8 Jul 2021, 19:54
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link to your encyclopedia thread: boink.
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for:
Fourth Year: Non-Human Enthusiast
Describe why this fits your character: Word Count - 971Abilities
Hogwarts, with an increasing number of students clocking in yearly, was a place of exposure. This, Astrea knew since the beginning, but the level of uneasy vulnerability she had faced at such a tender age far surpassed any expectations previously held. Under a ceiling of stone and flimsy promises, she fostered a growing scepticism over student safety. Most notably at large, school-run events, there was a reputation for disaster, if not by their hand than by those with more nefarious plans- and by the cresting end of her third year, it was would be naive to simply brush it off. Much to the dismay of staff and students, all of them were maturing too quickly and little seemed to be done about it. Having seen destruction through beastly claws, it was also impossible to say for certain but she also truly doubted that out of the many faces she watched pass in the halls, all of them were as human as one would assume.
It wasn't so farfetched. In recent times, those of non-human ancestry had found themselves greater tolerance by the general public, at least to their faces. Of course, behind closed doors, one's true colours shone the brightest and Astrea often found that many became most vocal when surrounded by their yes-men. Purebloods in particular, in a quickly modernising world, were more inclined to attach themselves toward the familiar, static and slowly outdating norm that was the hierarchy of supposed social superiority. This, she had overheard time and time again, listening to idle conversation with the ever-present 'them vs us' mentality ringing true.
In fact, there were- still are, somewhere along the radio waves of society- rumours of her own bloodline bearing foul-play in their correspondence, snippets of gossip over topics better suited for half-hearted time passers than actual believability. If asked, Astrea would call herself human, because she was, but at least she could acknowledge that it was not as black-and-white as that. Every enduring rumour had at least some portion of truth to it before its passing ownership twists the intentions beyond repair. Pureblood family lines, pureblood genetics in general, were twisting and complicated and so Astrea turned to research in response to her own unknowing. Luckily, there was plenty of fodder to scavenge.
In this pull towards greater understanding, she began to grww intimate with the dirty little secrets hiding between personal journals and professional records. She would probably never know the extent of the past- so much and yet so little written down, some tales reserved solely for oral retellings, twisting with each new teller- but she could find a glimpse of it. It was not a single sitting of tentative interest that captured our Astrea, instead, a long-winded bout of growing fixation that started with the beginnings of her summer after third year, one that occupied her time normally spent contemplating her own existence and turned it into a mystery manhunt for the inconsistencies.
Anyone who had access to the Bloodline registries could see there were gaps in both tapestries and textbooks. The largest and most original of the private censuses remained safe overseas, but even the individual family records had dark spots. Certain births and deaths written as records but never publicised, never boasted as intensely as those born 'better' in the family. Entire lives of people deemed not worthy enough to be officially acknowledged, silently fulfilling their filial gift toward the next generation.
They could pride themselves in being the exemplary pureblooded aristocrats as much as they wanted, having long ago diluted any contradictory heritage into neutrality, but there was no denying the lingering side effects of past intermixing in generations long past. Special abilities skippable in their generation hopping, coming and going sporadically, shaping how they saw potential matchmaking, shaping how they saw potential in general. Some figures in their history bore suspicious undertones in those who surrounded them but stopped just short of calling specifics. Astrea, intrigued by this, took it as a sign to dig deeper.
Veela, beautiful hypnotists with hair of platinum- sometimes collected for wand-creation-, became harpy-like and vengeful in their rage. Vampires, the giant humanoid mosquitos they were, subsisted on blood alone, revealing a clear weakness in their dhampir descendants. Werewolves, those unlucky few forcefully turned non-human instead of born so, transformed once monthly into a feral beast, the full moon casting its influence on tide and terror alike. On and on she went, reading from the perspectives of non-human sympathisers and antagonisers alike, seeking not justification for a specific opinion but reoccurring notices. Astrea's family did not fancy themselves hunters, uninterested in getting their hands dirty in the culling of co-existence. Whatever information they could squirrel away and compare notes with, though, they took readily.
It was madness to pretend that they had truly remained untouched by inhuman, muggle-tainted handling, not with the sheer history the Bloodlines carried, but that mad game of bluff had helped keep them afloat at the beginning of their history in the West and was not so easily shaken.
Who knew how many families had turned towards the same answer? How many others had shed broken feathers from their wings of reputation so obviously in those newborn centuries? Unknown and drifting, seeking to plant roots in unfamiliar, already occupied soil, every member was representative of something new and fragile. Keeping their skins clean in such a crucial time got them ahead in life, calling back upon their homeland's lessons in saving face became their emergency lifeboat in a sea of sharks. Yes, it was better to keep things as they were, for upheaval only meant yet another era of confusion.
Guiltily, Astrea will come to wonder if she would have a hand in the inevitable chaos they were marching towards and how quickly it was to come upon them all.
STATUS: Approved
| astrea neptune ... | ... johannes sauer |
| hogwarts wizardry. duellist. | durmstrang. horntail horde. |
9 Jul 2021, 16:16
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link to your encyclopedia thread:
viewtopic.php?f=169&t=5679&p=105579#p92687
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Fearless.
Describe why this fits your character:
WC: 423
STATUS: Approved
viewtopic.php?f=169&t=5679&p=105579#p92687
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Fearless.
Describe why this fits your character:
Reducio
Dan had never been an overly fearful person. There wasn't much that could scare him. And jump scares do not count. Those scare everyone so don't even try that. The only thing Dan was truly scared of was heights. When he was in a high place where he could see the edge, his body just froze, and he started hyperventilating.
Naturally, this was a serious problem from someone who loved climbing trees. And something that his mates in Dingle Ireland would always get a laugh out of.
Oh ha ha. Dan climbed a tree and can't get down.
And when they were feeling excessively cruel, they would climb BACK up the tree just to tickle his bare feet and force him to jerk his legs and move his footing which, while he was high up, would almost be enough to cause a panic attack.
Needless to say, this became a major issue while playing Quidditch. Normally, he could focus pretty well just looking for the snitch. And definitely when he found it. But there were still times when he realized just how high up off the ground he was, and the only thing keeping him from plummeting downward a million jillion bazillion feet was a piece of magic wood.
No not that kind of magic wood, get those thoughts out of your head this instant. His broom.
It wasn't that he doubted his Silver Arrow's ability to keep him airborne, nor his ability to use it. It was the simple act of being in the air, and then realizing it, that caused him momentarily freeze up. When that happened, the only thing that brought him back was his obligation to his team.
Dan had no doubt of course, that if Erin Ryan found out about it, she would probably string him upside down to the highest tower by his ankles until he wasnt afraid of heights anymore. And probably a few hours after that.
So, he took matters into his own hands.
Dan Climbed the biggest tree he could find, as high as was safe, and stared DIRECTLY down. He ignored the trembling in his body, and tried to keep his legs relaxed so he couldn't get a Charlie Horse from being tensed for so long. He stayed up there for AGES, until he got bored, and hungry.
The next day, he got his mom and dad to take him to the Cliffs of Moher, and he stood right on the edge, dangling bare toes off the edge.
After days after days of doing this, Dan had finally conquered his fear of heights. On top of that, he had played multiple resident evil games for good measure. To make him truly, Fearless.
Naturally, this was a serious problem from someone who loved climbing trees. And something that his mates in Dingle Ireland would always get a laugh out of.
Oh ha ha. Dan climbed a tree and can't get down.
And when they were feeling excessively cruel, they would climb BACK up the tree just to tickle his bare feet and force him to jerk his legs and move his footing which, while he was high up, would almost be enough to cause a panic attack.
Needless to say, this became a major issue while playing Quidditch. Normally, he could focus pretty well just looking for the snitch. And definitely when he found it. But there were still times when he realized just how high up off the ground he was, and the only thing keeping him from plummeting downward a million jillion bazillion feet was a piece of magic wood.
No not that kind of magic wood, get those thoughts out of your head this instant. His broom.
It wasn't that he doubted his Silver Arrow's ability to keep him airborne, nor his ability to use it. It was the simple act of being in the air, and then realizing it, that caused him momentarily freeze up. When that happened, the only thing that brought him back was his obligation to his team.
Dan had no doubt of course, that if Erin Ryan found out about it, she would probably string him upside down to the highest tower by his ankles until he wasnt afraid of heights anymore. And probably a few hours after that.
So, he took matters into his own hands.
Dan Climbed the biggest tree he could find, as high as was safe, and stared DIRECTLY down. He ignored the trembling in his body, and tried to keep his legs relaxed so he couldn't get a Charlie Horse from being tensed for so long. He stayed up there for AGES, until he got bored, and hungry.
The next day, he got his mom and dad to take him to the Cliffs of Moher, and he stood right on the edge, dangling bare toes off the edge.
After days after days of doing this, Dan had finally conquered his fear of heights. On top of that, he had played multiple resident evil games for good measure. To make him truly, Fearless.
WC: 423
STATUS: Approved
9 Jul 2021, 20:14
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link to your encyclopedia thread: Here
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Terrible Presence
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):STATUS: Approved
- Elo? I want to tell you something!
- I'm comming!
I hear footsteps and Eloise enters my bedroom. I see her face tense up as mine relaxes. She must have a calm aura or something. I think it's the opposite for me.
No sooner had I thought that than the air became even heavier. It's just too weird. It's not coming from me! Did it? I really don't know. I motion to Eloise to sit down.
- What did you want to tell me? Is this about the Ball or the summer camp?
Saved, she asked the question. When she sat down, I could see that she was shaking. I looked at myself in the mirror. Nothing different than usual. My black hair, my grey eyes... Everything is in order. But not Eloise. She's stressed. And strangely, her question brought me an unexpected wave of well-being.
- No, this has nothing to do with Hogwarts. Well, it is a bit. Do I scare you? I mean, do I... Do you think I have a weird aura? I think I have a weird aura.
She makes a small, stressed grimace. She doesn't usually do that! It's weird. What is it with me and this word today? After recovering from the effect of my words, she seems to think a bit before saying:
- I will answer you, but only if you think there is something unusual in me.
You don't answer a question with a question. It's rude. That's what I want to say to him. But I hold back. Yes, there's something unusual about her. An aura of well-being.
- Okay. But you promise to get back to me later, okay?
Across from me, Eloise nods with a smile. The first one since she entered this room. How can I tell her that she has a calming effect on me?
- Okay, then, I find that you have a calming effect. You've always been soothing, but this is even more so than usual. And I think it's on everyone. Not just me.
- Okay. I kind of suspected that actually. You... It's the opposite. You're not scary per se, but your presence is terrifying. I don't know how else to put it. So when we're together, I think we have a bit of a controlling effect on each other... Or something like that.
I am speechless. This is... It's unbelievable. But it suits me so well. Just like this new "power" fits my cousin perfectly. So weird.
- You want me to leave you?
- Yeah. Please.[/font]
10 Jul 2021, 20:40
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link to your encyclopedia thread: viewtopic.php?f=169&t=14684
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Perfectionist One
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Please list out your stats using the 6-point stat system (With +2 accuracy):
Wisdom: Wisdom: 7 Stamina: 8 Arcana: 6 Accuracy: 8 Strength: 6 Evasion: 7
STATUS: Approved
Stat Relevant +2 ACC
Wisdom: 5 Stamina: 7 Arcana: 4 Accuracy: 8 Strength: 6 Evasion: 7
The Aspen Collection
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Perfectionist One
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
WC- 411It was a hard year for one Aspen Summers. Leaving home, her family, and being thrust into a world where the rules of logic and the world and broken, stomped on and completely rearranged is not an easy task for most eleven-year-olds and Aspen is a shining example of that. Her journey was not an easy one, but throughout the year, Aspen was able to find her footing in this world and learned that if she approaches magic in the same way she approaches everything, with focus and determination, she can do anything.
The Fall
When our little Hufflepuff first arrived at Hogwarts she could not cast a spell. She worked and fought and studied but it was not enough, there was no magic to be found. She was sure there was some sort of mistake, that she was not supposed to be at Hogwarts because each day her peers got better while Aspen was stuck in quickly cooling cement, not able to move forward or backward.
The girl buried herself in books, studying magical theory, trying to figure what she was missing, what she was not doing, and trying to fix it. She looked at it not as a puzzle, but as being stuck behind a brick wall that everyone around her can walk through, while she bangs against it, getting more and more frustrated.
The Winter
Winter break was a gift for Aspen, better than any left under a tree, for she was special, she was perfect in the eyes of her parents, and that is what she craved, what she needed. But coming back to Hogwarts, seeing the events of January 5th, that was unadulterated hell.
The events of that evening left Aspen in a stupor, going 3 days without sleep until meeting @Katrina Walker in the library. That interaction, being able to learn parts of what is going on in this school set a wrecking ball to Aspen’s mental block and allowed her to finally start learning magic.
Now she had a goal, a reason to learn magic beyond having the ability to do it, but to protect herself and others. This gave Aspen what she needed, and from the winter on, she became a quick and an adaptable learner. But Aspen did not want to just learn the spells, she wanted to master them, she wanted to be perfect.
And she became perfect. Her spells rarely fail because with focus and determination, she can do anything.
Please list out your stats using the 6-point stat system (With +2 accuracy):
Wisdom: Wisdom: 7 Stamina: 8 Arcana: 6 Accuracy: 8 Strength: 6 Evasion: 7
STATUS: Approved
Stat Relevant +2 ACC
Wisdom: 5 Stamina: 7 Arcana: 4 Accuracy: 8 Strength: 6 Evasion: 7
The Aspen Collection
12 Jul 2021, 02:28
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link: Encyclopedia
Third Year Ability: Healing Sage
Word Count: 400
STATUS: Approved
Third Year Ability: Healing Sage
Reducio
Logan had always been curious about healing. Even from a young age, the girl would assist her mother in fixing herself and her brothers up when one of them were to get injured while playing around the large Baird estate. Watching carefully to learn what her mother was doing. It always intrigued her how she was able to potentially help heal someone else with the use of magic or even potions.
After her mother passed away, Logan told herself she was going to become a healer after Hogwarts. She wanted to be able to assist other families and potentially help other children from losing one or even both of their parents. The previous assistance from her mother gave her the basic knowledge that she would be able to learn more from in the future.
Between the times of her mother dying and her aunt moving in to assist with the care of the three Baird children, Logan took it upon herself to take care of her brothers. Even if she was not able to use magic to assist in taking care of her brothers, she had learned a few muggle ways of taking helping them from her mother previously. After her aunt moved in, her brothers would continue to come to her for assistance if one of them got a small scrape. Over the few years, Logan learned quite a bit about basic muggle healing as well as a bit about magic healing.
While attending Hogwarts, Logan continued with her ways of helping others. It was not uncommon for the girl to assist her friends if any of them were to get hurt, and if she was unable to assist them herself, she would take them to the Hospital Wing to get assistance. She spends a bit of her free time in the library, looking at potions that can be used to assist in the healing process. It is not uncommon to find Logan writing down the recipe for different potions in her journal for future reference, or spells that she would need to master if she wanted to actually become a healer. She knew that she would have to work hard to be able to become a healer. if She didn't have any relatives that were or had been healers, so she was on her own when it came to gaining the knowledge she needed to become a healer.
Word Count: 400
STATUS: Approved
"Logan is blood miserable" ~ Clark 2023
12 Jul 2021, 10:56
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Encyclopaedia: Sarah Lightwood
Ability: Lovely Creature
Description: In the reducio below...
Reducio
Quite frankly she's enchanting. Not a typical beauty, nor ethereal, but striking. Her bright green hair makes her fair skin glow, in a contrast her mother had often likened to the moon in the night sky. Too bright eyes are framed by dark brows, almost too thick for her narrow face. Her sharp cheekbones and pointed nose sometimes looked out of place on the face of someone her age, though Sarah had come to love the uniqueness of her sharp features. They made her stand out, made people stare for all the right reasons. And, as most snakes often do, Sarah had started to use her natural charms to her favour. She’d begun to understand just how she could affect people – how the simplest of looks, a practised smile, could get her further in the world than most other things would. The was an innate attraction, a natural pull people seemed to have towards her which she wielded in her favour – to always be two steps ahead of everyone in her life. Should the young Slytherin ever lower her guard enough to allow it, her lovely aura would no doubt make friendships easier to build and grow.
Her father had once heralded her beauty, sang praises of how lovely his precious girl was, even if it only ever was in the confines of the manor - social image always at the back of his mind. She’d realised as she’d grown older just how much she resembled her mother - all pale skin and dark brows and a natural inquisition tattooed on her face. For most that would be a blessing, to take the beauty of one’s mother and wear it upon their own face. For Sarah it was, she saw it as a way of carrying her mother everywhere, even now that she was gone. For her father, it was no more than a constant reminder of what he had lost. Sarah had thought she’d lost her mother and brother that night - but she’d soon realised a part of her father had died in the fire too. And she often wondered whether her father wished she’d perished, to remove the constant reminder of his lost love from his life.
Sarah was beautiful, more lovely than many women become in a lifetime even at such a young age. But her beauty was and forever would also be a curse. One which had torn her father away. One which would remain a painful reminder of what had been lost.
Word Count:418
STATUS: ApprovedSix Stats: (fully human)
- Stamina: 7
- Evasion: 9
- Strength: 2
- Wisdom: 12
- ArcPower: 6
- Accuracy: 9
Perfectionist | Prodigal Charms Learner | Lovely Creature
Stamina - 8 | Evasion - 9 | Strength - 2 | Wisdom - 12 | Arc Power - 7 | Accuracy - 9
Stamina - 8 | Evasion - 9 | Strength - 2 | Wisdom - 12 | Arc Power - 7 | Accuracy - 9
12 Jul 2021, 17:19
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link to your encyclopedia thread: Sylvain's Ency
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Calming Presence WC (600)
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Always eager to support his friends and help those in dire need, Sylvain had spent the past year dedicating himself to being a stable fixture for others around him to rely on. Whether helping a lost student to the infirmary during an episode of depression, seeing another student through a surprising anxiety attack, showing up to support his team on game day, or simply just doing the right thing, Sylvain's calm and resolute nature had been a steady source of support for his friends. Simply put, people knew they could count on him to be there when they needed him most. It wasn’t until the werewolf lockdown, a hellish event that ground down the last of his nerves and patience, that Sylvain realized he had been hiding from his own feelings and thus hurting others. A behavior he has since rectified and showed remorse for having inflicted on others. After coming to understand himself a little better, the subsequent attack by shadows on the Ravenclaw dorm rooms came without much warning. During this incident, he quickly arose from his after-class nap to assist others. He put out a fire, before also giving out a bit of well-timed direction and knowledge. He gave them all his knowledge and direction, so that they knew they weren't facing the darkness alone.
Never the last to volunteer his help, and always ill-prepared to give up on finding an equitable solution, Sylvain is a dedicated and compassionate friend who often advocates for fairness, kindness and love. Flexible in his thinking and his attitude, Syl often manages to avoid subjects which will bring disharmony to the group and is grateful even when others are bitter and especially during hardship. When the going gets tough, Sylvain, ever the optimist, knows that relying on his friends and quick wit will see them all through to victory in the end. Whenever he supported his few friends they seemed more confident in their own actions. Not one to leave any stones unturned, he often proves to be a good source of reliable knowledge and stands out as someone who is unafraid to speak his mind. Even when proven incorrect he tends to take it in stride, adjusting his behavior after the initial wave of melancholy. So long as it helps everyone to see the same big picture, he is more than glad to speak his mind.
This willingness to point out the obvious combined with his natural affinity for animals could sometimes lead to being mistaken for being a dope. Regardless of interpretation, what may seem like a dopey boy is actually a star-gazing daydreamer with a passion for experimental strategies and working smart, not hard. As someone who has a tendency to teach others how to cooperate, he himself has a passion for keeping a level-head which pays no small amount of returns whenever he is successful. Always in a hurry to go somewhere, Sylvain likes to push himself to his limits, often waiting for the opportune moment to coach an ally or friend into the fast lane alongside him. Enjoying competition on a cerebral level. Sylvain has a penchant to brainstorm with the group, and prefers leaving his opponents guessing while exploiting the flaws in their strategies. On the quidditch pitch he uses this innate presence of calming willpower to slowly gain advantages, one by one, until it leads to spelling his team’s victory. An ace on paper, and soon to be an ace in the sky, Sylvain plans to bring his A game this upcoming year, along with a newfound confidence to be felt by his friends.
STATUS: Approved
"Things are never so bad they can't be made worse." -Elim Garak
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Calming Presence WC (600)
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Always eager to support his friends and help those in dire need, Sylvain had spent the past year dedicating himself to being a stable fixture for others around him to rely on. Whether helping a lost student to the infirmary during an episode of depression, seeing another student through a surprising anxiety attack, showing up to support his team on game day, or simply just doing the right thing, Sylvain's calm and resolute nature had been a steady source of support for his friends. Simply put, people knew they could count on him to be there when they needed him most. It wasn’t until the werewolf lockdown, a hellish event that ground down the last of his nerves and patience, that Sylvain realized he had been hiding from his own feelings and thus hurting others. A behavior he has since rectified and showed remorse for having inflicted on others. After coming to understand himself a little better, the subsequent attack by shadows on the Ravenclaw dorm rooms came without much warning. During this incident, he quickly arose from his after-class nap to assist others. He put out a fire, before also giving out a bit of well-timed direction and knowledge. He gave them all his knowledge and direction, so that they knew they weren't facing the darkness alone.
Never the last to volunteer his help, and always ill-prepared to give up on finding an equitable solution, Sylvain is a dedicated and compassionate friend who often advocates for fairness, kindness and love. Flexible in his thinking and his attitude, Syl often manages to avoid subjects which will bring disharmony to the group and is grateful even when others are bitter and especially during hardship. When the going gets tough, Sylvain, ever the optimist, knows that relying on his friends and quick wit will see them all through to victory in the end. Whenever he supported his few friends they seemed more confident in their own actions. Not one to leave any stones unturned, he often proves to be a good source of reliable knowledge and stands out as someone who is unafraid to speak his mind. Even when proven incorrect he tends to take it in stride, adjusting his behavior after the initial wave of melancholy. So long as it helps everyone to see the same big picture, he is more than glad to speak his mind.
This willingness to point out the obvious combined with his natural affinity for animals could sometimes lead to being mistaken for being a dope. Regardless of interpretation, what may seem like a dopey boy is actually a star-gazing daydreamer with a passion for experimental strategies and working smart, not hard. As someone who has a tendency to teach others how to cooperate, he himself has a passion for keeping a level-head which pays no small amount of returns whenever he is successful. Always in a hurry to go somewhere, Sylvain likes to push himself to his limits, often waiting for the opportune moment to coach an ally or friend into the fast lane alongside him. Enjoying competition on a cerebral level. Sylvain has a penchant to brainstorm with the group, and prefers leaving his opponents guessing while exploiting the flaws in their strategies. On the quidditch pitch he uses this innate presence of calming willpower to slowly gain advantages, one by one, until it leads to spelling his team’s victory. An ace on paper, and soon to be an ace in the sky, Sylvain plans to bring his A game this upcoming year, along with a newfound confidence to be felt by his friends.
STATUS: Approved
"Things are never so bad they can't be made worse." -Elim Garak
12 Jul 2021, 18:10
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
Link to your encyclopedia thread: Here you go!
Perfectionist (WC = 754)
Evasive Maneuvers (WC = 1012)
Perfectionist (2nd) (WC = 804)
Fearless (WC = 1115)
Animagus (WC = 888)
Evasive Maneuvers (2nd) (WC = 1100)
Sixth Sense (WC = 696)
's Grace (WC = 847)
STATUS: Approved
Please do NOT include the ability in your trunk on your own BEFORE it was approved. You can change the code if you do not like the placing after it has been added by staff.
I do not accept, and I am not resigned.
Perfectionist (WC = 754)
Reducio
"Again," John said, letting go a sigh of disappointment. Atticus pulled his pencil from the sharpener once more. The bit of graphite at the yellow stick's end was shiny and pointed again, but the pink rubber eraser on the opposing side remained untouched. Here they sat, and here they would sit all Sunday morning. Working on the same issue, madly. Though it would have been true madness to sit for hours on end praying for a miracle to happen, John knew better.
Multiplication tables were crudely drawn on lined papers, which sprawled across the grand oak dining table in a meandering fashion. Some of them were crumpled up and lay across the room in frustration while others would be turned over as in an attempt by John to keep Atticus from cheating. There Atticus sat solemnly next to his father, John, a grumpy old man who gave every impression of someone that expected nothing less than perfection from his only son. Of course, in all actuality, John was a tired old man. He had never let that weakness show, and so Atticus would never know.
The oaken table set in the middle of their dining room was an ornate fixture. Sitting off to one side of the table, the two had made full use of the heirloom’s surface area. Having belonged to their family for two generations now, the table had come to be a sore reminder of his father's grief, of everything he’d lost in his life so far. On the rare few occasions Atticus had accidentally damaged it, sometimes even just making a disrespectful mess upon it, his father would give the long-winded lecture of a southern Baptist lawyer. Atticus could hear it clearly even in his later years, playing over and over again in his mind like a broken record whenever he saw it. It was a reminder of the sacrifices they had made as a family. A reminder of their loss.
"My father's father, your great-grandfather, made this table painstakingly and by hand." John would start, continuing on without even pausing for a breath. "Taking the better half of a century to hone his trade, he built our home, our bed frames, our doors and even this table." Pops had always seemed saddened whenever he thought of grand pappy Atti. Despite their closeness, John had been left with nothing other than the table, something given only after his grandfather's passing away. It was a sore subject. "It is a priceless heirloom, just like your name, Atticus Liam Wade. Both are a testament to our family's relentless and dogged pursuit of perfection." A pursuit that was now being unfairly passed down without consideration of the bold and youthful Atticus’s feelings on the matter. Still, he was a good kid and did as he was told.
Sure enough, the lectures only proved to Atticus that it was his place in life to become filled with determination and to use that trait to make himself ever more capable. He might never become the master carpenter his great-grandfather was, nor become nearly as decorated a soldier as his grandfather was anytime soon, but perfection of multiplication tables was doable at the very least. Furiously impatient, his father's frustration growing with each of Atticus's failures, John now loomed over the eight year old boy waiting for him to make even the slightest mistake. Right on time Atticus stumbled on a question, pausing on his nines and erroneously putting down the wrong answer. The paper was ripped from beneath his writing hand and the fortieth attempt would begin with nothing but a crumple and huff from John. Sometimes it felt as though Papa John only cared when Atticus made mistakes, and never when he got the answers right.
"Again," his father grunted. With much trepidation and a bounty of devotion, this endeavor would go on for nearly four hours with John giving in well before Atticus had mastered anything. After eating a hot lunch, refusing to go outside to play with his friends and losing out on his only chance to watch cartoons and westerns on their brand new colored television, Atticus would finally produce a piece of paper with the results his father had desired. Absolute perfection in the form of clean multiplication tables. One-hundred and forty-four answers each written to fill a twelve by twelve grid that would forever be seared into the deepest parts of young Wade's mind. A developed ability he would come to rely on for the rest of his life.
"Again," John said, letting go a sigh of disappointment. Atticus pulled his pencil from the sharpener once more. The bit of graphite at the yellow stick's end was shiny and pointed again, but the pink rubber eraser on the opposing side remained untouched. Here they sat, and here they would sit all Sunday morning. Working on the same issue, madly. Though it would have been true madness to sit for hours on end praying for a miracle to happen, John knew better.
Multiplication tables were crudely drawn on lined papers, which sprawled across the grand oak dining table in a meandering fashion. Some of them were crumpled up and lay across the room in frustration while others would be turned over as in an attempt by John to keep Atticus from cheating. There Atticus sat solemnly next to his father, John, a grumpy old man who gave every impression of someone that expected nothing less than perfection from his only son. Of course, in all actuality, John was a tired old man. He had never let that weakness show, and so Atticus would never know.
The oaken table set in the middle of their dining room was an ornate fixture. Sitting off to one side of the table, the two had made full use of the heirloom’s surface area. Having belonged to their family for two generations now, the table had come to be a sore reminder of his father's grief, of everything he’d lost in his life so far. On the rare few occasions Atticus had accidentally damaged it, sometimes even just making a disrespectful mess upon it, his father would give the long-winded lecture of a southern Baptist lawyer. Atticus could hear it clearly even in his later years, playing over and over again in his mind like a broken record whenever he saw it. It was a reminder of the sacrifices they had made as a family. A reminder of their loss.
"My father's father, your great-grandfather, made this table painstakingly and by hand." John would start, continuing on without even pausing for a breath. "Taking the better half of a century to hone his trade, he built our home, our bed frames, our doors and even this table." Pops had always seemed saddened whenever he thought of grand pappy Atti. Despite their closeness, John had been left with nothing other than the table, something given only after his grandfather's passing away. It was a sore subject. "It is a priceless heirloom, just like your name, Atticus Liam Wade. Both are a testament to our family's relentless and dogged pursuit of perfection." A pursuit that was now being unfairly passed down without consideration of the bold and youthful Atticus’s feelings on the matter. Still, he was a good kid and did as he was told.
Sure enough, the lectures only proved to Atticus that it was his place in life to become filled with determination and to use that trait to make himself ever more capable. He might never become the master carpenter his great-grandfather was, nor become nearly as decorated a soldier as his grandfather was anytime soon, but perfection of multiplication tables was doable at the very least. Furiously impatient, his father's frustration growing with each of Atticus's failures, John now loomed over the eight year old boy waiting for him to make even the slightest mistake. Right on time Atticus stumbled on a question, pausing on his nines and erroneously putting down the wrong answer. The paper was ripped from beneath his writing hand and the fortieth attempt would begin with nothing but a crumple and huff from John. Sometimes it felt as though Papa John only cared when Atticus made mistakes, and never when he got the answers right.
"Again," his father grunted. With much trepidation and a bounty of devotion, this endeavor would go on for nearly four hours with John giving in well before Atticus had mastered anything. After eating a hot lunch, refusing to go outside to play with his friends and losing out on his only chance to watch cartoons and westerns on their brand new colored television, Atticus would finally produce a piece of paper with the results his father had desired. Absolute perfection in the form of clean multiplication tables. One-hundred and forty-four answers each written to fill a twelve by twelve grid that would forever be seared into the deepest parts of young Wade's mind. A developed ability he would come to rely on for the rest of his life.
Evasive Maneuvers (WC = 1012)
Reducio
"I've been waiting to kick your ass all week, Wade," the older boy said, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel while the significantly scrawnier Atticus writhed against the static force provided by his ‘friends.’ The way he saw it, they were just housemates who didn't want to open the can of ass whooping the bully was intent on delivering to him. Still, they had played their part in his demise, so Atticus blamed them no less for holding him back. He wanted to cuss them out just as much as they had cursed him. Holding his tongue, Atticus stood there, his arms gripped tight by the boys. He was prepared for a slug or two to come his way. Mostly he was wishing he had found a better way to keep his own mouth shut before now. If he were so blessed, he could stop writing checks his hind end couldn’t cash. A trait that had no doubt had earned him a handful of "time outs" from his father and a more than fair share of black eyes from his peers. The only question he had was: "What did I get myself into this week?"
The boy planned on punching Atticus in the stomach, fist swinging around like a mill with the full force of winding back his arm. It was clear this beating was meant to make a dramatic display of the fiendish Wade. He had considered that the beating was mostly in the hopes that others would learn the lesson this bully was teaching without the need to evangelize. "Shoulda left my mama's cooking out of your mouth Wade," the upperclassman said, teeth gritted as he prepared to strike him yet again. Ok then, this really was going to be a foolish fight after all.
Wade hadn't really meant to insult his mother's capabilities, instead his intent was to correct an otherwise imperfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. Of course that didn't stop his rival from taking it as a slight against the family name. It seemed like cooking was already a sensitive topic in their household from what Atticus could tell. What with all the violence it incurred. Truth would’ve found them arm in arm had the two talked it out, as it wasn't much different in his own home. If anything, it was probably why he'd subconsciously picked this exact fight. This bully was some kind of reflection of Atticus, but there would be more time to look in a mirror after the damage was done.
The first punch was brief and to the point. Shortly after heaving over, the blow was followed by a second, which ploughed into him only moments before the third and fourth wracked his body with pain. Having taken one to the face, an injury he hoped didn’t leave a mark, the bully must have been feeling unusually kind that day, so he landed the others on Wade's ribs and chest. Wade figured it must've been pity, pity at the way he took the blows silently without crying out that drove the two "friends" of his rival to let him go. Only now that they’d let him go, he found himself without the strength to stand. Thus his knees sunk into the rubber chips that covered the playground's surface. Still, a name of mud and two eyes like fire, Wade had set his heart on being mowed down like grass and was no less clever about achieving his goals. The goons’ release of his person hadn't stopped the bigger boy from his bout of verbal diarrhea however, so Atticus kept on listening. As soon as his ears quit ringing of course. "Go ahead Wade. Cry uncle. Cry uncle and I'll let you go." Atticus, looking beat to shit, stood back up on his own two feet. It did seem to surprise the older boy at first, and was enough to make the crowd of lookie-loos grow silent. At least silent long enough for Atticus to get his own words in. Cutting was his intent.
"What's the matter?" Atticus grunted abysmally, blood dripping from a broken nose and ribs aching with the throb of his frantic heartbeat. He felt like his chest might explode, but continued on in defiance and spite. "Can't take the same licking you hand out? What are ya? A wuss?" He smirked, despite the pain. A flash of white peeked out from behind the crimson painting on his face. "You a chick-en?" It was an obvious attempt to goad him into swinging, but what else did he have to work with? The boy was bigger, meaner, and had ‘friends’ to back him up. Wade needed to make the best of his "guts", if only just to survive with his honor intact. Yet here his “guts” were, spilling out of his face at an alarming rate. Sure enough the other boy, outraged by Atticus's fowl language, swung his hands like a ham on a hook. The blow caught Atticus in the ear and sent him spinning backwards into the dirt. Sometimes, learning how to avoid a fight altogether was better than learning to evade the attack itself.
Standing back up, albeit dizzy and likely concussed, Atticus somehow managed to turn off the crimson spigot his nose had become. Putting his dukes back up in front of his face to protect himself once more, he took a step forward. If there was any question that he was determined to fight until his dying breath, the bully kept it to himself. At least until the teachers intervened. Pushing onwards past the pain, another ham-fisted swing lined itself up with Atticus's jawline in mirror-like fashion. This time Wade had seen it coming and ducked, lowering his form just in the nick of time. Wade would have swung back if not for the rage-blind attempt of his assailant striking a Professorsquare in the groin. Instead, the cowboy kid collapsed in a pulplike heap on the ground. He was exhausted and beat to shit, but at least he could still laugh at the misfortunes of others.
The boy planned on punching Atticus in the stomach, fist swinging around like a mill with the full force of winding back his arm. It was clear this beating was meant to make a dramatic display of the fiendish Wade. He had considered that the beating was mostly in the hopes that others would learn the lesson this bully was teaching without the need to evangelize. "Shoulda left my mama's cooking out of your mouth Wade," the upperclassman said, teeth gritted as he prepared to strike him yet again. Ok then, this really was going to be a foolish fight after all.
Wade hadn't really meant to insult his mother's capabilities, instead his intent was to correct an otherwise imperfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. Of course that didn't stop his rival from taking it as a slight against the family name. It seemed like cooking was already a sensitive topic in their household from what Atticus could tell. What with all the violence it incurred. Truth would’ve found them arm in arm had the two talked it out, as it wasn't much different in his own home. If anything, it was probably why he'd subconsciously picked this exact fight. This bully was some kind of reflection of Atticus, but there would be more time to look in a mirror after the damage was done.
The first punch was brief and to the point. Shortly after heaving over, the blow was followed by a second, which ploughed into him only moments before the third and fourth wracked his body with pain. Having taken one to the face, an injury he hoped didn’t leave a mark, the bully must have been feeling unusually kind that day, so he landed the others on Wade's ribs and chest. Wade figured it must've been pity, pity at the way he took the blows silently without crying out that drove the two "friends" of his rival to let him go. Only now that they’d let him go, he found himself without the strength to stand. Thus his knees sunk into the rubber chips that covered the playground's surface. Still, a name of mud and two eyes like fire, Wade had set his heart on being mowed down like grass and was no less clever about achieving his goals. The goons’ release of his person hadn't stopped the bigger boy from his bout of verbal diarrhea however, so Atticus kept on listening. As soon as his ears quit ringing of course. "Go ahead Wade. Cry uncle. Cry uncle and I'll let you go." Atticus, looking beat to shit, stood back up on his own two feet. It did seem to surprise the older boy at first, and was enough to make the crowd of lookie-loos grow silent. At least silent long enough for Atticus to get his own words in. Cutting was his intent.
"What's the matter?" Atticus grunted abysmally, blood dripping from a broken nose and ribs aching with the throb of his frantic heartbeat. He felt like his chest might explode, but continued on in defiance and spite. "Can't take the same licking you hand out? What are ya? A wuss?" He smirked, despite the pain. A flash of white peeked out from behind the crimson painting on his face. "You a chick-en?" It was an obvious attempt to goad him into swinging, but what else did he have to work with? The boy was bigger, meaner, and had ‘friends’ to back him up. Wade needed to make the best of his "guts", if only just to survive with his honor intact. Yet here his “guts” were, spilling out of his face at an alarming rate. Sure enough the other boy, outraged by Atticus's fowl language, swung his hands like a ham on a hook. The blow caught Atticus in the ear and sent him spinning backwards into the dirt. Sometimes, learning how to avoid a fight altogether was better than learning to evade the attack itself.
Standing back up, albeit dizzy and likely concussed, Atticus somehow managed to turn off the crimson spigot his nose had become. Putting his dukes back up in front of his face to protect himself once more, he took a step forward. If there was any question that he was determined to fight until his dying breath, the bully kept it to himself. At least until the teachers intervened. Pushing onwards past the pain, another ham-fisted swing lined itself up with Atticus's jawline in mirror-like fashion. This time Wade had seen it coming and ducked, lowering his form just in the nick of time. Wade would have swung back if not for the rage-blind attempt of his assailant striking a Professorsquare in the groin. Instead, the cowboy kid collapsed in a pulplike heap on the ground. He was exhausted and beat to shit, but at least he could still laugh at the misfortunes of others.
Perfectionist (2nd) (WC = 804)
Reducio
When he wasn't busy stirring up trouble, getting into fist fights, or at home working on the family ranch, Atticus was deep in his studies doing exactly what was expected of him. Often the topic of debate behind his back was his birth to a no-maj family. That meant he had something to prove. He pushed himself so hard because of a deep reserve, or an inner-drive. Whispers had a way of begging for attention, but Atticus paid the whisperers none. Caring very little for cliques, bloodlines, or any of the politics associated with either, the boy had avoided discussions of all three like a cat avoids water. Anytime he became pressed as to why he spent so much time and effort on improving his schoolwork, the boy clammed up, putting emotional barriers between him and his feelings. It was in his best interest to explain it in as few words as possible. He would say it simply. "I want to be the best there ever was." Now it was understandable that in order to strive for perfection, he had to stay humble. Otherwise he would never realize his own mistakes. There were still some days where his pride had its time in the parade though, make no mistake about it. One summer in particular, holding onto pride would go on to become his first big mistake. Perfectionists had always despised mistakes.
Being the best there is, at anything, was never so simple a feat as it was said to be, and it was certainly never as easily done even if it was often asked after. There were many things Atticus elected to give up during his formative years at school. These "sacrifices," looking back, were a necessary evil to ensure that he spent every moment available bettering himself instead of becoming distracted. "No distractions," he would say in the quiet respite of his mind. He reminded himself as often as possible, sometimes even mimicking the voice of his father. It was as much a weaponized reminder leveraged against himself as it was a deterrent to those who got too close for his comfort. There were school dances rife with drama that only teenage angst could produce. He had missed those in favor of charms. Instead of stoking the flames, the fiery passion of his youthful spirit smoldered in secret like embers at the bottom of a bonfire just waiting for the coals to be reinvigorated by love. Love would elude him until late into his adult years. There were girls and boys his age whose birthday invitations received no second thoughts and were discarded all too hastily. Even those "close" friends, friends who certainly never heard from him when it mattered, were a necessary sacrifice for his selfish desire to be the best. Of all the things Atticus had sacrificed, none were so important as his own dreams. Yes. Even those had been put aside for his truest calling, for the dreams of a boy were fickle, but the ambition of a student had made him into a man.
Always slaving away to the betterment of himself, despite the inflation of “self-improvement” costs, Atticus would recite his formulas in his sleep and spend his youth reading his textbooks during every waking hour. Endlessly pursuing his higher calling, "destiny” as some liked to call it, was what he had ambition for. Weeks of practicing the wand motions came after each spell being taught, and the midnight oil burned every time Latin roots for a new incantation were discovered. He had learned that when the two weren't enough to motivate him into action, painfully intrusive thoughts would come along soon enough. It was those thoughts that drove him towards the push for perfection all that much harder. Sometimes these words came in the form of his own displeasure, other times they came in the form of his father’s disappointment. Disappointment for having such high expectations.
Regardless of the method of it all, the push would surprisingly pay off in the end. Atticus had been named top student of his graduating class, despite his miniscule involvement with his peers and community. Learning had not come easy, and if it had been the opposite, not one of them could claim otherwise. They would never know what he had sacrificed, nor what it meant to be his own man. But then that was the purpose with which he set himself into life. Undeniable perfection. Not once had a Wade graduated any kind college with the honorifics of young Atticus's caliber, let alone a wizarding one. Yet this was exactly when he would realize his greatest fears. It turned out, his pursuit of perfection had put his accomplishments ahead of his father’s. Something that would unexpectedly earn John’s ire, and see the young Wade's worst fears realized. Parental disappointment.
Being the best there is, at anything, was never so simple a feat as it was said to be, and it was certainly never as easily done even if it was often asked after. There were many things Atticus elected to give up during his formative years at school. These "sacrifices," looking back, were a necessary evil to ensure that he spent every moment available bettering himself instead of becoming distracted. "No distractions," he would say in the quiet respite of his mind. He reminded himself as often as possible, sometimes even mimicking the voice of his father. It was as much a weaponized reminder leveraged against himself as it was a deterrent to those who got too close for his comfort. There were school dances rife with drama that only teenage angst could produce. He had missed those in favor of charms. Instead of stoking the flames, the fiery passion of his youthful spirit smoldered in secret like embers at the bottom of a bonfire just waiting for the coals to be reinvigorated by love. Love would elude him until late into his adult years. There were girls and boys his age whose birthday invitations received no second thoughts and were discarded all too hastily. Even those "close" friends, friends who certainly never heard from him when it mattered, were a necessary sacrifice for his selfish desire to be the best. Of all the things Atticus had sacrificed, none were so important as his own dreams. Yes. Even those had been put aside for his truest calling, for the dreams of a boy were fickle, but the ambition of a student had made him into a man.
Always slaving away to the betterment of himself, despite the inflation of “self-improvement” costs, Atticus would recite his formulas in his sleep and spend his youth reading his textbooks during every waking hour. Endlessly pursuing his higher calling, "destiny” as some liked to call it, was what he had ambition for. Weeks of practicing the wand motions came after each spell being taught, and the midnight oil burned every time Latin roots for a new incantation were discovered. He had learned that when the two weren't enough to motivate him into action, painfully intrusive thoughts would come along soon enough. It was those thoughts that drove him towards the push for perfection all that much harder. Sometimes these words came in the form of his own displeasure, other times they came in the form of his father’s disappointment. Disappointment for having such high expectations.
Regardless of the method of it all, the push would surprisingly pay off in the end. Atticus had been named top student of his graduating class, despite his miniscule involvement with his peers and community. Learning had not come easy, and if it had been the opposite, not one of them could claim otherwise. They would never know what he had sacrificed, nor what it meant to be his own man. But then that was the purpose with which he set himself into life. Undeniable perfection. Not once had a Wade graduated any kind college with the honorifics of young Atticus's caliber, let alone a wizarding one. Yet this was exactly when he would realize his greatest fears. It turned out, his pursuit of perfection had put his accomplishments ahead of his father’s. Something that would unexpectedly earn John’s ire, and see the young Wade's worst fears realized. Parental disappointment.
Fearless (WC = 1115)
Reducio
Upon graduating Ilvermorny, an honorific never before held in his family, Atticus would return home to the family ranch in New York. Shortly after his return home, he received a private invitation to serve his country's Magical Congress. It was something he had kept from his father, a secret the two would never share. His options for the future had all been laid out in front of him. With his heart still undecided, he would stay home a little while longer, if only to better understand the decision ahead of him. If asked he would say that time was taken so that his mind, heavily burdened by thoughts, could sort out the future. If he had been honest with himself, it should have been time spent sorting out his feelings. His options were twofold. He could serve one of the greatest institutions of their time by enlisting as a hit wizard during one of the most turbulent political eras of the twentieth century, or he could settle down and become an upstate New York rancher. The choice was obvious to anyone with even a shred of exposure to Atticus's potential as a wizard but then there was his father, John.
John found it all too convenient and hard to believe that his son had outdone him at such a young age and his envy would soon begin to tear them apart. Not that John had really ever understood what Atticus had been doing all this time, because Atticus had never told him. A trait he learned from his father. It wasn't long after he returned home before the grievances started being hung out to dry one by one. It certainly didn’t help that each individual complaint from his father had to be painstakingly dragged out into the open, kicking and screaming like the devil in church. It didn’t help that each incident was addressed as though it were a matter fit for a court of law, his father acting as if he was a plaintiff lawyer. It was exhausting to say the very least. With Mama out to pasture, influenza combined with the refusal of magical cures having taken her just last year, John and Atticus were already at each other's throats by the third week of his extended stay at home. Still, Atticus would weigh his options carefully. This was the only life he'd known.
After one fight having gone from a shouting match to silent resentment, the issue finally came to a head when Atticus, defiant of tradition, put his boots up on the oaken antique table that the two sat to the side of. Naturally, John exploded in a fit of rage, shaken by the contempt his own son displayed. "After all we've done Atticus. After all you've done and everything you’ve put our family through. You disrespect my grandfather. YOUR OWN NAMESAKE, ATTICUS." John shouted at him violently, shoving the young man's boots from the table with a grunt. Pain was clear as day in his expression. "I don't know nearly as much as I'd like to about this ‘prestigious academy’ you've been attending, and I certainly don't believe you've become accustomed to the lifestyle I've taught you to expect and maintain." That last part had cut deep, severing the final bit of thread that bound Atticus to his father and sent him reeling emotionally. After all he’d done to please him, he still didn’t trust him.
Neither of them were particularly well equipped to handle the emotional fallout that came next. "Well pops,” he said in a mocking tone, “if that's the way you want to be about it then I'll just see myself out the door." Atticus, his mustache still fledgling, pointed his wand to his duffle bag and commanded it to ‘pack.’ The look on John's face as Atticus broke the laws of his universe was priceless. Never had John seen Atticus perform magic up close and personal. Never before had he believed his son capable of miracles. Until he saw it with his own eyes. That look of awestruck anger was more than enough to take whatever punishment the authorities had in store for him. It was likely a little slap on the wrist for acting out, if anything at all.
Leaving his entire life behind him, bag over his shoulder, Atticus produced the ring of keys belonging to the old chevy from one of his pants pockets as John waddled after him out of breath. Clearly his back had been broken from the labor of keeping the ranch running by his lonesome, but the resentment between them would ensure neither would see it healed. "Wait Atti," he said, completely changing his tune and pitch on the dime. This time he was a whole mess more than half-apologetic. His voice was saddened by their exchange of tempers. "I didn't mean it. I was only..." Atticus would cut him off before the old man could finish his sentence. Even then, he was still unable to look him in the eye. "I know pops, you miss the old life,” He would pause for a moment, carefully choosing his next words. Ultimately, he decided to leave his mother out of this before continuing on with certainty that he was doing the right thing. “But sticking around to be your whipping boy just ain't it for me no more." Taking off his hat before ducking into the cab, Atticus sat in the driver’s seat of the orange pickup and gave the keys a good twist. The engine roared to life and rumbled over the sounds of his father's disapproval.
"Atti, I'm begging you, wait, please." John beckoned. It was too late. The damage was irreparably done.Atticus's windows were already halfway rolled up. Once more Atticus had to put up walls to block out the pain. Willie Nelson was already blaring on the radio as the car came to life, but it didn’t do much to comfort him. Putting his hat back on his head, Wade pulled the brim down giving his father a disrespectful and all too dismissive goodbye, causing his father to lash out once more. "Well fine then!" John cried out in exasperation, producing a hanky to cover his mouth as he wheezed. "Go on then. Leave me here all alone. You're no son of mine!" Just like that, the bridge had been burned. Although Willie's tunes had always managed to put Atticus into a good mood, there was something about facing his worst fears which left him feeling a bit numb inside. He would never again fear the disappointment of others so long as he lived. Especially not after giving up on pleasing his father.
John found it all too convenient and hard to believe that his son had outdone him at such a young age and his envy would soon begin to tear them apart. Not that John had really ever understood what Atticus had been doing all this time, because Atticus had never told him. A trait he learned from his father. It wasn't long after he returned home before the grievances started being hung out to dry one by one. It certainly didn’t help that each individual complaint from his father had to be painstakingly dragged out into the open, kicking and screaming like the devil in church. It didn’t help that each incident was addressed as though it were a matter fit for a court of law, his father acting as if he was a plaintiff lawyer. It was exhausting to say the very least. With Mama out to pasture, influenza combined with the refusal of magical cures having taken her just last year, John and Atticus were already at each other's throats by the third week of his extended stay at home. Still, Atticus would weigh his options carefully. This was the only life he'd known.
After one fight having gone from a shouting match to silent resentment, the issue finally came to a head when Atticus, defiant of tradition, put his boots up on the oaken antique table that the two sat to the side of. Naturally, John exploded in a fit of rage, shaken by the contempt his own son displayed. "After all we've done Atticus. After all you've done and everything you’ve put our family through. You disrespect my grandfather. YOUR OWN NAMESAKE, ATTICUS." John shouted at him violently, shoving the young man's boots from the table with a grunt. Pain was clear as day in his expression. "I don't know nearly as much as I'd like to about this ‘prestigious academy’ you've been attending, and I certainly don't believe you've become accustomed to the lifestyle I've taught you to expect and maintain." That last part had cut deep, severing the final bit of thread that bound Atticus to his father and sent him reeling emotionally. After all he’d done to please him, he still didn’t trust him.
Neither of them were particularly well equipped to handle the emotional fallout that came next. "Well pops,” he said in a mocking tone, “if that's the way you want to be about it then I'll just see myself out the door." Atticus, his mustache still fledgling, pointed his wand to his duffle bag and commanded it to ‘pack.’ The look on John's face as Atticus broke the laws of his universe was priceless. Never had John seen Atticus perform magic up close and personal. Never before had he believed his son capable of miracles. Until he saw it with his own eyes. That look of awestruck anger was more than enough to take whatever punishment the authorities had in store for him. It was likely a little slap on the wrist for acting out, if anything at all.
Leaving his entire life behind him, bag over his shoulder, Atticus produced the ring of keys belonging to the old chevy from one of his pants pockets as John waddled after him out of breath. Clearly his back had been broken from the labor of keeping the ranch running by his lonesome, but the resentment between them would ensure neither would see it healed. "Wait Atti," he said, completely changing his tune and pitch on the dime. This time he was a whole mess more than half-apologetic. His voice was saddened by their exchange of tempers. "I didn't mean it. I was only..." Atticus would cut him off before the old man could finish his sentence. Even then, he was still unable to look him in the eye. "I know pops, you miss the old life,” He would pause for a moment, carefully choosing his next words. Ultimately, he decided to leave his mother out of this before continuing on with certainty that he was doing the right thing. “But sticking around to be your whipping boy just ain't it for me no more." Taking off his hat before ducking into the cab, Atticus sat in the driver’s seat of the orange pickup and gave the keys a good twist. The engine roared to life and rumbled over the sounds of his father's disapproval.
"Atti, I'm begging you, wait, please." John beckoned. It was too late. The damage was irreparably done.Atticus's windows were already halfway rolled up. Once more Atticus had to put up walls to block out the pain. Willie Nelson was already blaring on the radio as the car came to life, but it didn’t do much to comfort him. Putting his hat back on his head, Wade pulled the brim down giving his father a disrespectful and all too dismissive goodbye, causing his father to lash out once more. "Well fine then!" John cried out in exasperation, producing a hanky to cover his mouth as he wheezed. "Go on then. Leave me here all alone. You're no son of mine!" Just like that, the bridge had been burned. Although Willie's tunes had always managed to put Atticus into a good mood, there was something about facing his worst fears which left him feeling a bit numb inside. He would never again fear the disappointment of others so long as he lived. Especially not after giving up on pleasing his father.
Animagus (WC = 888)
Reducio
A month had come and gone in the blink of an eye. Silent for the entire time, Atticus underwent the procedure as prescribed by the MACUSA agent in charge of helping him make his transition. He had finally learned how to keep his damned mouth shut. Holding the mandrake leaf in his mouth for thirty days, Atticus was no longer a stranger to patience. The process was one he had volunteered for. Suffice it to say that an intense amount of time had been poured into this ritual and so it would track that a lot of anxiety now rested upon Wade's shoulders. Opening the envelope on the table in front of him, Atticus spilled the contents out gently. All of his focus was directed at making double sure none of the items were missing, damaged, or otherwise tainted by ineptitude. Twice before the pair had attempted this ritual and twice before they had failed for one reason or another. Tonight, not a cloud was in sight and that got them both to thinking it would work. As luck would have it, their hopes weren’t for naught.
Gently taking the phial and placing it within the full brunt of the moon's pale light, Atticus spewed the leaf into it unceremoniously. He had done this enough times now to forget about the ceremony and had begun treating it like science. The acrid aftertaste left his mouth alkaline. Taking the teaspoon of silvered dew in his hand, Atticus carefully set it to one side. Next, he retrieved the death's-head hawkmoth chrysalis from its carefully wrapped tissue paper coating. The first time he had been tasked with collecting one of these, he had travelled all the way to Asia. The second and third time he'd gone to Africa and Europe respectively. Travel was much easier with a portkey than it was on the U.S. interstate. Especially speaking as a New Yorker. Having spit the sweet, acidic leaf out into the phial, the young hit wizard then added the other ingredients in the correct order. All without hesitation. There was a reason he'd been hand-picked for this transition and it wasn't because he was prone to making mistakes!
Supervising the whole affair, lest he make some terrible mistake that turned him into something more grisly, the MACUSA agent mentoring him motioned towards the heavy steamer trunk in the back of the room. Putting the potion away in the secure trunk, Atticus and the agent both knew it would remain in the attic of this government paid apartment until the time was right. They were sealing it until the weather took a turn for the worse. Atticus and his supervisor would look to one another and nod in agreement. Seven days and nights would pass between the storing of the potion and an electrical storm. At each dawn and at each sunset Atticus repeated the incantation he now knew by memory. "Amato Amino Animato Animagus." After each incantation, the wizard would place the tip of his wand to his chest, pointing to where his heart was. After each incantation, his heart would race with the thrill and excitement of what he was doing. He was pioneering his path towards the future. A future that many of the other wizards who came after him would one day embrace. It was his legacy, sort of.
On the night of the storm, a blustering gale accompanied by the heat of midsummer, thunder would emerge with the familiar crackle of a streaking light. A storm that caused brownouts was no small event, but it was atypically fortuitous. At the start of this tempest, every hair on Atticus Wade's body stood on end. Tingling with anticipation, his hands and feet would become uncharacteristically frantic on his way home. This was it, he just knew it. Rushing, Atticus would climb into the spacious attic where he had stored the trunk. His supervisor was not far behind, arriving a few moments later. Safe in the seclusion of his abode, Atticus retrieved the key from its hiding place and with much trepidation he opened the trunk revealing the final results of his painstaking labor in the process. The Animagus Potion. Pulling a nearby chair over to where he stood, his guest locked the door to the attic at the same time. Atticus recited the incantation one final time. He was unsure of exactly what was going to happen. "Amato Amino Animato Animagus" he chanted, all before removing the stopper from the phial. He then drank the potion down in one looooong gulp.
What happened next was considered a resounding success by many. A fruitful experiment after several long and arduous months of failed experimentation after failed trial applicant. They had finally done it. He had finally done it! Together with some of MACUSA's most brilliant minds, Atticus Wade had become an Animagus. More specifically, an adorable Liver Border Collie. Some say that the research one puts into the process of becoming an Animagus prepares them for the form that they will end up taking. Others say that the essence of the wizard takes the form of the animal. For Atticus, it took the strength to survive when the world was out to get him and the tenacity not to give into despair. That. and the thrill of a good chase.
1. Wizard Name: Atticus Liam Wade
2. Animal: Liver Border Collie
3. Distinctive Marking: Thick black eyebrows, whiskers like a mustache, and a red bandana tied around his neck.
Gently taking the phial and placing it within the full brunt of the moon's pale light, Atticus spewed the leaf into it unceremoniously. He had done this enough times now to forget about the ceremony and had begun treating it like science. The acrid aftertaste left his mouth alkaline. Taking the teaspoon of silvered dew in his hand, Atticus carefully set it to one side. Next, he retrieved the death's-head hawkmoth chrysalis from its carefully wrapped tissue paper coating. The first time he had been tasked with collecting one of these, he had travelled all the way to Asia. The second and third time he'd gone to Africa and Europe respectively. Travel was much easier with a portkey than it was on the U.S. interstate. Especially speaking as a New Yorker. Having spit the sweet, acidic leaf out into the phial, the young hit wizard then added the other ingredients in the correct order. All without hesitation. There was a reason he'd been hand-picked for this transition and it wasn't because he was prone to making mistakes!
Supervising the whole affair, lest he make some terrible mistake that turned him into something more grisly, the MACUSA agent mentoring him motioned towards the heavy steamer trunk in the back of the room. Putting the potion away in the secure trunk, Atticus and the agent both knew it would remain in the attic of this government paid apartment until the time was right. They were sealing it until the weather took a turn for the worse. Atticus and his supervisor would look to one another and nod in agreement. Seven days and nights would pass between the storing of the potion and an electrical storm. At each dawn and at each sunset Atticus repeated the incantation he now knew by memory. "Amato Amino Animato Animagus." After each incantation, the wizard would place the tip of his wand to his chest, pointing to where his heart was. After each incantation, his heart would race with the thrill and excitement of what he was doing. He was pioneering his path towards the future. A future that many of the other wizards who came after him would one day embrace. It was his legacy, sort of.
On the night of the storm, a blustering gale accompanied by the heat of midsummer, thunder would emerge with the familiar crackle of a streaking light. A storm that caused brownouts was no small event, but it was atypically fortuitous. At the start of this tempest, every hair on Atticus Wade's body stood on end. Tingling with anticipation, his hands and feet would become uncharacteristically frantic on his way home. This was it, he just knew it. Rushing, Atticus would climb into the spacious attic where he had stored the trunk. His supervisor was not far behind, arriving a few moments later. Safe in the seclusion of his abode, Atticus retrieved the key from its hiding place and with much trepidation he opened the trunk revealing the final results of his painstaking labor in the process. The Animagus Potion. Pulling a nearby chair over to where he stood, his guest locked the door to the attic at the same time. Atticus recited the incantation one final time. He was unsure of exactly what was going to happen. "Amato Amino Animato Animagus" he chanted, all before removing the stopper from the phial. He then drank the potion down in one looooong gulp.
What happened next was considered a resounding success by many. A fruitful experiment after several long and arduous months of failed experimentation after failed trial applicant. They had finally done it. He had finally done it! Together with some of MACUSA's most brilliant minds, Atticus Wade had become an Animagus. More specifically, an adorable Liver Border Collie. Some say that the research one puts into the process of becoming an Animagus prepares them for the form that they will end up taking. Others say that the essence of the wizard takes the form of the animal. For Atticus, it took the strength to survive when the world was out to get him and the tenacity not to give into despair. That. and the thrill of a good chase.
1. Wizard Name: Atticus Liam Wade
2. Animal: Liver Border Collie
3. Distinctive Marking: Thick black eyebrows, whiskers like a mustache, and a red bandana tied around his neck.
Evasive Maneuvers (2nd) (WC = 1100)
Reducio
It wasn’t long after his successful transition into an animagus that Atticus Wade found himself between another rock and a hard place. What should have been a simple in and out reconnaissance mission was now turning into a shoot out. “So be it,” he thought as the first rounds of weaponized magic flew towards his backside. Did I mention he was running for cover? Rounding the corner of the building, Wade managed to dodge behind the corner, just narrowly avoiding a hex or two. “So what’s the plan?” He asked himself mentally, unsure of exactly how but prepared to do whatever it took to get out of this one alive. Protocol said to call for backup first, but a feeling in his gut told him it was a better idea to get an eye on the source of all his worries first. Peeking his head around the corner, Atticus saw the three fugitives clearly for the first time since he’d hightailed it. “An ambush,” he thought. So, they had been expecting him. One stood atop the roof, waiting for Atticus to edge out while keeping an eye on the others. Two more of them were working their way towards his position from behind nearly complete and total cover. One, of course, had resorted to shouting ridiculous taunts in Wade’s direction. Taunts Atticus neither paid mind nor lent feelings to. Because if anything, what he was about to do should earn him a medal.
“So this is it huh?” He thought to himself, joking at his own feelings turning a tad sour. “The tale of Atticus Wade. A thirty something hit wizard to be erased from history the moment his life leaves his body.” Something told him he was going to find a better way, something that egged him on. A part of him that was willing to prove himself wrong. He reckoned that if either one of those fugitives rolled around the corner, it would be in his best interest to have his wand ready to do its job, so he pulled the thing from its sheath on his hip. A deep, repressed feeling that he’d all but forgotten about sparked once more as he retrieved it. Love for those he was probably about to die protecting. Rallying after deciding that the insult they’d slung at him was enough proof of character to face justice, Atticus stepped out into the open. His wand was held threateningly in front of him. A bit of courage was all he had ever needed, the courage to take a blow so that he might strike one. “Hands where I can see ‘em!” He started, every bit as confident as a man who thinks he was going to save them all some trouble. Only they didn’t care for his saving. They only cared about making some trouble, so they fired upon him with haste. Sparks flying in every direction but true, Atticus did a sick somersault across the street landing in the opposite side’s alley completely unscathed. Well, except for the bruise the somersault was going to leave on his hind end.
Checking his shirt for scorch holes and his body for blisters, Atticus’s pat down ended when he confirmed he hadn’t been hit by a single shot. It was either a miracle in disguise or that wicked somersault across the pavement. Either way, he was glad to be alive and not as worried about tangling three versus one now that he had gone the distance. It lingered for a moment. The thought that the protocol said to call and wait for backup. To send a flare into the sky for his support and to wait in place until the dust settled. For the second time today, he would not follow protocol but rather instead listen to his gut. Prepared once more to confront them, he whipped himself out from behind the hind end of the building and pointed his wand at the first. “Expelliarmus,” he incanted without delay, disarming the vagabond and sending his wand sailing through the air. It looked like it had fallen down a sewer grate. “Good luck getting that one back,” he said smugly with a shit-eating grin. Fight unfinished, the second of the fugitives would bound into full frontal view of the alleyway providing Atticus with cover. Looking convinced he’d gotten the jump on Atticus, the crook’s face twisted with confusion when he realized he hadn’t. “Flippendo,” Atticus casted, fully intent on knocking one into the other like wizard pinballs. It surprised all three of them when it worked, giving Atticus enough time and peace to make for the next of his opponents. He hadn’t planned on making any arrests, but hell, why shouldn’t he? He would incarcerata both before they could stand their ground again. Taking cover behind a nearby car, Atticus kept a vigilant eye out for the last of the three. Peering from behind the sedan that gave him shelter, Atticus scanned the roof where he’d spotted the last of the fugitive wizards providing overwatch just moments ago. “Gone?” he muttered under his breath, just barely audible but still confused at the disappearing act.
“Not even in the slightest. Pig,” a rough voice calmly spoke back, impolitely answering his question in the process. Without even turning his head, Wade felt the pressure of a wand’s point pressed to the back of his neck. “Fair’s fair,” he relented. “You’ve got me,'' Atticus said, letting his wand dangle from his fingertips. “Don’t do anything rash now,” he reasoned before dropping the focus to the ground. “We wouldn’t want you to end up on anyone’s most wanted list would we?” Ultimately, he would bargain for more time to tell death ‘no’. “I see no reason the three of us can’t come to a compromise.” Whatever was happening behind him sounded like agreement, but he wasn’t looking for a compromise anymore. They’d already had their opportunity to give up earlier. Now it was time for cold hard justice. Taking the chance to strike his blow, Atticus let himself slip to the ground. In the process the killer’s Avada just narrowly missed him. By the time the fugitive could bring his wand to bear on Atticus again, the slippery devil had his wand pressed to their navel. Drawing a quick loop he spoke aloud, “langlock,” and stuck the bandit’s tongue to the roof of his mouth before giving him a mighty rising uppercut that knocked him out cold. The amount of civilians watching told Atticus that the obliviators were going to have a field day with this one. He was right.
“So this is it huh?” He thought to himself, joking at his own feelings turning a tad sour. “The tale of Atticus Wade. A thirty something hit wizard to be erased from history the moment his life leaves his body.” Something told him he was going to find a better way, something that egged him on. A part of him that was willing to prove himself wrong. He reckoned that if either one of those fugitives rolled around the corner, it would be in his best interest to have his wand ready to do its job, so he pulled the thing from its sheath on his hip. A deep, repressed feeling that he’d all but forgotten about sparked once more as he retrieved it. Love for those he was probably about to die protecting. Rallying after deciding that the insult they’d slung at him was enough proof of character to face justice, Atticus stepped out into the open. His wand was held threateningly in front of him. A bit of courage was all he had ever needed, the courage to take a blow so that he might strike one. “Hands where I can see ‘em!” He started, every bit as confident as a man who thinks he was going to save them all some trouble. Only they didn’t care for his saving. They only cared about making some trouble, so they fired upon him with haste. Sparks flying in every direction but true, Atticus did a sick somersault across the street landing in the opposite side’s alley completely unscathed. Well, except for the bruise the somersault was going to leave on his hind end.
Checking his shirt for scorch holes and his body for blisters, Atticus’s pat down ended when he confirmed he hadn’t been hit by a single shot. It was either a miracle in disguise or that wicked somersault across the pavement. Either way, he was glad to be alive and not as worried about tangling three versus one now that he had gone the distance. It lingered for a moment. The thought that the protocol said to call and wait for backup. To send a flare into the sky for his support and to wait in place until the dust settled. For the second time today, he would not follow protocol but rather instead listen to his gut. Prepared once more to confront them, he whipped himself out from behind the hind end of the building and pointed his wand at the first. “Expelliarmus,” he incanted without delay, disarming the vagabond and sending his wand sailing through the air. It looked like it had fallen down a sewer grate. “Good luck getting that one back,” he said smugly with a shit-eating grin. Fight unfinished, the second of the fugitives would bound into full frontal view of the alleyway providing Atticus with cover. Looking convinced he’d gotten the jump on Atticus, the crook’s face twisted with confusion when he realized he hadn’t. “Flippendo,” Atticus casted, fully intent on knocking one into the other like wizard pinballs. It surprised all three of them when it worked, giving Atticus enough time and peace to make for the next of his opponents. He hadn’t planned on making any arrests, but hell, why shouldn’t he? He would incarcerata both before they could stand their ground again. Taking cover behind a nearby car, Atticus kept a vigilant eye out for the last of the three. Peering from behind the sedan that gave him shelter, Atticus scanned the roof where he’d spotted the last of the fugitive wizards providing overwatch just moments ago. “Gone?” he muttered under his breath, just barely audible but still confused at the disappearing act.
“Not even in the slightest. Pig,” a rough voice calmly spoke back, impolitely answering his question in the process. Without even turning his head, Wade felt the pressure of a wand’s point pressed to the back of his neck. “Fair’s fair,” he relented. “You’ve got me,'' Atticus said, letting his wand dangle from his fingertips. “Don’t do anything rash now,” he reasoned before dropping the focus to the ground. “We wouldn’t want you to end up on anyone’s most wanted list would we?” Ultimately, he would bargain for more time to tell death ‘no’. “I see no reason the three of us can’t come to a compromise.” Whatever was happening behind him sounded like agreement, but he wasn’t looking for a compromise anymore. They’d already had their opportunity to give up earlier. Now it was time for cold hard justice. Taking the chance to strike his blow, Atticus let himself slip to the ground. In the process the killer’s Avada just narrowly missed him. By the time the fugitive could bring his wand to bear on Atticus again, the slippery devil had his wand pressed to their navel. Drawing a quick loop he spoke aloud, “langlock,” and stuck the bandit’s tongue to the roof of his mouth before giving him a mighty rising uppercut that knocked him out cold. The amount of civilians watching told Atticus that the obliviators were going to have a field day with this one. He was right.
Sixth Sense (WC = 696)
Reducio
Life was good, or at least life was rather exciting. Having taken official leave, Atticus returned to his family ranch to settle a matter of estate, desperate for some down time and anxious to investigate. It’d been nearly twenty years since he’d left home but only a day ago that he had received notice of his father’s will. Despite their differences, it would seem as though John had left his son Atticus everything. Not to say what he left was much. It would appear to be nothing more than a rundown parcel of land. Still, John knew exactly how to inspire his son: give him a challenge. The drive was a long one, weeds encroaching on the beaten dirt road leading homeward. More than a comfortable amount of feelings rose within him as the farmhouse peaked over the horizon and the ranch expanded out behind it. He was home again, only now it was time to let the past go.
Heading inside, Atticus opened the envelope containing the key. Its bow was corroded, but the blade still shone with use. His father would’ve made a metaphor about brilliance coming with practice. Atticus’ appreciation came without bringing too much attention to his own noticing. Using the key, he twisted the heavy set lock to the front door of his childhood home. Opening the door the rest of the way, Atticus carefully flicked on the light switch. Unfortunately, a fuse must’ve blown. He went to the basement with his wand outstretched in front of him, lumos in full bloom. Atticus’s own brilliance illuminated the bowels of the ranch house. Searching the basement, he found the box and flipped a switch. Immediately, lights flickered on in the stairway behind him.
Letting his guard down, thinking himself alone, Atticus made his way upstairs to the dining room. There it stood, after all these years, the antique table representative of his father’s pride. His father, having been ever vigilant, ensured that even the passage of time had not tarnished it. The surface still shone with the polish of a craftsman’s care, the joints still silent as even the creaking of age had not set in. Atticus took a long, hard look at the table. Memories of pain and grief and bitterness seeped in, but for all the harm they’d done him in the past, those feelings seemed just as important looking back. Were it not for his father’s pride, he’d have never found his own. Were it not for the grief of loss, they might never have looked for more.
As Atticus stood there, admiring the work of his forefathers, something caught his eye. From the reflection of the table, Atticus noticed movement behind him. A sense developed after decades of living in constant paranoia. “Who’s there,” Wade said, confident that whatever uninvited guest was waiting hidden in the shadows wasn’t here for a family reunion. “Come out and show yourself.” A slow clapping would emanate from the still unlit kitchen, a fuse that likely needed replacing. “Well done Mr. Wade.” A man dressed completely of black and whites stepped out from the kitchen. In his hand was his MACUSA identification, held as if to dismiss Wade’s next question. He was here to offer Atticus a retirement deal too good to refuse.
“I’m here to remind you of your obligations to our country,” the voice was nasally and disapproving. “Your country Mr. Wade.” As he approached, he ran his gloved fingers across a shelf gathering dust. Morphing into disgust, the agent’s expression was genuine. Wiping his glove off on the table’s otherwise unmarred surface, he returned his gaze to Wade. “Congress is prepared to pay you in full for the property, the sum of the estate going directly to your retirement fund to be spent as you desire.” It was a charming offer, one he couldn’t really refuse. An offer he saw right through. “You can have the house.” Atticus said coolly. “You can take the ranch, and you can keep the critters but I’ll be keeping the table.” His eyes looked at the antique. One could never put a price on pride. “Now get your dirty mitts off of it.”
Heading inside, Atticus opened the envelope containing the key. Its bow was corroded, but the blade still shone with use. His father would’ve made a metaphor about brilliance coming with practice. Atticus’ appreciation came without bringing too much attention to his own noticing. Using the key, he twisted the heavy set lock to the front door of his childhood home. Opening the door the rest of the way, Atticus carefully flicked on the light switch. Unfortunately, a fuse must’ve blown. He went to the basement with his wand outstretched in front of him, lumos in full bloom. Atticus’s own brilliance illuminated the bowels of the ranch house. Searching the basement, he found the box and flipped a switch. Immediately, lights flickered on in the stairway behind him.
Letting his guard down, thinking himself alone, Atticus made his way upstairs to the dining room. There it stood, after all these years, the antique table representative of his father’s pride. His father, having been ever vigilant, ensured that even the passage of time had not tarnished it. The surface still shone with the polish of a craftsman’s care, the joints still silent as even the creaking of age had not set in. Atticus took a long, hard look at the table. Memories of pain and grief and bitterness seeped in, but for all the harm they’d done him in the past, those feelings seemed just as important looking back. Were it not for his father’s pride, he’d have never found his own. Were it not for the grief of loss, they might never have looked for more.
As Atticus stood there, admiring the work of his forefathers, something caught his eye. From the reflection of the table, Atticus noticed movement behind him. A sense developed after decades of living in constant paranoia. “Who’s there,” Wade said, confident that whatever uninvited guest was waiting hidden in the shadows wasn’t here for a family reunion. “Come out and show yourself.” A slow clapping would emanate from the still unlit kitchen, a fuse that likely needed replacing. “Well done Mr. Wade.” A man dressed completely of black and whites stepped out from the kitchen. In his hand was his MACUSA identification, held as if to dismiss Wade’s next question. He was here to offer Atticus a retirement deal too good to refuse.
“I’m here to remind you of your obligations to our country,” the voice was nasally and disapproving. “Your country Mr. Wade.” As he approached, he ran his gloved fingers across a shelf gathering dust. Morphing into disgust, the agent’s expression was genuine. Wiping his glove off on the table’s otherwise unmarred surface, he returned his gaze to Wade. “Congress is prepared to pay you in full for the property, the sum of the estate going directly to your retirement fund to be spent as you desire.” It was a charming offer, one he couldn’t really refuse. An offer he saw right through. “You can have the house.” Atticus said coolly. “You can take the ranch, and you can keep the critters but I’ll be keeping the table.” His eyes looked at the antique. One could never put a price on pride. “Now get your dirty mitts off of it.”
's Grace (WC = 847) Reducio
“Just three more hours,” he said to himself mentally. “You can do this.” All too familiar with his own thoughts, Atticus had come to rely on an old tactic from his school days. “No distractions,” he affirmed himself via thoughts once more. There was a finality to his feelings. With retirement just over the hill and this being his last job, there were a lot of things that could go wrong. Holed up in an unmarked vehicle, Wade waited discreetly outside his target’s last known location. It was to be an old-fashioned stakeout then. This target, a person his country considered to be every bit an enemy of the state, was someone he’d been dispatched to identify. He had good reason to believe they would make a break for daylight today as the last receipt showed he’d be running out of groceries soon. All Atticus needed to do was identify the man by looking at his face alone then call in the backup. Supposedly, this was a criminal he’d caught in his earlier years, earning him both commendation and medals. Both worthless records to be destroyed in just a matter of a few days. Still, his patience was another talent the country relied on. Despite their best attempts to purchase the trait, patience came with experience.
A few hours passed by with every dreaded moment hanging in the stale air. Finally, motion from within the apartment stirred Atticus in his seat. Sitting upright, shades on his face and hair changed black to keep from being identified, Atticus put his peepers on the mug of the thug he’d been sent to report on. The only problem was that this man and the man he arrested before couldn’t possibly be the same person. Last he’d seen him was almost thirty years ago. Atticus, having weathered time the natural way, was wrinkled and gray when undisguised. If this was indeed the same man, then he’d either aged remarkably well or was under the effects of a spell. Neither of which Atticus could confirm from this distance. Great. Pulling a hat from the back seat to cover his hair, Atticus opened the car door and stepped out into the streets of New York. Blending into the crowd, he followed the man to another location. A co-op grocery just a few blocks away. Following the man inside, Atticus inspected several different vegetables while keeping an eye on the mark.
Casually slipping outside before the man could cash out, Atticus awaited him by the door hoping to get a closer look. Pulling a newspaper up, he peeked the brim of his hat over it first then his shaded eyes. Catching a good glimpse of the man, some obvious signs of foul play could be seen. The clothes didn’t fit the man who wore them, and the look on his face didn’t nearly match the expressions of the man he’d caught so long ago. So what was it then? A polyjuice potion? A metamorphmagus masquerading as a villain to go… grocery shopping? It just didn’t add up. Following the man back to his tenant building, standing just out of view long enough to be forgotten, he slipped his foot into the entrance to the apartment foyer to keep it propped open. Following the man up to an unnumbered room, Atticus watched the door shut behind him. Peering through the peephole, Atticus spied on the man. All of the sudden, things became clearer.
The man he’d arrested so many years ago lay on the couch. He had a leg missing, his face bearing the signs of age similar to his own. Atticus immediately understood why the man he’d tailed seemed so familiar. He’d had a son the whole time! Knowing what he knew now, pieces of the puzzle fit together. All those years before he'd been tasked with surveilling them, the villain had been trying to reunite with his family. Pain racked his heart to see the sickly wizard spoon-fed soup. Clearly he was no harm to anyone anymore. Clearly the boy was now paying for the sins of his father, something entirely too relatable for a simple stake out. It wasn’t until another tenant, a small boy with a tuft of blond hair, said something that Atticus stopped his peeping. “Need help mister?” he asked softly. In his hands he held a comic book, and on his head a cowboy hat.
A wide smile came from behind the guise he had put on. One that said everything was going to be alright. Somewhere deep down, Atticus had never given up on his inner child. “Run along now kid.” He said gruffly, the kid giggled before turning to run back to his apartment. Just as swiftly, Atticus made his way down to his vehicle, shedding his disguise in the process. When he reported back to the ministry, he was honest. The man they’d sent him to surveil was not the wanted fugitive they’d been looking for. No kid deserved the weight of the world on his shoulders, let alone without his father to help him.
A few hours passed by with every dreaded moment hanging in the stale air. Finally, motion from within the apartment stirred Atticus in his seat. Sitting upright, shades on his face and hair changed black to keep from being identified, Atticus put his peepers on the mug of the thug he’d been sent to report on. The only problem was that this man and the man he arrested before couldn’t possibly be the same person. Last he’d seen him was almost thirty years ago. Atticus, having weathered time the natural way, was wrinkled and gray when undisguised. If this was indeed the same man, then he’d either aged remarkably well or was under the effects of a spell. Neither of which Atticus could confirm from this distance. Great. Pulling a hat from the back seat to cover his hair, Atticus opened the car door and stepped out into the streets of New York. Blending into the crowd, he followed the man to another location. A co-op grocery just a few blocks away. Following the man inside, Atticus inspected several different vegetables while keeping an eye on the mark.
Casually slipping outside before the man could cash out, Atticus awaited him by the door hoping to get a closer look. Pulling a newspaper up, he peeked the brim of his hat over it first then his shaded eyes. Catching a good glimpse of the man, some obvious signs of foul play could be seen. The clothes didn’t fit the man who wore them, and the look on his face didn’t nearly match the expressions of the man he’d caught so long ago. So what was it then? A polyjuice potion? A metamorphmagus masquerading as a villain to go… grocery shopping? It just didn’t add up. Following the man back to his tenant building, standing just out of view long enough to be forgotten, he slipped his foot into the entrance to the apartment foyer to keep it propped open. Following the man up to an unnumbered room, Atticus watched the door shut behind him. Peering through the peephole, Atticus spied on the man. All of the sudden, things became clearer.
The man he’d arrested so many years ago lay on the couch. He had a leg missing, his face bearing the signs of age similar to his own. Atticus immediately understood why the man he’d tailed seemed so familiar. He’d had a son the whole time! Knowing what he knew now, pieces of the puzzle fit together. All those years before he'd been tasked with surveilling them, the villain had been trying to reunite with his family. Pain racked his heart to see the sickly wizard spoon-fed soup. Clearly he was no harm to anyone anymore. Clearly the boy was now paying for the sins of his father, something entirely too relatable for a simple stake out. It wasn’t until another tenant, a small boy with a tuft of blond hair, said something that Atticus stopped his peeping. “Need help mister?” he asked softly. In his hands he held a comic book, and on his head a cowboy hat.
A wide smile came from behind the guise he had put on. One that said everything was going to be alright. Somewhere deep down, Atticus had never given up on his inner child. “Run along now kid.” He said gruffly, the kid giggled before turning to run back to his apartment. Just as swiftly, Atticus made his way down to his vehicle, shedding his disguise in the process. When he reported back to the ministry, he was honest. The man they’d sent him to surveil was not the wanted fugitive they’d been looking for. No kid deserved the weight of the world on his shoulders, let alone without his father to help him.
STATUS: Approved
Please do NOT include the ability in your trunk on your own BEFORE it was approved. You can change the code if you do not like the placing after it has been added by staff.
I do not accept, and I am not resigned.
12 Jul 2021, 23:08
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
STATUS: ApprovedLink to your encyclopedia thread: Accio Ency!
Name of Ability: Spell Spread
Describe why this fits your character:
ReducioWillow had stepped hesitantly into duelling after quitting quidditch. She had seen how sports could make people change, could bring people to a level of anger that she had never witnessed before her time at Hogwarts. It didn't take long for her to throw herself head first into everything with duelling. It had quickly become a new passion of hers. While there was still anxiety before a match, it was nothing like the gut wrenching sickness she felt before flying off on her broom. There was only so far that you could fall when you were already on the ground in duelling. It didn't take long for her to go for one of the co-captain positions when it opened up. She was fully in it, and she wanted to be the best at it.
As a muggle-born witch, she always felt like she had to make up for some kind of lack of natural ability that the purebloods and wizardborns seemed to have. While she knew there was nothing that was inherently different about them in terms of being able to succeed, it was still a fear that lingered in her mind. That she would always be inadequate because she was the first witch in her family line. This meant she always was putting extra hours into her spellcasting. Extra practice sessions wherever she could. Getting as many practice tries in class as she could.
In her duels she paid extra close attention to the abilities of the upperclassmen. What they were able to do, and one of those things was the deadly spell spread. In her last duel Galton had used it for pretty much every round. Targeting both herself and Kazuo, leaving both of them blindfolded at some point. It was something that she feared, but also envied. After that last duel, Willow was determined to learn the skill so she could dominate in next year's championship. It was alongside her captain, Lydia, that she worked on the skill in the duelling practice room. It was hard because she didn't even really know how to achieve it in the first place.
Willow had a streak of giving up going from her first year to second year, and she was tired of it. This wouldn't be something that she would quit. If other wizards could do it, so could she. So she practiced endlessly. Her hair tied back in concentration, her brows furrowed tightly together as she focused as hard as she could. Lydia was always encouraging her, pushing her to just try one more time. It was a steady progression of improvement in the latter end of her 2nd year. At first, there was nothing. Then slowly, a fizzle of a second spell. An offshoot that quickly died. A spell that lightly grazed a second target. There were of course, plenty of backfires along the way, but she felt like that was normal for developing a skill like this.
The first time it was even mildly successful she lept with joy. "Did you see that? I did it! I did it!" Adrenaline coursed through her veins, a feeling of competency filled her chest with pride. She could only improve from here, and she did. Going into her third year she had the skill well enough practiced that she felt confident enough to plan on using it in this years duels.
Permission to lightly godmod Lydia's character in practicing with Willow given.
Word Count || 562
"I don't know whether to cry or scream or do both. It feels like I've done more than enough of both. And it feels like I haven't done enough." - Mason Deaver
Stamina 12 ∴ Evasion 9 ∴ Strength 5 ∴ Wisdom 10 ∵ ArcPower 10 ∵ Accuracy 13
Stamina 12 ∴ Evasion 9 ∴ Strength 5 ∴ Wisdom 10 ∵ ArcPower 10 ∵ Accuracy 13
13 Jul 2021, 04:15
DO NOT POST HERE: Application for Magical Races/Talents and Special Abilities
STATUS: ApprovedLink to your encyclopedia thread: Here
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Broken BroomshaftDescribe why this fits your character:
WC: 897
Date: September 12, 2018
It was a bright September afternoon when a young Alice Grimmshaw saw her first quidditch match. Witches and wizards milled about sporting their favorite team's colors in varying degrees. Alice had a Puddlemere United badge proudly displayed on her cardigan, picked mostly because she liked the colors, and also because it was her family's favorite team. One of her small hands clutched a packet of Fizzing Whizzbees to snack upon during the game, and the other clutched her beloved grandmother's hand tightly. Little Alice was excited beyond words. She had grown up hearing tales of long, intense quidditch matches, but until today they were just stories. Now she finally got to see for herself what all the excitement was about! It was just her and her grandma, since her father was busy at work, Mary was off at her first year of Hogwarts, and Kingsley wasn't really someone who was comfortable with large crowds, and was also not even seven years old yet.
"Remember, dear," Alice's grandmother told her, scanning the stands for their seats, "stick close to me, and don't leave your seat without telling me where you're going first." She began walking towards their seats in the stands, fairly decent seats, as the older woman had wanted Alice to have a good view for her first ever time spectating the sport that she so loved. Alice looked at her grandmother and nodded sagely, as though she had just been given a life-or-death task. She wanted to do everything right so that this would be the first of many times that she would get to see quidditch live in action. Gamma Gimmshaw nodded approvingly and sat down, and Alice clambered into the hard plastic seat next to her. The air was already buzzing with excitement, the murmur of friends talking and rivals boasting (and in the case of two rather loud men covered in colorful face paint about four rows away, brawling.)
Several hours and about three hearty servings of chips later, Alice was tired, on the verge of falling asleep, but the game had not yet been won, so she kept pinching herself to stay awake. Gamma Gimmshaw had offered to take her home, but she steadfastly refused. She wanted to see the whole game, and by George she was going to! Her tired green eyes fixed on one of Puddlemere's beaters, navy and gold uniform illuminated softly by the torches around the field as they zipped through the air, bat in hand as they chased down a bludger. Alice's heart was suddenly was filled with a voracious yearning. This. This is what she wanted to do when she got older. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair and the bat in her hand, zipping fearlessly through the sky. Alice watched, fixated, as the beater took aim at a bludger, hitting it with a resounding THWAP that sent it hurtling through the air at an opposing player. When it collided with the other player's broom, it hit so hard it shattered the shaft of it with a crack, sending the player plummeting towards the ground below, only to be saved at the last moment by a mediwizard. Alice had watched the whole scene in awe, so distracted by the proceedings that she didn't even notice the Puddlemere seeker grab the snitch out of the air with a triumphant rush, once again marking a Puddlemere victory.
⚜⚜⚜⚜
The next morning, just after devouring her breakfast and putting her plate in the sink, Alice bounded outside into the backyard, toy broom in hand. If she wanted to be a beater for her favorite quidditch team when she grew up, then she needed to know how to do that cool move that she saw yesterday! She grabbed a rock, to act as her bludger, and a stick, to act as the opponent's broom, and hopped on her toy broom, hovering a few feet off the ground with it as she eyes her target, a medium sized stick that lay unmoving in the grass. She spent a couple minutes sitting on her little toy broom throwing rocks at it until it broke. Triumph.
"Well then, young lady, just what do you think you're doing?" The lanky, bespectacled figure of her father wandered nonchalantly into the back yard with a copy of the morning paper, eyeing his daughter's activities curiously. It must have looked very odd to him, his eight year old child sitting on a toy broom throwing rocks at a stick on the ground.
"I'm practicing to be a beater!" She proclaimed proudly, grinning at her father. The older man considered for a second, taking in the broken stick and the rock on the ground, before his eyes lit up with an idea.
"Beaters don't hit at stationary targets, last I checked," he pointed out. "To really practice, why don't you try hitting this!" He wingardium leviosa'd a branch up off the ground and started zipping it through the air, at a height where Alice could still probably hit it. The young girl squealed in delight and took off after it, trying to hit it with her rocks. This is an activity father and daughter partook in for years afterwards, Mr. Grimmshaw even eventually buying her her own bat and bludgers to practice with. It definitely provided her a good workout and outlet for her energy.
“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”
Stats: Stamina: 7 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 9 | Wisdom: 3 | Arcane Power: 5 | Accuracy: 4
Stats: Stamina: 7 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 9 | Wisdom: 3 | Arcane Power: 5 | Accuracy: 4