Nicknames: Wanna push your luck, do you?
Birthdate: 16th April, 1856
Current Age: 36 years
Gender: Male
Occupation: Head Dragonkeeper at the Avalon Glen Dragon Reserve
Reputation: 9
There’s nothing wrong with him, alright? He’s just awkward. Socially.Residence: The Kiln, keepers’ cottage.
Hogwarts House: Slytherin, though only attended Hogwarts for two and a half months of his first year.
Wand: 14”, blackthorn and dragon heartstring, unyielding.
Blood Status: Halfblood
Social Class: Working
Family:
Gruffydd Howell | Grandfather | Former Dragonkeeper
Huw Howell | Father | Halfblood
Catrin Howell | Mother | Muggleborn
Also has some older brothers, but they ‘never got on’.
Barry | Dog
Appearance:
A shade under 5’10, Howell is sturdily built, strong and hale. He has a stomping sort of walk, and can rack up plenty of miles in a day. Between the walk and the heavy, close-knitted eyebrows, Howell gives off the air of an oncoming thundercloud. For all that, though, he’s usually rather quiet; and his face is hard to read, because it’s almost always entirely deadpan. He cracks a smile about once a month, and tends to stand with his arms folded – not because he’s trying to be intimidating, just because he’s comfortable that way.Howell has brown eyes, a long nose, and dark hair kept short (when it gets longer it’s just more of a fire risk, not to mention annoyingly poofy). He’s left-handed, and is no stranger to blisters, burns and calluses across his limbs: the typical scrapes for dragon-keeping, and every one he’s gotten has served him right. At least none of the mistakes he’s made have been stupid. His wardrobe is the same whether he’s on the reserve or off it: the staple pieces are muddy boots, hand-knitted jumpers and a long dragon-hide coat and gloves for protective layers. And maybe a flat cap, if he’s feeling fancy. For all the washing in the world, he still usually smells faintly of mud, bonfire, and the fragrant base note of dragon dung.
History:
1856 | Howell was born in the usual way. To parents. In Wales. He is named for one of Catrin’s relatives, who was, by unfortunate coincidence, also called Howell.
1857 - 1866 | Oh, you want more? He doesn’t remember much about his childhood, to be fair. But he remembers Grandpa Gruff’s stories about dragons.
1867 | For the last eleven years, Howell’s world has been an insular one. Life is steady. They live in the magical village in the Glen as tenant farmers on the Yarwoods’ land. His grandpa is his best friend. Then Howell gets his Hogwarts letter, and things change.
He’s never been out of Wales before. He has no desire to leave Wales, either, and he’d rather cut off his arm than go to boarding school with a load of toffs. But his parents insist on this newfangled thing called a formal education, so go he does. A grubby hat sticks him in Slytherin. He is buffeted around from classroom to classroom on a bizarre schedule. Somehow even the food, in its excess, doesn’t agree with him. Howell hates everything here. The month of September feels like years, and Howell gets so sick for so long that by mid-November that the nurse gives up and sends him home early to recuperate.
In spite of his parents’ disappointment, he won’t go back next term. Instead, he stays on at the farm and is homeschooled in magical subjects in spare moments. He doesn’t have much patience for theoretical learning, but learns to cast spells in his own way, and finds flying a great deal more fun when there isn’t such an audience.
1868 - 1873 | During his teens, his magical abilities, his curiosity, his confidence, and his height all grow in... well, not leaps and bounds, but steadily enough. He makes a few odd friends in the village and becomes a little more familiar with the wealthy Yarwoods who own the place. Gwendolyn Yarwood sure is something. And Howell and Madoc Yarwood are very different people. But they are, importantly, both fond of dragons.
1874 | So of course Madoc Yarwood eventually has the grand idea to reopen the reservation. Now eighteen, Howell signs on to work there as one of its first dragon-keepers – both because it’s the dream job, and because someone needs to make sure Yarwood doesn’t do anything too idiotic with it. He trains under his grandfather, who returns to his old profession with gusto and has a fount of knowledge to share. Howell is a fast enough learner when he’s interested in things, takes everything wholeheartedly seriously, and from then on, he would rather be nowhere else than the Glen.
1875 - 1889 | Years blur into decades as Howell becomes an expert in keeping dragons, himself. He has a healthy awe of the beasts, and a down-to-earth demeanour about the work. No task is too small; don’t do tomorrow what could be done today; fuck about and your head’ll get roasted clean off. Et cetera. The reservation grows in size, with forty-odd Welsh Greens – Howell knows the ins-and-outs of all of them as individuals – and also in dragonkeepers. Howell might not warm up to people fast, exactly, and he’s never the heart of things in their off-time, but he has the other keepers’ respect, which matters more to him. In 1881, Grandpa Gruff passes on – nothing to do with the dragons, mind you – and in 1889 Howell becomes head dragonkeeper. Which means he runs the roost now.
1890 - 1892| So Little Gwyn Conway is a surprise. An imp of a girl – burnt herself half to a crisp and still wants to work with dragons. She’s mad, of course. But mad sorts like she and Madoc Yarwood need sane people to keep an eye on them, so Howell eventually decides it’s best for everyone if someone shows her the ropes. That someone being him, of course. It’s not like he trusts anyone else to do it well.
Personality: Determined, driven, stubborn, and down to earth, Howell is not what one would call an open book, by any measure. No one ever quite knows where they stand with Howell, and that’s the way he likes it. He says as little as he can get away with, and prefers to get down to brass tacks and learn by experience than to sit around blabbing. Not that he’s rash like some – he always thinks before he does anything. He just prefers to keep his thought process to himself. Comfortable in his own habits, he likes things done properly and doesn’t stand for half-assing; he can get impatient, stern and uncompromising when people shirk their duties or otherwise cross him, and thrown off emotionally when adjusting to any drastic change. He’s an awkward, offbeat fish out of water in any kind of society beyond the Glen, but in his natural habitat he’s knowledgeable, resourceful and has pride and ambition in the work. And while he might project self-reliance, he will always grant people his unending time, immense respect and sincerest care, so long as they deserve it.
Other:
— Proudly Welsh, and has the accent to show for it.
— Rumoured to have never shed a tear in his life about anything, except when a dragon dies. (In those cases, he’s an emotional wreck for days.)
— Keeps a sheepdog/Crup cross called Barry. Barry, a working dog, helps with the sheep and making sure no humans are stupid enough to wander unsuspectingly into a dragon’s way. Barry wears a special dragon-hide coat of his own and Howell loves him more than anyone. Anyone.
— Hates travelling out of the Glen. A country bumpkin at heart, he can bear Hogsmeade and Irvingly, at least for long enough to deliver dragon-made products or man the market stall where he sells his specialty dragon milk cheese. London is made of nightmares.
— Likes knitting. Any presents from him will be handmade, thank you.
Sample Roleplay Post:
Age: 27
