Post by Deirdre Irons on Jan 24, 2012 2:29:28 GMT -5
Deirdre.Irons.
Something's familiar about these strangers like me
Tell me more, please show me
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Deirdre Lille Irons - Twenty-Three - Half-Blood – Cautious Neutral – Suspected Ravenclaw – Owner of Veneficus Vigeo—a flower shop with magical and mundane flowers alike—in Diagon Alley.
Winter, 1967
I think it’s safe to say that, up until a year ago, I didn’t exist. Or, rather, that I don’t remember existing before a year ago. Sure, I get the odd flashback, usually accompanied by searing stabs of pain, which let me know just enough to know that I was either very stupid or very bad and someone did not want me to know whatever it was that I had apparently found out. I apparently also knew a werewolf, or something about werewolves.
To make a short story long, at the beginning of my “memory” I woke up in a small, comfortable bed in a room that wasn’t all that aesthetically unpleasant in a house that was in a field, judging from what the window was showing me. It was actually a pretty poor day, raining and such, but the people who owned the house were very nice and probably had enough sunshine in themselves to repel dementors. They kept the house warm via fireplaces, including one in the room I was in, and periodically checked in on me to make sure my fever wasn’t getting any worse. They weren’t magical, so they couldn’t give me any potions, but that didn’t really bother me so much as that fact I couldn’t remember much about anything, exception given to knowing English, Latin, and that I had an abnormal love for small, furry things.
I stayed with them for three months before they deemed me well enough to go out on my own. Well, actually, they didn’t “deem me” well enough to do anything but the day before I left; I’d had another flashback, something about a friend wanting to see me. So I lied and said I suddenly remembered that I had a brother—which I still have no idea if I do or not—and that I could vaguely remember his address.
I left, before they could weigh me down with the bundles of food and other “essentials” but promised to write them and I do still write them. Once a week and I send them flowers I find, which are usually magical, though pretty, so that’s probably illegal but until I get caught, I don’t really care. I probably won’t get caught… Maybe.
Anyhow, I made my way to Diagon Alley, which I had only just remembered a week before and did odd jobs here and there before finally landing a job at Veneficus Vigeo. I must have worked there for at least six months before the owner—rather nasty man, actually—died and willed it to me for reasons I still haven’t been able to figure out. Fortunately, business is good and I can afford to do the small repairs that I myself can’t fix. I use the extra money to buy books on flowers, a love I picked up from the old woman, and to buy books on charms of all kinds.
See, I don’t know who I am but I do know that I probably shouldn’t be recognizable until I do, so a week after I arrived, I went and bought a potion to permanently change my hair color. I picked a dark purple, the drapes and that comforter were a gorgeous shade of purple, paid for it, went home—I live above the shop—and drank it. I found six weeks later that such potions are illegal unless registered with the Ministry and I wasn’t doing that. Besides, if hiding your cheekbones or not disguising your voice when running around inciting terror doesn’t identify you to someone then surely having purple hair will throw someone off my track. Hopefully.
During the time I’ve been working at, and now owning, the flower shop I’ve learned more of the language of the flowers and have discovered that I adore raisins and that I am really curious—probably what got me into trouble in the first place—and I love puzzles and codes and learning things.
Those flashbacks aren’t fun but unfortunately, all I remember is fear, the urge to get away, werewolves being involved, a friend—still vague on gender—needing my help, and that it was storming really, really badly that night. And that I don’t mind Muggle things which will probably end up getting me killed in this stupid war. I have, therefore, resolved to not draw any unneeded attention to myself which, knowing my luck, means I will probably run into the one person who knows me. Or knew me, as the case happens to be…
Oh! I also frequently go to the Apothecary for potions for my headaches. They’re quite strong and are becoming increasingly annoying.
Note to self: work on the rambling...
Deirdre
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:
She stared at the small tray on the countertop in front of her, slowly sorting the small Muggle candies by color. Blue in one corner, red in the other, and the other colors had their own assorted groups as well. It wasn’t like she had much to do anyway and these small little candies were addictive in their brightly colored simplicity. She popped another green one into her mouth, holding in a sound of satisfaction as the thin shell gave way to the chocolate it’d been protecting from the world.
The small above the shop door jingled, drawing her attention. She sighed softly and turned her body so that she was able to see both the shop door and the small door that led to the back of the shop, just in case. You never knew who was friend or foe nowadays. Though, she supposed, it wouldn’t make much sense for a “Death Eater” to walk into a flower shop with the ill intent in mind. Unless they had an unfortunate hatred of the blooms she kept in stock. Then she was buggered.
Popping an M&M in her mouth and sucking on it, she gave the customer her full attention. He was tall, unremarkable hair, and generally average in looks though that didn’t necessarily guarantee anything other than the fact that she wouldn’t be able to identify him later should he do anything… untoward.
“Hello, sir. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” she asked after a moment of him scanning the shop shelves.
“I was… wondering if you had… My sister used to use floriography to express herself and she’s recently… passed…” His answer came slow for he was still looking, with his hands in his unremarkable brown trench coat. She suspected they were clenched in anger and loss. He wasn’t looking for mourning flowers, the ones placed on graves. He would’ve gone straight for the cypress—the official Mourning flower of the times. They were, after all, on sale in light of recent circumstances.
He stood there, body tense, for at least five full minutes before she gently prodded him to gain his attention. “Sir, what blooms are you looking for?” she asked. He never did tell her what he wanted the flowers for—and that was fine, she wasn’t a therapist and she didn’t even know the man—but he did end up buying a few cypress blooms and an entire bouquet made up of marigold, thorn-apple, oxeye daisy, mint, and bird's-foot trefoil.
Given that all of these were very pretty flowers (with the exception of the thorn-apple, though it managed to blend in wonderfully), she supposed that, had she not known any better, he would be giving the bouquet to a loved one or something like that. She suspected the hidden object of his hate would have no idea what the flowers meant and simply assume them to be a pretty, if odd, gift.
“Well… He’s more patient than I would be if I knew someone who killed my sister,” she murmured to herself, wincing at a sharp stab of pain erupted in the center of her forehead. Resting her head on the counter, she stayed there, breathing deeply and wondering if she knew any pain-relieving charms. Though the pain did eventually fade, she took care to write down the instance in the small book she kept in her back pocket.
Once more, being bored, Deirdre Irons turned back to her M&M’s and debated with herself over whether or not she should fiddle with then the puzzle box that had been given to her a few days prior. It might have something horrible in it, but she was ever so curious…
The small above the shop door jingled, drawing her attention. She sighed softly and turned her body so that she was able to see both the shop door and the small door that led to the back of the shop, just in case. You never knew who was friend or foe nowadays. Though, she supposed, it wouldn’t make much sense for a “Death Eater” to walk into a flower shop with the ill intent in mind. Unless they had an unfortunate hatred of the blooms she kept in stock. Then she was buggered.
Popping an M&M in her mouth and sucking on it, she gave the customer her full attention. He was tall, unremarkable hair, and generally average in looks though that didn’t necessarily guarantee anything other than the fact that she wouldn’t be able to identify him later should he do anything… untoward.
“Hello, sir. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” she asked after a moment of him scanning the shop shelves.
“I was… wondering if you had… My sister used to use floriography to express herself and she’s recently… passed…” His answer came slow for he was still looking, with his hands in his unremarkable brown trench coat. She suspected they were clenched in anger and loss. He wasn’t looking for mourning flowers, the ones placed on graves. He would’ve gone straight for the cypress—the official Mourning flower of the times. They were, after all, on sale in light of recent circumstances.
He stood there, body tense, for at least five full minutes before she gently prodded him to gain his attention. “Sir, what blooms are you looking for?” she asked. He never did tell her what he wanted the flowers for—and that was fine, she wasn’t a therapist and she didn’t even know the man—but he did end up buying a few cypress blooms and an entire bouquet made up of marigold, thorn-apple, oxeye daisy, mint, and bird's-foot trefoil.
Given that all of these were very pretty flowers (with the exception of the thorn-apple, though it managed to blend in wonderfully), she supposed that, had she not known any better, he would be giving the bouquet to a loved one or something like that. She suspected the hidden object of his hate would have no idea what the flowers meant and simply assume them to be a pretty, if odd, gift.
“Well… He’s more patient than I would be if I knew someone who killed my sister,” she murmured to herself, wincing at a sharp stab of pain erupted in the center of her forehead. Resting her head on the counter, she stayed there, breathing deeply and wondering if she knew any pain-relieving charms. Though the pain did eventually fade, she took care to write down the instance in the small book she kept in her back pocket.
Once more, being bored, Deirdre Irons turned back to her M&M’s and debated with herself over whether or not she should fiddle with then the puzzle box that had been given to her a few days prior. It might have something horrible in it, but she was ever so curious…
Hello! My name is, Beth and I've been roleplaying for many years.
My characters play-by is Amy Adams and my application is, break-dancing so sort me already!
My characters play-by is Amy Adams and my application is, break-dancing so sort me already!