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Post by ADRIEN MHIRE on May 19, 2011 20:04:02 GMT
The Revolution Has Begun 
"There's no need to call me sir Professor."
FULL NAME: Adrien D. Mhire
NICKNAMES: None
AGE: Twenty-seven
BIRTHDAY: January ninth
SEXUALITY: Bisexual
BLOODLINE: Pure
HOUSE: Ravenclaw
YEAR: N/A
JOB: Unspeakable
SIDE: Death Eater
SPECIES/SPECIAL ABILITIES: Occlumency. A self-taught skill first utilized to escape his fear of the Dark Lord while his father was punished by him, and then, thought necessary in his service as a Death Eater and an Unspeakable. CANON: No
"You don't know what I'm capable of, you don't know what I've done!"
GENERAL APPEARANCE: Rather beautiful. Six feet and two inches, poised and well dressed.
Adrien possesses a model-like appearance, as he is well-proportioned, long-legged and slender. His weight shifts between 170 and 180 pounds, in the midst of which there is minimal muscle. The features of his face are strong—his eyes and jaw well-defined. Adjacent to which is the black of his hair, kept to the length of his shoulder blades. Raised by sophistication, Adrien manages his wardrobe to dark colored slacks, button down shirts and the occasional casual replacement. Khakis are personally unprepossessing.
Beauty, in its way, significant through school, has for him been waned by gauntness over the passing decade. His posture remains in tact, and elegance does not escape him; however, rest never attends his physical front. He appears worn thin and his eyes abide in limpid form. Pale and blue, they offset the rest of his appearance by a faded quality of gentleness, an evident note of observance, and following characteristics—cold, pensive and quiet. MOST LIKED FEATURE: Collarbone. It has sentimental value.
MOST HATED FEATURE: None. He cares so little about his physical appearance.
HERITAGE: English, French
ETHNICITY: Caucasian
"The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure."
GENERAL PERSONALITY: Mysterious, knowledgeable and dark.
Adrien's calm and composed exterior often drives his colleagues to assume that something sinister lurks beneath. Stoic towards the world until routines of practiced and superior PR arise, the young man is beheld in a shadowy disposition, kept to himself unless otherwise provoked. Friendliness is possible and smiling is rare; a dry sense of humor feigned together with believable interest. Calm and composed, yes, but moreso, knowingly well-mannered and severely private.
Discernment is utilized, and respect is very hard to gain, akin to a sharing of trust.
Yet despite his detachment, there still remains something gentle in his habits. Towards those who break beneath the customs of his countenance, earning levels of friendship, respect or trust, Adrien proves open and dangerously loyal. It is probably a layer he inherited from his mother—though, in all acts, it resembles a seemingly unbiased and thoughtful quality that implies there may be something deeper within him, something not particularly “dark,” but rather, profound. HOBBIES: Writing. It is his option of self-expression and release of creativity.
Observation. Despite his personal reservation, Adrien is inclined to sit in open areas, intrigued by the wizards around him. He appreciates human complexity, though not often with direct involvement.
Serving as a Death Eater. Adrien is often a decent, unbiased being; killing has never displeased him all the same. DISLIKES: Sugar, ignorance, rambling, unfounded supposition, depression/guilt, indulgence LIKES: Killing, power. It issues the fullest emotional release; often, his insomnia will subside momentarily. And similarly, whilst a Death Eater, Adrien is capable of many depths of unemotional control, appealing to a natural crevice of well-dressed violence.
Discussion, intelligence, wit; quiet, solitude, evening, water and coldness; writing, Occlumens, classical, and all-embracing knowledge. Each appropriately appeal to his disposition. FEARS: Loneliness, insanity
SECRETS: Departmental research, The Shadow's Heart, regret
"I enjoyed the meetings, too. It was like having friends."
GENERAL HISTORY: Born on the 9th of January, Adrien was raised in England until he was nine, at which time he and his family moved to France. They dwelled there for a mere eleven months before returning to England, where they continued to be faithful to the Dark Lord. Adrien, at eleven, was enrolled into Iriys Dievas Insitute of Witchcraft and Wizardry by his father, William Mhire; he was both familiar with magic, and informed for the Dark Arts.
Adrien excelled in his first years of school; he was naturally advanced but also very studious. He learned quickly and efficiently, and remained focused throughout. As he grew, through to his teenage years, he retained his intelligent and ability to attain knowledge. His father, at an early age, educated Adrien in the subjects of the Dark Arts and the practice of Death Eaters; and when he became of age, hoped Adrien would join the following of the Dark Lord. Adrien never opposed the notion.
In his third year, the thirteen year-old transferred from Iriys to Apophis Academy of Canada. He convinced his parents that Apophis would be better fitting, for he felt that the students at Iriys were never mature enough. It was an institute for dark wizards only, all of whom were vicious and lusted after death without proper rationale. This bothered Adrien terribly; he saw no success or power in ignorance, even if in loyalty to the Dark Arts.
His time at Apophis was worthwhile, and most all matters of his life remained the same until his seventh year, at the beginning of which his father was thrown in Azkaban. William Mhire had been aiding a relative (Adrien’s step-brother, Craig) in a test of the Dark Lord’s, despite knowing Lord Voldemort forbade it; and for his troubles, was set up and appointed to imprisonment. Adrien’s mother, Christiana Dupont-Mhire, became terribly sick after her husband’s capture; she grew extremely weak, and without Adrien at home, paid for an in-house nurse, Dinah Noir, who still works for them.
The seventeen year old continued to attend school despite his family’s current predicament; and in this seventh year, took to another Dark Lord. His name was Agmar Lightbane and he sought to overpower Apophis Academy and its headmaster, Celis Honsus, whose second in command was Professor Dwyer (the deputy headmaster). Lightbane’s most faithful, Adrien became the Lord’s right-hand, and at the end of his schooling, of his final year, and the beginning of the summer, they commenced a war.
In his training, Adrien grew more attached to his leader than he might have been able to conceive, and surprisingly, Agmar returned the notion. Their relationship was clandestine and irrevocable—and perhaps, in a word, sworn. They and their opponents were powerful, deathly, and the war between them did not look up either way, ending in many deaths and no gains. At its end, the Dark Lord and the Deputy Headmaster fled, though both were thought to have perished in their battle against one another. Adrien, in his inability to locate or even sense Agmar, took his commander to truly be dead, and fell distraught in guilt; naturally, he blamed himself, faulty for failing to protect his Lord.
His mother was barely aware of the happenings in Canada, slowly losing her mind as she suffered insomnia and starvation, and Adrien, upon returning to her near the end of the summer, left the events unexplained. He attempted to console himself while at home, but while his father was still absent, there persisted a deep pain in the Mhire household, separate even from his other engagements.
Most days at home, during the year following, Adrien spent time reflecting. The regret and guilt only deepened as he wrote of it and it weighed horribly on his being; it was in its way a type of depression, and though lasting for many years, he decided regardless to strengthen, and turned on the eve of his nineteenth birthday to the following of the Dark Lord in which his father had faith, joining the ranks of Voldemort. He displayed the same loyalty and skill he showed to Lightbane, and effectively, modestly pulled himself from his past to become an integral part of Voldemort’s circle.
Still a Death Eater, Adrien Mhire has since joined the Ministry as an Unspeakable. He minds not the advances his Lord has made in the wizarding world, and willingly aids in its rise and continuation. He lives in a residence in England, and visits his mother when he is willing; the Mhire Estate he shall inherit when his father and mother pass on, as well as the store in Gringotts. Free time is spent writing and continuing to learn, he has a barn owl named Raegan and suffers from a long-winded bout of insomnia; Agmar is never very far from his thoughts. FAMILY: Father : William Mhire
Mother : Christiana Dupont-Mhire
Sibling : Beau Mhire (22)
Adrien was raised by both of his parents in England. His mother, Christiana Dupont (47 years old), is originally from France and met his father, William Mhire, when he was traveling her native country. They were married in England and only once, moved back to France for eleven months when Adrien was nine.
William Mhire (60) came from a long line of pureblood Death Eaters who have remained wealthy by inheritance and being frugal. Many of his ancestors spent money only in emergencies. William has used it wisely, savoring his inheritance. He had been married once before to a woman closer to his age in his late twenties. With this wife, Maggie Hopkins (pureblood witch), he had only one son by the name of Craig. Craig is five years older than Adrien, but only lived with his father for one year. Maggie divorced William after learning that William was a Death Eater, for fear that her son would become one too. Four years later, William married Christiana, who was only 19 years old, and a year after that, Adrien was born.
Christiana Dupont-Mhire grew up in a decent home of wizardry as she is also a pureblood witch. She completed school and instead of pursuing a career in the wizard world, she attended a School of Art. During her sophomore year, she met William Mhire. They quickly married, and she decided to go on and finish her second year at the school, agreeing to come back to England with him to live afterwards. She is more-or-less an at-home mother but continues her art. She is very supportive of her husband’s job but is not particularly a Death Eater herself.
Adrien has one sibling whose name is Beau Mhire. Beau is five years younger than Adrien. He takes after his mother much more than his father, being a little more playful and naïve than Adrien was. He is much more outwardly loving and takes great interest in classical music.
Adrien is quite comparable to his father. He is close to both of his parents, but he is further drawn by his father. His mother, who loves him dearly, is very protective and loving towards him; his father has helped him to grow into a man in his serious and strict way. They think alike, and as a whole family, are very trusting towards one another. Because of his father’s riches, Adrien was raised decently, though not spoiled, and with many opportunities. They are not a showy family.
Adrien’s parents provide a lot of support, especially his mother. William is quiet and introverted and does not easily show his support, but is behind everything his son does. Christiana outwardly shows her care and is always encouraging Adrien. They are a wholesome family, taught to be noble and well-mannered, and though a family of Death Eaters, the do not come off as villainous. However they seem, though, cannot account for who they really are: yes, a wholesome family, caring towards one another and their fellow kin, but also genuine Death Eaters, uncaring towards those they do not know and willing to kill when instructed to (Beau may be an exception to this).
"Make way for the heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through..."
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE: Steady breaths flowed upon the single pillow settled under Adrien Mhire’s head. He was not covered, laying instead on top of the made bed, and wore casual clothes. His night clothes, a loose button down shirt of cashmere and matching black slacks. The blinds were slit open, moonlight strewn in stripes across the floor, and on the bedside table sat an open parchment journal, its pages pristine and lined, written upon with concentrated black ink. Seemingly, the wizard had just finish his latest recordings, the script of his handwriting still damp.
Despite the peacefulness of the room—a sleeping man, undisturbed possessions, silence—his eyelids flitted with restlessness. An inconspicuous sign that his slumber was new, not yet deep but overpowering to his consciousness. Or, perhaps, a mark of unwelcome dreams. To this wizard, however, all dreams were unwelcome. He wholly despised them, in a fashion that exhausted him more than his body could allow. They reminded him of his deepest anxiety, his sorrow, his utter pain and anger, and took from him his sincerest feelings and colored them black.
He wasn’t opposed to darkness, to black, but with a persecuting state of his mind, he struggled. Black perhaps was faulty to describe the state of mind that overwhelmed him when he succumbed to sleep. Black was what one could call the night sky, the night air, that lingered without a moon; or the color and fur of a horse or grim, or the skin of a thestral. It could describe the mind that is blank, devoid of anything but nothingness.
Nothingness could not illustrate his dreams.
Beneath the surface of his consciousness, darkness would suffocate his senses. Submersed, he felt that such torment was not worth his effort. His weakened body crumbled against the demanding black hole of his essence; his delicate psyche bent upon itself in such conditions, crackling and warping with little resistance, leaving only the resonance of malfunction. Of wretch and raw agony was the prominent feeling that swelled within Adrien. It was an emotion discovered in the last decade of his life, haunting him in his subconscious loneliness and reflection, and thus far shredding what little security the darkened wizard hid within himself.
It concocted within him vulnerability.
His dreams were not his mistakes, his regrets. They were deeper, harder than that. His arrant failures, that had or could or would perhaps happen. In the confines of his mind, they were vivid. So real. So arresting and heart-stopping, to the point of fidelity. And yet, they were mere images, flashing images that floated through the backs of his eyelids. They were fake, only his subconscious playing with him. Toying with his mental versatility, and ruining what feeling he managed to hold onto. Salem’s smile, Agmar’s kiss, Rowan’s gentleness. His family: his mother, his father, and his brother. Perished, destroyed. How? he agonized. How could his mind create such agony if it weren’t somehow happening? If it wasn’t taking place in some other reality, besides his limited, lying mind? He awoke in all sleepful nights with such an ache in his chest, of not being able to breathe, of his heart and gut and lungs balling into fists at the great torment his hidden mind caused him.
It was so unavoidable, so unreachable. He didn’t even know it was there, until it surfaced from the black that his subconscious seemed to be, the nothingness that he saw it as. He couldn’t prevent it, he couldn’t assuage it; all he could was postpone it by an avid case of insomnia. By staying up all hours, scrawling away on parchment until there was no more ink to use. He would write his research, his latest conclusions, his current thoughts and contemplations, what was bothering him, what was soothing him, He wrote, even, about his greatest distress, his dreams. Despite their horror, he scripted them furiously to hold them at their end and watch as their contents burned against the fire of his bureau candle. They emitted in their partial demise a black stream of smoke, and he relished in their own terrible agony.
Adrien exhaled a harsh breath, as though attempting to rid himself of what years he had left to live, and shifted position on the mattress. An infectious abyss sucked like crazed bitterness at memory, fingering with claws the precious images that invisibly fueled the twenty-nine year old’s will to subsist. It was winning; in fact, nearly victorious. The older, aggrieved body became eerily still, and for the moment, all movement of breath seemed non-extant.
“It will swing in our favor, you should not be worried.” Agmar’s black eyes probed his own, confidant. “Do not fret over us, over me. Do not act as though this will be the last time you will see me. That is foolish, Adrien.” But he continued to worry, even if what Agmar thought was foolish, Adrien usually did not do. But he inwardly brooded, prayed, hoped. They were going to win, how could they not? The war was setup in their favor, they had already killed several high-ranked officers. Professors, apprentices, animagus, werewolves. So many murders. Yet it hadn’t bothered him then, and it didn’t bother him now; he had followed Agmar’s orders, it was for their greater good. It was delusional, perhaps, and he had grown out of such practices—but for Agmar, he would have done anything. Willingly.
“Adrien, we must go,” and the darker kissed him goodbye, the way Adrien would have kissed his Lord had he not been weary of its foolishness. The younger had not expected it from Agmar, not in loom of battle, war, for power and the fulfillment of the Dark Lord’s lifelong desires. Adrien remembered breathing despite the bewilderment, the stress and tension, of the moment. Hot air against Agmar’s throat and a soft intrusion of mind, that penetrated the smaller’s skull and delivered to him a weighty notion of love.
This. Every occasion his mind played this against him, it was possible, perhaps probable, that Adrien Mhire encountered a facet of death. This, the notion of love, the mutual correspondence of devotion and affection and desire and attachment. It should, in any person’s mind, exist as something the opposite of painful. The opposite of tragedy and persecution. But for the dark wizard in whose mind these memories danced restlessly, these recollections and reexperiences were terrible, lingering, and unfixable. Because he saw them knowing Agmar would not return, that it would indeed be the last time he would see the half of soul that Agmar was within him.
The pain was immense, in both breadth and weight. It neared quietus.
But something grasped at last minute the suggestion of vivacity residual and pumped it tenfold into the exhausted wizard. The thrust awakened him, and he bolted upright, breathing with great effort. The black shirt which he wore was soaked midnight and the pupils of his eyes were gaining, slowly, their pure color blue. From a darker, capricious-like cobalt to their clear, steady pale blue. He blinked.
The queen-bed mattress, groaning belatedly with the sudden movement, curved towards Adrien’s immobile yet erect body. The wrinkles pointed dutifully towards his weight, gathered where each limb touched the surface of the top blanket, and if one looked close enough, where also his left had spread lethargic at his side. It seemed he was unaware of its movement despite it being his own until he picked it up, palm facing his gaze, and scrutinized it. He wondered, amidst the fading grip of his pain, if Salem had nightmares. His hand dropped to his side again, and he became attentive to the window whose blinds still masked the temperament of the night. If his slave struggled with a similar pain from the loss of or split from his family. The light between the wooden slats had shifted to Adrien’s face, and strangely, this crafted his appearance to youth and contentment. Blinking, the dark man finally rose. He moved from the luster of the moon, vanishing temporarily, then rematerialized beneath a proper robe.
He exited his room slowly, quietly, and rummaged behind the bar of the front room for a glass. Salem’s room was opposite his, the main room between them. His brows were furrowed as he filled the glass halfway with water, and swallowing, the first sip struggled down his dry throat. Pale, his blue eyes mulled, distant, across the city of Glasgow over which his flat rested, and his nightmares, fading, retreated with his apparent wakefulness.
"Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re a bit conceited, mate."
NAME: Adrien
AGE: 21
GENDER: Undisclosed
YEARS ROLEPLAYING: 7-8
LOCATION: USA
HOW DID YOU FIND US: Linders
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