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Post by Curse Kameren on Nov 14, 2010 17:48:50 GMT -5
The Three Broomsticks was a busy place, with people pressed together in the aisles between chairs. There was a cacophony of noises, rising and falling in the cramped acoustics of the tiny wooden building. In all the ruckus, there was one person in the bar who didn’t notice any of it. One person was totally serene. He was in his own world. That was Curse Kameren.
A stack of weathered parchments sat next to the Professor’s cup of tea, but they weren’t papers to be graded. They were worn, obviously read a few times. They had wax along the edges; the parchments were letters. Letters mailed to Professor Kameren a little over a year ago, from Italy. They were mailed to him by someone he deeply cared for, and may never see again.
The Professor’s emerald eyes followed the lines of text as he carefully read each handwritten word, taking in the message written to him. A reminiscent look fell across Curse’s face, a slight frown hinting at his lips when he thought about the ending to the story outlined in these letters. He set down a letter as he finished it, pushing himself up from his chair and leaving his table to get a refill on his cup of tea. The letters sat lonely at the table, the curvy handwriting difficult to read save for the signature at the bottom:
Be seeing you soon, Love you, Arianna.
ooc: this is kind of a heavier rp, but I'm not sure where its headed. That's all I know of it so far. ^^
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Post by Conan Breandan on Nov 14, 2010 23:14:17 GMT -5
“Oi, longface.” A haggard man lifted his mug in salute to the professor as he returned. He looked as if he had gotten little sleep and plenty of strong drink over the past few days -- he certainly smelled of the firewhiskey he was drinking. His hair stood in a dark halo, and his cloak was worn and patched.
A paper floated out of the pile and into Conan’s outstretched hand. He held it out to the ex-auror. “Life getting you down, my friend?” He took a long swig of the whiskey in his mug. He stared back up at the taller man. He closed his fingers over his palm, and the paper vanished.
A snap of his fingers, and there was a ball of paper in Curse’s teacup. Conan leaned forward and pulled it out by a corner, the paper was dry. He offered it back to Curse. “Or is it something… something someone wrote?”
[[Aaaag, this is kinda not what I had in mind, but Conan is weird, so what... ]]
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Post by Curse Kameren on Nov 15, 2010 1:29:56 GMT -5
Curse returned to his seat to find a man sitting at his table, at the chair across from him. The professor gave him a questioning look as he sat, setting the tea back down gently. “Oi, longface.” Curse cocked a brow at the man, recognizing him as a Hogsmeade gypsy. His questioning look turned to a glare as the gypsy grabbed one of his letters. “Life getting you down, my friend?” His emerald eyes followed the paper as the gypsy fooled with it, his expression highly unamused. This wasn't a subject he discussed with anyone, least of all some trickster he had never met. He didn't reply, didn't move. Just watched the parchment.
The stone-faced professor seemed to move quite quickly when the paper appeared in his teacup, however. He moved to snatch it out of the cup, his green eyes flashing impatiently as the man beat him to it. "What do you want?" He growled impatiently, snatching the paper from the man when it was offered. He was constantly being bothered by someone lately, and now it was people he didn't even know. Whatever happened to 'Big Bad Curse Kameren', the man everyone was afraid to approach? The man who lived his life alone? Why couldn't he ever have a moment's peace?
“Or is it something… something someone wrote?”
"That's none of your bloody business," Curse replied shortly, placing the stolen parchment back on top of the pile before rolling them up. He wasn't going to discuss Arianna with this man. Or anyone else, for that matter.
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Post by Conan Breandan on Nov 15, 2010 1:46:30 GMT -5
Conan watched the man, inwardly amused. The magician had enjoyed the bit of tomfoolery, it was necessary to keep the old fingers limber. He flexed his hands, watching the calluses. He had to always stay on the top of his game if he were to continue to fool the world. He hated being a squib, resented the man sitting across from him for no other reason than he was obviously a wizard. What he lacked in real talent Conan in no way made up for with a sixth sense that told him when he conversed with a wizard or witch.
"What do you want?"
“Nothing.” Conan accepted another mug of the whiskey from the barmaid. “Thank you hon.” He winked, pulling the payment out of her ear. She went off with a giggle. Conan stretched his short legs under the table and grinned magnanimously at Curse. He knew a little of the man, he had made a stir among the gypsies over the past few days, with his vendetta with the booming muggle noisemaker. Gypsies were gossips, and when he had gotten into town yesterday Conan had spent time with his family, listening.
"That's none of your bloody business,"
“You bring your private business into a public place, and get miffed when it gets noticed?” Conan acted confused. “I’m sorry, did you have some alternate set of logic I don’t know exists?” He leaned forward, the picture of sincere concern.
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Post by Curse Kameren on Nov 15, 2010 2:07:33 GMT -5
Curse rolled his eyes as the man played his sleight of hand with the waitress as she brought him yet more alcohol; tricks that were old and tired in the muggle world took on a new life in the magical world, where it was much more common just to make things disappear and reappear with magic. He placed the letters delicately in his jacket pocket, glancing up at the man with impatience. He knew he had garnered attention from the gypsies as of late, with his use of a muggle gun against the creature he had found only two nights ago. The sound was foreign to this town, and there were many questions about the device and whether a madman such as Curse Kameren should be allowed to wield it.
“Or is it something… something someone wrote?”
"That's none of your bloody business."
“You bring your private business into a public place, and get miffed when it gets noticed?” Conan acted confused. “I’m sorry, did you have some alternate set of logic I don’t know exists?”
Curse glared at the man across from him, highly unamused by his mockery. The Potions Master didn't have a private place anymore; he lived in a school filled with students, and his office and living space were constantly occupied by either students or his son. He pulled a cigarette out of the inside pocket of his jacket, popping it in his mouth; Wizarding restaurants didn't have no smoking laws, as there were very few magic-users who smoked.
He lit it with his thumb, breathing it out toward the window before he replied. "I don't generally tend to see someone else's papers on a table and think to rifle through them, either. I know, radical thinking." His emerald eyes wandered out the window as he took another puff of the cigarette, combating the man's sarcasm with his own.
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Post by Conan Breandan on Nov 15, 2010 2:31:37 GMT -5
Conan sipped this time, looking over the rim at the man. Potions master at Hogwarts School, unmarried, one son. Former auror. Sometimes it astonished him how much his family knew, but then again, knowledge was their business. Those who closed their eyes to the world didn’t live long on the open road, and the Breandan clan had long lived on the open road.
He fished a cigarette out of thin air, lighting it with a lighter. He smirked at Curse as Curse blew smoke towards the window. “Nasty habit. I do hope you’ll forgive me.” He blew smoke across the table.
“I don't generally tend to see someone else's papers on a table and think to rifle through them, either. I know, radical thinking."
Conan put a dramatic hand to his head, acting surprised. “Revolutionary! You really must tell me how you came by that!” He lowered his hand, fiddling with a sickle, moving it back and forth, making it disappear and reappear. “I’ll be sure to tell you when I decide to read your papers. As of before? They didn’t really seem all that interesting. I’m not interested in boring.”
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Post by Curse Kameren on Nov 15, 2010 20:19:29 GMT -5
Curse conjured an ash tray on the table between them, not noticing the smoke the gypsy man blew at him. He was used to smoke. The people around their table, however, noticed quite well. The two received glares all around for their smelly habit. Curse didn't mind. He was glared at often, for one reason or another.
“Revolutionary! You really must tell me how you came by that!” Curse's eyes moved with the sickle as Conan fiddled with it, taking a sip of his tea and tipping his cigarette ashes into the ash tray. “I’ll be sure to tell you when I decide to read your papers. As of before? They didn’t really seem all that interesting. I’m not interested in boring.”
"They wouldn't mean anything to you anyway," Curse replied simply, looking down at his tea. They truly wouldn't; the letters detailed his ex-fiance's days on a research trip in Italy, what they did and what she experienced. She told stories about the landscape, retold conversations she had with her coworkers. She made plans for their wedding in them, and hinted at wanting Curse to come to Italy and stay with her. They both knew that was an impossibility to Curse though. Italy was off limits to him. Even if he thought there was a chance, Curse couldn't follow Arianna to Italy for risk of death. Besides, going after her wouldn't make any difference. Not after all this time. "To me, they mean a lot."
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Post by Conan Breandan on Nov 17, 2010 1:22:01 GMT -5
Conan ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, pulling another from his pocket and lighting it with the lighter. He frowned at Curse, who had used wandless and! silent magic. It was like the man was enjoying flaunting the one thing Conan could never have--it certainly wasn’t looking as if all that effort the New Powers had been up to was coming to fruitation.
"They wouldn't mean anything to you anyway. To me, they mean a lot."
“I’m sure.” Conan waved away their importance. His high was beginning to wear off, he was returning to his normally sour disposition. He was dangerously close to his limit, much more alcohol and he’d likely end up face-first in the ashtray. He scowled and took a deep draw on his cigarette, wondering idly if he would be able to perform the following day. He was running low on funds… and he couldn’t perform here, he couldn’t compete with his sister and her mini-caravan. He took his cigarette and held it in one hand as he took another deep draught of the firewhiskey. His throat was so numb he barely felt the liquid go down.
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