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First names were most often used by childhood or school friends. If the friendship was made after school age, first names would only really be used by women. Men were far more likely to refer to their friends by their surnames, a mark of familiarity. — Documentation


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Emilia Wright for Jude Wright. Casually alienating offspring since 18882.
Separating was also not a great idea, though they weren't doing great at staying together anyway. If she were to volunteer to be the human sacrifice.. well... Hogsmeade had plenty of debutantes anyway...

Barnabas Skeeter in CYOA: Group D


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Well-Traveled

Complete threads set in ten different forum locations. Threads must have at least ten posts, and three must be your own. Character accounts cannot be combined.

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A Demon's Pound of Flesh
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October 11th, 1888 — The Slums

Honor had been entirely oblivious as the sun descended low enough to signify the end of another day, and paved the way for a blanket of darkness to claw free from its slumber and encase Hogsmeade. Absent any means in which she could discern the time, it was evident from the near deserted streets of the neglected neighbourhood, not so lovingly referred to as the Slums, that she had missed an appropriate time for supper.

What had begun as a simple afternoon walk had taken a dramatic turn into deep thought and complete ignorance of the world around her. It was for that very reason that she had glided past the unwritten and unseen boundary of Bartonburg and into the Slums.

She had pondered the well-being of her parents and only sibling, Edwin — and whether becoming an Auror, after just over two years of training, was what she truly desired. Subconsciously Honor knew that she was on the path she was meant to traipse, her wand retrieved from her purse and held tightly to her chest — even as fear taunted her from its invisible limbo, Honor chose to ready herself for whatever threat that fate saw fit to lay before her. Surely that courage and innate bravery had warranted her placement within Gryffindor, and her aspirations of standing within the ranks of the Ministry's finest Aurors?

As the bonds of her reverie slipped into the bitter night air, Honor failed to refrain from wrapping her arms around the thin fabric of her dress and lowered her eyes towards the uneven concrete beneath her. She recalled the tales of the folk that traversed the Slums after the oil lamps had been extinguished and the Devil searched for idle hands, it was a favourite pastime of her father's. He had often boasted that he knew not a single woman that would be found breathing or compus mentis within the Slums after dark — only those seeking an ill fate would rendezvous with such heathens.

The drunken ramblings of men urinating at street corners emanated from what Honor felt was every direction. With each sharp intake of oxygen and expulsion of hot breath that evaporated around her face, her pace quickened. "Well, 'ello miss." The hoarse voice was like a comb comprised of human bone raking across her spine, causing each of her nerve endings to ignite with subconscious warning. "You—" it was clear, only a moment later, that Honor was in the presence of an intoxicated man, "you lookin' for a little rough n' tumble?"

Stealing no more than a moment to scold herself for not spotting the man, that had clearly lurked within the shadows of a stoop she had passed, Honor's slender fingers fastened around the English Oak shaft of her wand. The man took a few scuffled steps towards her, his eyes undoubtedly boring a gaping hole in the centre of her back.

Honor's line of sight remained pointed at the ground, the slight breeze of the abandoned street toying with the single peacock feather that was embedded within her teardrop hat. Fearing the worst should she wait another moment, Honor swiftly turned on her heel and pointed the tip of her wand towards her would-be attacker, "Petrificus Totalus!"
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Cyrus Westerman would not have existed if he hadn’t had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Precisely that quality had led to his transformation, his fall from grace, his rebirth as a shadow of what he had been. Cyrus Westerman would not have existed if Ephraim Belby had not failed so utterly. This, while not quite so dramatic a case, was becoming par for the course.

Hastily, the healer made his way through the streets, quite determined to return home, stow his things, and call it an early night. His work today had been more challenging than usual, and though Cyrus was grateful for this, he was also tired, having flexed mental and magical capacities that had remained unused for some time. He worse about him the perpetual vigilance that accompanied most who lived in the slums, and heard the drunkard’s words but paid them little heed: they were not directed at him, and Cyrus was a man to mind his own business.

Which is why it came as an utter surprise when he was hit by a stunning charm. Evidently, the “wrong place” had been beside the drunk, and the “wrong time” had been the instant the man chose to open his mouth. Arms and legs locked stiffly to his torso, Cyrus was felled like a tree, the impact with the damp, dirty cobblestones knocking the wind from him with an oomph.



MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself!


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