With the capture of Verandi Farley and several high-ranking Trossach members, the British wizarding world has finally caught a break. The rate of rogue werewolf attacks have started dropping at a steady rate and, hopefully, things will stay that way. The Ministry is starting to loosen some restrictions, like not arresting werewolves standing on the street for loitering, however there’s still an obvious power imbalance between wizardfolk and werewolves.
The Cotswolds pack are continuing to advocate for the rights of werewolves and petitioning to change the legislation that has been set in motion by the current Minister for Magic, whilst the remaining Trossachs members are trying to stay out of the spotlight and keep a low profile… for now.
Whilst the British wizarding world seems to have calmed down, the same cannot be said for over in Northern Europe where a rebellion of magical creatures has risen. The state of things has gotten so bad that the European Ministry has enacted protocols to protect those under eighteen whilst their adult witches and wizards fight to keep control of their countries.
Students from Durmstrang have been sent to Hogwarts to keep them safe and those not old enough to attend school have been sent to live with relatives or designated British Ministry officials outside of Europe for the time being.
Will the low rates of werewolf attacks in Britain continue? How long will Durmstrang students stay at Hogwarts? Will the creatures usurp the wizardfolk in Northern Europe? Only time will tell.
SEPTEMBER 2019 It's been a very long, eventful summer in the wizarding world. A baby was stolen, several high ranking Trossach members were imprisoned, and werewolf attacks have drastically dropped as a result. What will happen now school has returned?
MAY 2019 An attempt to capture the beta of the Trossachs has been launched. Were the Aurors successful in their mission? Go read more here!
Quirks and Habits: - He clicks his tongue when thinking, or when he’s trying to figure something out. Similar to a bell near a service desk; When he needs to get his thoughts in order, he clicks. - He picks at his lower lip remarkably often. Thus, his bottom lip is scarred, and frequently scabbed. - He thumbs the pages of books. Whenever he’s reading, or merely carrying a novel from A to B, Agravain will frequently run his thumb across the pages. He gets frequent papercuts from this. - Whenever he cooks, he hums. When he reads, he hums. When his mind is elsewhere, he’ll hum - partly to keep himself busy, partly to let others know that his focus is far from them.
Dislikes: - Full Moons - Stubborn People - Rude/Bigotted people Boggart: a large, one-eyed wolf Mirror of Erised: himself, but without the large scar on his shoulder. Patronus: octopus
HISTORY
He was not meant to see violence.
Memories of sparks and fairies fill his mind. He is young, then, maybe ten or eleven; Raised by a wizard father, lacking a muggle mother, Agravain is brought up under a single philosophy: Do not, under any circumstances, affiliate with combat. His father has seen far too much of it in his life. Tired eyes flicker from one cabinet to another, the medicine hidden in glass vials and elaborate containers drawing Agravain’s attention more with each passing day. He’s not yet tall enough to reach the ones that catch his interest on the top shelf, the middle being free game... but his father catches his wandering gaze, and plucks him from the ground like a newborn kitten. A weak half-protest is uttered, but objection fades to the background as his father sets the young would-be wizard onto the bathroom counter. He feels the sink behind him.
“Agravain.” His father’s tone is soft. Cautious. As though he’s dealing with a wild animal, unbeknownst to both of them. His hands set onto the young boy’s shoulders; Though the father’s eyes are clouded with an unknown fear, the boy’s are wide with anticipation towards what his idol will say. “Staring at what’s in the cabinet won’t make me any more eager to show you.” A strand of melancholic blond falls from his father’s bangs. He’s been losing hair for a while; There’s a growing clear spot on the top of his head, albeit if it originates from stress or from other sources isn’t entirely known to the child yet.
The boy says nothing. The father, in response, pulls him off of the counter and gently sets him back onto the ground. “Stop staring at it,” His father sighs. “It won’t get you anything.”
With that, Agravain is ushered out from the bathroom. Back into an empty living room, back into an empty home - but a small vial stuffed in his pockets, mischief dancing in the eyes of a budding thief as his father calls out. He’ll be caught. He knows he will be. But this is the first time he’s managed to snatch something without his father noticing, albeit in more of a teasing manner than anything serious.
He’s proud of it.
He is older now. Not by too much, sitting comfortably at fifteen, and carrying bandages. His father’s patients remain unknown to him; Not for a lack of curiosity on his part, no, but for a lack of telling on his parent’s end. He occasionally hears barks and howls of pain from the back room and, for the millionth time, it occurs to him that his home is not one that treats the standard magician; They deal with strange bites and sharp wounds that appear to come from animals, Agravain running errands between his father and the bathroom where equipment remained stashed on the top shelf. It’s in this moment - with vials tucked under his arms, feet scuffing against the living room floor in an attempt to get to his father’s bedroom on time - that Agravain acts on instinct; There is no thought to what he does, there is only a pattern that has begun increasing as of late.
Some are not howling. Some are whimpering, soft and quiet, while the slow sound of a wand’s hiss floats through the air. He wonders if they know where they are. If they have any idea of what’s happened to them at all, although he himself doesn’t claim to have knowledge of it. Some sound younger than others, and others have trembles in their voice that can only come with brittle bones and old age. He hopes the younger ones are not hurt too bad, and worries that the older patients may not receive the treatment they need.
It’s within his fifteenth year that Agravain begins working on his own. He shifts the grip of vials between his arms, treading lightly as he approaches his father’s bedroom door; The handle jostles once, then pushes itself open under his weight. His father’s bed is occupied now by a stranger. Shades of gray coat down their arms and legs, thick bounties of fur scattered in ashen hues. Burned, somehow. Hurt, likely. Attacked, somehow. He doesn’t question it. He only rushes to the side of his father, depositing the medicine on the counter, and gives his patriarch a scattered glance.
“Is he going to be okay?” Agravain asks, hiding the slightest tremble within his voice. He has not seen someone with burns before. He hopes to never see them again.
“Out.” His father replies.
“I can help-”
“Agravain.”
“I can help-”
“Agravain.” His father’s voice is sharp. Cutting. “Out.”
He does not object.
The wounded looks at the wayward son with something in his eyes. Pity, maybe. He can’t tell.
The door almost slams on his way out.
Almost.
He is sixteen, and about to make arguably the largest mistake of his life. The doorbell rings while his father is out, their nestled home known in select circles to care for those who the law would rather remove. He knows now that his father’s actions are not exactly suitable for the law’s morality, yet it fits Agravain as well: He, like his father, wants to help. It is a silly desire, and one that will no doubt get him in trouble for the rest of his life, but he wants to help. One word. Four letters. A simple declaration of his intentions, and a series of rapid steps against their home flooring. He swings the door open, and beholds the ragged and torn form of a man out and about on a midnight frolic.
He looks like Hell.
The man stumbles in. Agravain supports him, and aids him to the bed where his father sleeps when no patient writhes in it. They are overdue for a patient, he thinks, but the full moon outside begs to differ; Moonlight rays cascade downwards, filtering through the bedroom window, and catching the wide-eyed attention of the stranger. The young boy takes a small step back not out of fear, but out of concern towards the apparent markings on the other’s chest. Deep gashes. Scars that will never heal. Burns that reek of sulfur, likely appearing straight from the wand of an unknown wizard.
“I’ll be right back,” His voice comes out as a slow whimper. “My father will be home soon, he’ll give you a hand…”
His voice trails off. Fur sprouts were none was before. Features shift and elongate, howls rocking through their otherwise peaceful home. The full moon beckons both to an early end - and Agravain does not wish to accept. He bolts to the door, nearly stomping on his way there, and slings it open and shut in the same motion. The living room greets him. Empty. Perfect.
He sees the exit to their home. A glance is cast back towards the bedroom door, but it is one glance too many; Claws sheer through the wood as though its tissue paper, and out comes a beast larger than Agravain cares to remember. It rushes to him, and instincts prevent his legs from moving. There is only the sturdy thud of his body against the wood, and the sharp sting of fangs digging into his shoulder. He pushes. He shoves. Nothing works. His breathing is too fast to contain, and his vision is too blurry to recognize; The urge to slip into unconsciousness is primal, and tempting.
The living room door slams against the wall. A bolt casts itself forward, and the wolf whimpers. Another blast, and it is off of him. Another, another, another - and it is free, lurching towards the caster. His father. He hears spells cast with shouts, and soon catches the faint clawing of padded feet against the floor on its way out. Smoke. Burns? He doesn’t know.
He hears his father approach.
When he wakes up, he is in his father’s bed. His hands are cuffed. A packed bag lingers in the corner of the room.
His father wipes blood from his hands. His gloves are stained scarlet.
“Leave.” He sighs. “Staying here won’t do you any good.”
“But-”
“Agravain.” His father’s voice is stern. “Staying here won’t do you any good.”
There is a solemn message hidden beneath his words. If his own son transforms, will the father be able to stop him? If not him, then who?
“You leave this evening. Go wherever you can. Find a pack, if you need to. They’ll keep you strong.” Their eyes meet. “You’re a fine young man, Agravain. Use that brain of yours for a good cause, will you?”
There’s a quiet pause.
“... Take what you need from the top shelf. If you can reach it.”
The following evening, he leaves. A bag packed full of herbs and spare money, his gaze set forward on the horizon that would sooner see him decimated than see him prosper. He'd meet people along the way, as one would have expected; not a pack, but something close. Friends of a strange sort.
Somehow.
PLAYER
RP Alias: Quail!! Pronouns:He/him or They/them!! Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff! Other Characters: @medraut Roleplay example: Myths crawled out from the morning horizon. Bows were drawn by the stars, released in coordination with their retreat across a violet tinted sky; By the time his eyes blinked open, occupied more with the new light than with the feeling of weight against his chest, Agravain Blackburn had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be awake. That was the trouble with being on the move, he supposed. If he couldn’t rest, then he couldn’t nap, then he couldn’t sleep, then he couldn’t stay awake… then he wound up asleep against some forest tree, bag huddled and held against his chest. Supplies made their home in the bag’s pockets and slips, each zipper releasing a new herbial scent.
That was the good part, he supposed, about being on the run.
If nothing else, he could practice his knowledge on leaves and plants.
And, occasionally, on how to treat others.
Albeit, he didn’t plan on rescuing anyone.
His father had told him to put his mind to good use and, true to that, Agravain was making a somewhat coordinated effort to treat those who needed it. Slipping a herb or two to someone who needed it. Showing others how to properly wrap old wounds, checking for infections. He was no doctor, certainly not on the scale of his father, but he had merit to his name. Not as much as he’d like. Not as much as he cared to admit. But there was something there.
Invisible or not, it had worth to it.
His bones would have creaked as he sat up, then stood. Pine branches flanked him on either side, sunlit shadows dancing in the breeze. The wilderness had never been his home. He liked exploring, occasional hikes with his father placing themselves among pleasant memories, but… He was more so the type of person to sit and wait for the world to come to him. Sadly, it appeared as though his routine of patience and mild frustration would have had to wait. Breakfast called to him, which meant there was another bout of walking to do before he could get somewhere that served a half-decent meal to a half-wolf in disguise.
With heavy steps, Agravain began walking. The bag jostled against his back. He’d have to reorganize his things sooner or later.
Maybe I can hitch a ride. Part of him noted. I mean, that’d be dangerous, but it’d probably be faster than walking… His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth.
Welcome to Sonorus, we hope you enjoy your stay! Your character has been sorted into unemployed! and they have been given their wand, 12" vine wood and phoenix feather core. Feel free to head over to our plotting board or chat with us on our discord server, Don't forget to do your claims and have a good time!
