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DU BOIS, Évariste
Topic Started: Sep 6 2010, 12:30 PM (170 Views)
Évariste du Bois
Unregistered

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E V A R I S T E D U B O I S

CHARACTER PICTURE HERE

* lyrics describing your character here .

HEY THERE. THE NAME IS HATTER, AND I AM SEVENTEEN.
I'VE BEEN ROLEPLAYING FOR ABOUT SIX YEARS
AND MY OTHER CHARACTERS WOULD BE NON-EXISTENT AS OF YET. I FOUND FKAC AT CAUTION. OH, BY THE WAY, I READ THE RULES. WANT PROOF?
THE CODE WORD IS PUMPERNICKEL
WANT TO REACH ME? HERE'S MY IM: ROSENDAL@HOTMAIL.CO.UK

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  • - - - - Full Name, Évariste Etiénne du Bois.
    - - - - Title, French Ambassador.
    - - - - Gender, Male.
    - - - - Sexuality, Relatively A-sexual, something rare in the French court. It's quietly assumed by his general lack of interest in chasing women that he's of a rather more controversial standing.
    - - - - Age, 27
    - - - - Place at Court, French Ambassador.
    - - - - PB (Play-By), Who is the face of your character?
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  • - - - - Loves, Choral Music, politics, writing out correspondences, walking rather than riding, but needs must, France rather more than England, meat pies, travelling, feeling cultured, reading theology, poetry though his own attempts are shockingly bad, rain running down stained glass, archery, eavesdropping.
    - - - - Loathes, The Spanish, winter frost, whispering, the sort of etiquette that demands pointless conversation, convolution of simple subjects, Lutheran theology, untidiness, whorish women, people who are too intelligent for their own good, heretics.
    - - - - Strengths, Diplomacy, linguistics, thorough and reliable, loyalty, efficiency, politically minded, observant, logical.
    - - - - Weaknesses, Making small talk, can come across disinterested and arrogant, impatient, has a natural tendency toward flouting eloquence and a temper he has to keep in constant check.
    - - - - Dreams, To gain greater favour under both King Henry and King Francois through his work, in order to gain a better insight into the courts of both.
    - - - - Fears, His own impatience driving his temper to his saying something he will regret. War breaking out between France and England - or worse, France losing said war.
    - - - - Overall Personality, Three paragraph minimum.
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  • - - - - Family Members, State here.
    - - - - Overall History, Three paragraph minimum covering their childhood up to the current game time.
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  • - - - - Roleplay Sample, The rosebush had been a bad idea. This conclusion he came to only as he stumbled out of the otherwise conveniently positioned bush into another, more yielding and much less prickly one. It was fair to say, that for all his genius, Sherlock Brown often seemed to lack a great deal of common sense. His ability to establish what kind of shrub he was looking at, in Autumn, from a distance of five-hundred yards was lacking. Making a mental note to rectify this shortcoming, he established a much more comfortable stronghold behind a Camellia Sinensis bush. Though not so well positioned, the plant had immediate and clear benefits; no thorns, for one, and a patch of chamomile within easy reach. Farbeit from him to be distracted, but the temptation of chamomile tea, to make the wait for interest to occur, was simply too much. He pulled out his wand. He had expected this to be much more exciting, it had to be said. Either it was just him, or the Tonks family, who lived in the cottage across the lawn from where he was hiding, were exceptionally dull. Now and again, their daughter, Nymphadora who, by the state of her fluctuating appearance, was a metamorphmagus, would run into the garden, shouting and giggling and imitating the birds which erupted into the sky, wary of her arrival.

    But what could be expected? He had, after all, only been here a couple of hours, and it could not be argued that a perch at the bottom of the garden was the best way to find out information about people. Even as he sat, transfiguring a dandelion into a glass mug, he considered the alternatives: now that he had an understanding of the household, which he'd narrowed down to three, husband, wife and daughter, it might be more sensible to act, rather than waiting for information that was clearly not coming. He could present himself, on their doorstep, as someone from the Prophet, though their reputation was (rightfully) quite sour, and he was likely to be turned away. A muggle, perhaps - the family had clear muggle sympathies, something their position, on the edge of a large, muggle village, and gardening facilities (hose and coal-fed barbecue) gave away. Wizards who preferred exclusively the company of other wizards would have restricted themselves to one or other of the Wizarding settlements across the country, or somewhere out, further from muggles.

    But who would let a muggle into their house, if said muggle appeared to have no agenda? A surveyor? Someone lost? No - he wasn't sure enough of the family's temperament to try that one without risking being turned away. With things like that, and without the talents bestowed upon the youngest member of the Tonk's household, one only had a single opportunity. No, better to stay unannounced until things were more certain. "Aguamenti," He muttered, under his breath, wand aimed into the mug. Once it was filled with water, he added, "Relashio." The water bubbled to boiling point and seconds later chamomile tea was on its way to brewing. "Excellent."

    Biding his time, he considered. He would need to talk to Andromeda, who he knew to be the estranged sister of Narcissa Malfoy. Through Andromeda he could find out how best to approach Narcissa, who would thereby present a clear passage of introduction to her husband, Lucius, whose strong connections to the Ministry would make him the perfect contact. By his favour, something Sherlock assumed he would acquire, by whatever means came to him at the time, he intended to have some form of internal job at the Ministry by Christmas. At which point, the real fun would begin. This, he took a sip of the tea and smiled to himself, was simply networking; establishing a foundation for the much wider investigation he intended to conduct. Simple.

    It did not occur to him, even for a moment, that this was possibly the wrong way to go about it. Applying directly for a job at the ministry was as good as drawing attention to oneself, so much as screaming 'I AM POKING AROUND!' from the rooftops, no, he intended to be much more subtle. Subtlety and complexity were as good as synonymous; the more complicated the plan, the less likely people are to uncover it for what it is. That, and there's no fun in making something easy for oneself, is there?

    The prospect of sitting here all night, however, under gathering clouds which inevitably preceded rain, was an unpleasant one. Sherlock had never been patient - indeed, it was a miracle he had managed to maintain composure in a bush, in silence, for so long without boredom dragging at him - and he was certain that if not so much as a light turned on or off in the house before he finished his tea, he would leave, regroup, rethink and return tomorrow.

    After a few moments, a rustle came from the back door of the house, a click, a delighted shout and the inevitable cluster of cawing and flapping which had become something of a trademark fanfare for the seven-year-old's arrival in the garden. Sherlock jumped slightly, spilled tea on his robes, and coughed loudly, all in the space of about three seconds. Where it not for the cough, he might have managed to get away with the falter, been passed off as another bird, or a large garden gnome scurrying into hiding. As it was, however, seven year olds know a cough when they hear one, and the idea of a gnome coughing seemed to come as a novel concept to Nymphadora, who froze momentarily, before stumbling over to investigate. Sherlock's eyes widened and he scrambled, none-too-subtly, for his wand, which he managed to extricate from his robes with seconds to spare. almost stabbing himself in the face, he put the wand up to his temple, closed his eyes and hurriedly whispered the charm. A cascade of ice trickled down his back.

    Seconds later, a short, orange haired, girl, with bright green eyes peered over the hedge, with the air of one trying, but failing, not to be disruptive. "Here gnomey, gnome- gnomey gnoooome!" Sherlock held his breath. The disillusionment charm did not make one invisible, only chameleonesque - he had to hope that the darkness would do the rest, and that the child was, like most people, either not interested or attentive enough to notice that he had not moved from his position. Looking around, the girl caught sight of something close to him - the mug, still half-filled with warm tea, and as obviously not a plant as he himself had been mere moments before. There was no way of rescuing the mug without being noticed. The girl's hair changed, miraculously pink as her eyes lit up with delight. "Eh?" She snatched up the cup, smelt it and took a tentative sip of the pale tea. Her eyes screwed up with disgust, she spat the tea out, over him. "Eugh, gnomeys drink horrid things." As the rejected tea dripped from his hair, Sherlock hoped she wouldn't notice the strange image of tea dripping in solidified mid-air. Luckily, she turned almost immediately and ran towards the house, taking the glass cup with her, giggling delightedly. "MUMMY! The gnomes left me a present, Mummy, LOOK!"
[align=center] THIS TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY THATSNOTMYNAME ! @ CAUTION EDITED BY LANIE OF FKAC [/align]
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Edward Seymour
Unregistered

Due to the application not being finished, we will archive it. Do let us know if you would like for us to move it back so you may finish it. :)
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