped at his father's private trunk shows selling bespoke robes to movers in magic. Still, there were few things quite like the fugue of Fair scents, metallic jangle of ride sounds, and tight jostle and thrust of excited revelers.

Entering the Art Expo & Booths for the second time, Ripley gave the individual booths his attention. Mostly tchotchkes and fae crafts -- beautiful in their own way, but not in his alley. Briefly, he considered a flower crown, as he'd worn on-stage in a production of "Midsummer Night's Dream" ("What a beautiful boy!" a blue-haired audience member had exclaimed when he appeared on stage) but the moment wasn't right for that. What could he get here that wouldn't weigh him down? It was hard to shuck aside years as fleet world traveler.

Wait, what about a bracelet to send Darren (his little sister)? He thought. But then again, no. Her preferences were much too swift to track, especially being absent from the family for this while now before school. He did miss them. More than he cared to admit to himself. When you live as nomads, stability is in your people. Slowing down, Ripley ran his fingers through his wavy hair and there it was: Face cards.

It was ideal, something thin and memorable he could send to his family. Yes, they'd like this! Not too much, not too little: Just enough. He veered right, taking an off-ramp from the human highway, until he stood in front of a table dwarfed by the boy seated behind it. His tousled black hair contrasting with the restrained concentration he aimed at his tools. He was here, sure, but did he really want to reproduce the hoi polloi in two dimensions, Ripley did not know. One thing he did know, as the father of his son, was that despite the play at casual, the cut and fabric of this boy's attire was unexpectedly fine for someone running a festival booth. He must be a very good artist, Ripley thought, and approached.

Once in the boy's sight line, Ripley spoke, "Hey there, I'd appreciate a face card. But first thing's first, is it okay if I make friends with this guy here?" He gestured to the Crup relaxing on the nearby cushion.

banner by Alyssea Brown| interacting as Archer Duncan

Prat Pass was a boy full of surprises. Oftentimes good, but that doesn't mean he wasn't exempt from bad surprises either. When it came to artistic talent though, Archer didn't know where to put it on the scale. It was simply totally unexpected, as if someone decided to Archer one day he had an aptitude for synchronised swimming. Of course, none of that was to say his face didn't light up in amusement as he spied his captain, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sketchbooks and charcoal propped before him. So summer camp was good for something more than just escaping going home after all.

Walking up to the booth, he saw three other students awaiting to get their own "Face Card". Archer offered Pass a playful smirk at his apparent popularity; he must have had some tricks up his sleeve if he could attract so much attention.

Drawing his attention more than his multi-skilled friend however, however, was his canine companion. Petting the crup and giving him a few scratches behind the ear, combined with some words of doting, his mood felt lighter. Perhaps he had made the right call with exploring the many booths that now littered the grounds instead of melting away into a world that didn't exist. Pity Archer hadn't brought Zeno today -- he had insisted on lounging in their tent with the stifling summer heat outdoors -- last he checked they were good friends. Casual acquaintances, after all, were not prone to running away together.

"Mister artist," Archer greeted, approaching the boy sat with a face full of judgement and sharp-eyed scrutiny, "Do you reckon I can get one of your portraits?"

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LOVELY CREATURE IN EFFECT ; OOC note: Prat is blonde and about 5'6 tall now.

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ARIANA

The booth had been open for barely a few minutes when the first guest approached. With his sleeves rolled and charcoal already staining the tips of his fingers, Prat heard footsteps slow near his table as he Looked up.

She was a presence, looked composed, deliberate and sharp-eyed in a way that would set her apart from the usual chaos of the passerby's. She had chosen to step into his booth. "Hello, I suppose you wouldn't mind making me a face card?"

Her voice didn't try to charm but it was clean, efficient. Not much of a smile, but no hostility either. Prat's lips curled into a faint smirk, half polite and and half intrigued.

"Of course not," he said smoothly as gestured her towards an empty seat across from him. "Prat Pass. Artist/Temporary Carnival Attraction. That guy is Neoth, do watch your fingers as he bites."

The half-crup beside him wagged its forked tail lazily, lifting its snout just enough to sniff the newcomer, express disinterest and settling back down.

While Ariana took her seat, Prat leaned back as he examined her, not with leering interest but the detachment of someone assessing a puzzle intricately placed in front of them. Then he began. Charcoal to paper. Quick, confident lines on the paper with no hesitation. It was rare when he let his art take the reins. But something about quiet restraint, and judgement behind composure, lent itself to drama. Not exaggeration. Elegance.

By the time he finished, he didn't even need to say anything. The page spoke for itself. The girl had been reimagined as a queen from an ancient tale, eyes cunning, posture perfect and a regal aura. Her face had been turned into a study in clarity and consequences, a portrait worthy of being framed.

He slid it over to her, brow arched as if to imply, 'Well?'

AVIS

Finishing up with her, came the next one, Avis Greymond. He recognized her from a chaotic game of hopscotch years ago, the memory oddly vivid and happy. Prat opened his mouth to her, only for her to return his gesture with cough severe enough to nearly double over beside his table.

He reeled back instinctively from the sick one. "Merlin's beard, do you want water? Grab a seat," he muttered, showing her towards the next seat down, well outside his personal cough radius. "You'll live, I think."

Once she’d recovered, he was set to work.

This portrait wasn't quite the regal drama of the last one. His fingers now moved with far less reverence then before. This portrait of Avis was lively, unpredictable and his interpretation showed it with angular lines, slightly too large left eye and an odd artistic liberty with the proportions of her ears and the angles at which they were joined to the rest of her skull. Still, recognizable human, yes, but it was more an interpretive artwork than a regal portrait. He even added a small bean in the corner of the page for flair and a reference he might remember forever.

He passed her the paper with half a smile, an arched brow and a sheepish smile. "It's abstract," he said vaguely. "But it captures the essence of your soul."

RIPLEY

Before he could defend his choices, someone new appeared. "Hey there," came a warm warm voice, "I'd appreciate a face card. But first thing's first, is it okay if I make friends with this guy here?" Prat looked up to meet the easy-going presence of a boy he didn't know but didn't mind knowing either. Wavy hair, quiet confidence, and an outfit that spoke of someone used to better things in life. Prat could get behind that.

"Sure," he replied, motioning to Neoth. "You're free to make friends, just don't poke him, he's got a little bite in him."

As the boy settled, Prat leaned in, squinting thoughtfully. He didn't know this one well, but there was something distinct in the set of his jaw and the half smile he carried. The drawing was sharp, detailed, with smooth and deliberate lines. Not as haunting or dramatic as Ariana's or as chaotic as Avis', but undeniably solid. It was flattering, honest without an ounce of cruelty. The kind of thing you'd tuck into a journal or pass to a friend with a note like : "Hey, this is how I looked that summer."

He gave Ripley a nod, wordless approval as he slid the portrait across the table.

ARCHER

And then, of course, came Archer.

A familiar silhouette, and frankly one he appreciated seeing again. Prat’s entire posture shifted, turning relaxed and more amused. A grin tugged at his lips before the other boy even said anything.

"Mister artist," Archer began with that familiar half-teasing tone. "Do you reckon I can get one of your portraits?"

Prat smirked, already pulling over a fresh sheet. "Only if you don’t sue me over the outcome."

He glanced at Neoth, who was already half-curled around Archer’s foot like he’d been waiting for him. Figures. The crup was selective with affection. Prat didn’t blame him, the crup was making good choices. Then he started.

This one mattered, he didn't know why, nor could he explain it. But it did. Archer had been a solid teammate, and not just in the arena. He was someone Prat had actually come to trust within the castle walls. And with this trust and reverence came the kind of pressure he didn't usually apply to most of his art.

His lines were delicate but purposeful. He didn't embellish, but he gave the smile more curve, the posture more power. He caught the cheek in mid-thought, the sharpness of one who'd laugh at or with you, but also shield you with the same breath. He gave him a soft crown of curls and added the faintest edge of a Renaissance collar in the shadows. Subtle yet undeniably noble.

When he was done, even Prat stared at the portrait for a beat longer than necessary. It was good. No. scratch that, it was great.

"This one deserves a spot in the Louvre," he muttered to himself as he handed it over. "Well, don't be too hard on it."

He dusted off his hands, glanced down at Neoth, then back up at the horizon of booths still ahead.

"Next," he said aloud, already flipping to a fresh page.

But in his mind remained Archer’s portrait, Ariana’s, the glint in Ripley’s eye, and Avis’ laugh mid-cough.

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XXXXXXArcher and Ariana rolled a 20 while Avis rolled a 9 and Ripley a 13

@Archer Duncan @Ariana Westonfield-Rivera @Avis Greymond @Ripley Cunning

A stroll among the crowds and now giving this friendly Crup a scratch before sitting for a portrait. Good upon good upon good. Ripley popped into the chair, maintaining a natural stillness rather than deliberately posing. The artist worked fast, eyes furrowed in concentration, while Ripley relaxed, feeling a light breeze tickle his brows. Here he was, at the center of the universe, orbited by literally everything. He let the festival noise meld into the sound of the artist's tools hushing across the paper, the smell of fried thing and sweets wafting from the food court, the weight of the robes hanging on his shoulders, and his own weight resting on a chair, feet in the grass. For a moment, that was it -- all conspicuous thoughts having vanished.

Then the artist nodded and in a flash, Ripley was back to himself like a car's engine starting. He rose from the chair and picked up the face card the artist had slid across the table. It was a very good likeness, technically adroit. But there was also something distinct about it, a conscious choice on the part of the executor to eschew the appearance of mastery in lieu of overall effect. The boy deliberately captured Ripley at this exact moment in time; in the portrait's soft edges card was not a work of art exactly, but a memory, a perfect keepsake.

Ripley looked from the card directly into the artist's eyes: "This...This is just right. My family will be very happy to receive it. Thank you!"

He paused, looking at both sides of the card, seeing that the back was blank: "Would you sign it? I want to make sure to remember who drew it."

Merlin, it was hard to sit still. Prat hadn't even gotten five minutes in before Avis' elbow began to mysteriously itch. She couldn't help but scratch it, the movement probably making it a bit difficult to focus for her artist, but the Ravenclaw managed to settle into a comfortable position soon after—until her left eyebrow began to twitch much to the girl's annoyance. She furrowed both brows, scrunching up her nose in an attempt to make it go away, when suddenly she was overthinking the positioning of her mouth. Was she supposed to smile? Maybe go for a more serious smolder? Perhaps something to make her friends laugh.

At that thought, Avis blew out her cheeks in an attempt at a silly face before deciding very quickly that that would be a difficult position to hold for however long Prat needed to finish. She glanced back at the artist hard at work, studying his technique for a moment. She couldn't see the result quite yet, but hoped desperately her portrait would turn out as good as the first girl's she'd seen as she arrived to the stand.

After a few more minutes of horribly hidden fidgeting and her eyes burning so bad from trying not to blink that they started watering excessively, the older Slytherin passed her the paper with a—well—less than confident expression, but a smile nonetheless. Avis reached out and took the artwork from him, staring down at a drawing that look vaguely like herself but only perhaps if she'd been half house-elf. She cocked her head, wondering for a moment what having a house elf for a mam would be like before Prat spoke.

She nodded along to his description of 'abstract' (certainly a good term for it) but paused at his next phrase. It sounded much deeper than perhaps he'd intended it to, or maybe he'd meant it, and Avis smiled after a moment.

"Yeah, I suppose it does," she answered absentmindedly as she studied the drawing, letting out a light amused snort at the Bertie's bean in the corner. "Cheers," the girl said happily, popping out of her seat. "Brilliant soul portrait."

And with that, she rolled up the parchment and tucked it into her overall front pocket, giving it a satisfied pat before traipsing off to the next amusement the fair had to offer.

banner by Alyssea Brown| interacting as Archer Duncan

“Wow.” A genuine first reaction.

Portraits, from what Archer had gathered, were meant to be a pleasant surprise. There was a certain level of mystery in an art done so secretively, with the painter scrutinising the subject while they could only watch helplessly as their features were put to paper. Yet all of it came from trust, for when the painting was revealed, the subject, after sitting from gruelling minutes in the summertime heat, found that all that blind waiting was worth something. It was a scene, with gasps and elation, Archer had witnessed before at parks or street sides. It was a pleasant surprise Archer had never experienced before.

It was obvious that for Archer’s first, whether Prat knew it or not, the artist, a skill of his Archer newly discovered, put genuine effort into it. Unlike the students before him, all underclassmen, who were painted by the virtuoso, he seemed to have put especial care into his teammate’s portrait. In an explicable way, the lines of his face were softer, his eyes were more set with meaning, and there was a smile, smug, as if caught in an inside joke no one else other than the two of them knew. Perhaps about Zeno scratching his cheek that night as S.N.O.G., or any other thing that would surely never leave Slytherin’s walls.

With every subtle detail placed into the piece, it would have been clear, Archer thought, even to an outsider, that the artist knew his subject well. And of course, Prat did. As captain, it was his duty to keep tabs on his team members, but their relationship had long grown to a care beyond that. “Thank you,” Archer said, and that statement was not one purely out of decorum but sincere gratitude. “I’ve never been… painted before.” He paused slightly before finding the right words, and with the buzz of people around them, settled on the ones he said. In truth though, no one had even looked at him for as long since Marguerite died.

“Merci beaucoup, captain,” he grinned, the smile Prat had described as someone who would either laugh with or at you, then shield you with the same breath, “I will be suing you to WAVAD.”