Post by Deleted on Aug 23, 2014 10:17:07 GMT -5
 HEATHER XANTHOPOULOS FORTY-FOUR pureblood British Representative of the ICW 14⅓", Xiuhcoatl Heartstring, Lignum Vitae Root BIRTHDAY: 44, April the Eleventh PATRONUS: N/A ABILITIES: Legilimency, Animagus (Salamander) "Blue is the most faithless color, its yawning calmness inseparable between the seas the the skies. Yellow, the bravest of them all. The golden lances of the sun, strands of its blood inked over uncharted lands .. " He steadied himself; swallowing air and exhaling coughs, staring at the ankle-deep waters, then squinting at the sun; as if it was some watchful eye of the Gods. Sitting by the white shores was her little sister; with irises as silver as hers, if only a shade softer; and hair as claret as hers, if only a plait lesser. Claret. That was her name, the name of the girl; now chasing and giggling after the warm winds; her little fingers and toes spilled by the sun-bleached sand. The sight by Port Guillaume was becoming too clear for her little silver eyes to stay open; while her tangled curls played shifts in bordeaux, she looked up at his crinkled eyes. With a childly smile that would betray her full understanding, she returned in little voices, "Does the jonquille.. Hurt under the brave soleil, Papa? Does the ocean cry, or does the sky? Papa, tell my favorite story again!" "Two ancient families .." she began to recount, "..with magick so powerful and desperate.. A--" She paused awhile, recalling the right words. "Of a bloodline that guarded the way of light, and thus, of another that dwelt in the dark shadows." The wizened man simply smiled endearingly at his first granddaughter. daughter, Heather Clarice Xanthopoulos, this is the unraveling of a story a story of the Xanthopoulos, and the Reinhardts Rapid breaths congealed with pools of air. She searched the midnight darkness for his room, for the hoarse voice that harbored her safety and assurance. The nightmares were telling her that there was nothing she could do; that her destiny was already rightly sealed from the start, that the man she admired the most had fallen asleep and never woken. "Papa? Papa!" She cried out for him, her feet trudging heavier with each step, persevering on through staircases and long corridors, suddenly becoming too recognizable to be familiar. Her twin huddled her peignoir; running half-asleep behind her, hurrying past the night chill to catch up with Heather. "Rachael, oh, Rae, quicker on your feet! I dreamed horrid things!" Tears were trickling freely down her cheeks, her tender breaths shortened and heart rent at the seams. "No, Hay, you're dreaming again and it's not real!" Her twin screamed through the blackened hallway, barren feet still racing across the cold wooden floors. Her hands raced by her sides, eventually slowing into shivers once she neared the fouteau doors. The lights were on. His room should not have been this bright .. The lights were pricking little rapiers on her skin; threatening to steal the air she breathed with each coming inch. The one safe place she ever had; the ocean to her shore, the river to her stream; now laid unmoved as stone on the giant bed circled with feminine figures. She hated the sight, hated the suddenness of it all; but to her shock, she suddenly hated the sight of them. These tears were the last she ever shed as a Xanthopoulos. She was a girl with a castle to keep; finally arriving at the giant medieval fortifications laying in wait. How many roads she would trod, how many dreams she would see; they would never compare to the grandiose chaos she had been called into. That fateful night marked the tributary of the lives of the twins; as her twin grew in her lightness, so she did in the duskiness. Darkness suddenly loomed so big against her shoulders, the smell of death inspissating across the years she would later live through. If she would lift her hands up toward the heavens, under the darkened rain; they would drip as scarlet waterfalls down her skin. "The constellations must have plotted her stars in the scrolls of night, with needles thick as his veins and passions high as the heavens. This was her inheritance." Because that was what he once told her. "Let my will be done." His last breaths escaped his lips. She never had to resort to foolish mingling among the mindless reasoning of her peers. Only the best governesses and private tutors would surround her; the most earnest and the most brilliant minds ever lived in France. Those days drifted past her without delightful remembrance; her mind still wandering in designing stratagems and articulating warfare. Nightmares and deaths never rattled her anymore; nor did the boundaries between good and evil. She was the bringer of chaos and darkness; the embodiment of a dark archangel. She was the walking, breathing epitome of the accrued hatred of the Xanthopoulos; a fire that would defiantly refuse to be put off, time after time. Never alternating between her main purpose and her affections; her noir elegance and beauty grew up threading one path, and one path only. The tenebrific path of sacrifice, that dictated such: to free her descendants from the accursed fetters of the Reinhardts to restore the Xanthopoulos into the splendid prestige of ages past These were her sole inspirations, and regardless of her methods; it did not deprive her conscience in front of her audiences, the other descendants of her lineage. Her footfalls ought never be heard, her breaths suspended in mid-air; like those of the shadows that were slowly becoming her. It did not deprive her conscience when she divulged Rae's perfect sanctuary to the Reinhardts, a stately home that stood proudly amid the forestry of Romania. Because she shredded her promise of remaining with me as a huntress of the dark. It did not deprive her conscience, either; when she knew that Rae burned to a crisp alongside her husband, and their three-years-old girl. Because she wished to be a mother instead. Since then, she continued playing her puppets; delving into the dirty politics of her family and her enemies', manipulating people as weapons and turning them against one another. Floundering fools. Four years she spent searching for the daughter that got away. Maria. That was her name. Such a befitting name, darling Rae, for a child so meek and fictile. Once the winds brought her the news, she fetched the child from the orphanage and bestowed upon her the sublime arts of manipulation. "Manipulation is manufacturing perceptions, and therein, misery is your greatest friend," she remembered telling the child during her first lesson. The gentle, bright-eyed child listened with her full attention, her champagne brown curls dangling by her cheeks. Too soft. Three years later, the child received a parchment from a school, acclaimed to instruct only a select few students. Heather hardly believed a trace of the hogwash. Nevertheless, not wanting to raise unwanted attentions; she accepted the invitation in Maria's stead, continuing to restrict her movements in the school. This flawed humanity, however, threatened the pavé of my plans. Love. A synthesis that she could never have understood; yet one that the people around her always scrambled towards, not unlike crane-flies towards light. Her niece fell in love with a certain Trowbridge, one whom she had never favored at all. The longer Maria lingered within his presence, the more soft-hearted this niece of hers grew to become; throwing all her efforts out into the mouth of the Lethifold. She fabricated her reality into these pliable perceptions of the public; that a certain aggressor of her niece had murdered her lover. It was a simple nick in the story. Behind the curtains, Heather impelled him to live, as though he was another person living by another name. This was a test. And he failed. Out of desperation, when he resolved to reach out to Maria, she sent a gang of hoodlums after him. now, Maria, you must be ready be you broken and torn, shattered and forged in the fire i will mend you i will make you stronger than you think you would ever be in the name of Xanthopoulos In the next two years, she continued weaving her intricate web of connections under the guise of her own death; tainting Maria's principles with her hatred and ambitions. She needed to relegate all attention off of her matriarchal identity, and she needed to let her weapon break free from her shackles. Under her watchful eyes; she masterminded her adaption of different personalities, the inveterate dissociation between a female Reinhardt and a young Xanthopoulos; all of which were mere manoeuvres to lead her closer to her primary, albeit veiled, purpose. To her, this was far from experimental; each measured step was to be as incisive as swords, each executed plan as ruthless as their wielders. Beneath the vestment of death, she assumed the identity of an aristocrat whom she murdered, upon trapping and drinking her essence; ingratiating herself into the school of witchcraft and wizardry, the battleground of two old powers; where the struggle of past would begin to unravel. I must witness this myself. She was no longer Heather Clarice Xanthopoulos. She was Arietta Praesaepe Selwyn, the noble inheritress of the House of Selwyn; the British Representative of the International Confederation of Wizards. Through the years, she went on beneath the vestment of a Selwyn; representing Britain around the Wizarding World, earning information and using them as she willed. With presence as inexorable as the shadows; she persisted on excavating the layers of power hidden beneath her human weapons, and the elusiveness of her enemies. Pinned beneath her claws was the niece of her victim; the grand heiress of the House of Selwyn, and a sixth year Prefect at that. Sitting as the Chairwoman to the Board of Governors at Hogwarts, she kept a tight supervision on her niece and her schoolmates; the other Xanthopoulos' and of course, the Reinhardts. Alla mia carissimaThrough the deft sleight of her hand, words inked themselves atop the refined vellum; her careful thoughts purging themselves of emotions. The letter itself ended with an affectionate note, yet none of it had ever reached her silver eyes; having been agonized and desperately taunted by hope through her bygone years. How laborious is it, mia bella, countervailing those pesky frivolities of your schoolmates? There is nothing esoteric to you about that, I do wonder? What excellent endeavors lain in your pursuit, to have left your letters unwritten for this dear zia? hey guys, my name is Janice! and I am rocking it at twenty years old, role-playing for roughly zero years - so i'm pretty chill with anything. i'm in the +8 time zone, and hail from happiness so how about that! currently my character looks just like Léa Seydoux or so i am told! I found y'all at KAIT SAID ARA'S HOUSE and that's pretty awesome isn't it? I currently have other faces on here known as @niennaryou @emilfelipe @renanthegaea @astorsevero @teoconroy @alaricaven, so hit them up for plotting! anyways; peace my dears! ♚ Made by SYLVIA of SA and GS ♚ |
