summer solstice flowers
Original Sorting Application
appearance: 8 words / personality: 663 words / background: 1088 words
- Summer Solstice "Sol" Flowers (yes, really)
- super pureblood!
- my husband, lover and life-partner tj gave me permission (i've also got florian, moth & prof. kaz)
- sol is smelly and dresses like a chav
- Every creature in the world has a defence mechanism. Whether their size, their tough skin, their defences; or their claws and their teeth, their power: all creatures had it. Some curled into balls, tucked themselves away in underground dens while the padding feet of predators passed away overhead. Some screamed and shouted, loud and falling, thundering, upon ears that simply cannot be bothered to put up with the cacophony in order to get lunch. Some splay bright patterns upon their backs and wings, a subliminal scream of “don’t eat me, because I’m poisonous, and if you get sick you’ve only yourself to blame”.
One single creature, lowly and lonely: it’s defence mechanism is a sneer, a swear; a smoking cigarette crunched into the floor by a heavy boot. A step forward, a crack of the knuckles; and muttering of “mudblood” and a certain footing and stance that gave a reminder that his fists were balled and not so far away as one once thought. Perhaps a punch, perhaps a kick, perhaps a flirt: no flirt meant to find love, however; this creature aimed for intimidation. Flirting was power too, in the way that a knife could cut deep, the right word could cut just as sharp. The lone creature does not hide, but wears it’s colours proudly out: the shout of the fabric and the spikes stitched onto an old military coat that yell “don’t eat me, because I’m poisonous, and if you get sick you’ve only yourself to blame.”
Sol Flowers, the creature, is not a very nice person. Cultivated oh-so-heavy-handedly, like a glass flower blown in all the right ways, as though every petal might scratch sharp against your skin. As his father raised him to be dark and cruel, the darkness and cruelty soaked in through every pore on Sol’s body and rotted him away from the inside. He learnt that fists solved problems and spoke messages far better than his lips could and, after all, lips were much better for other things. Sol grew up sheltered in a life that suffocated him, and thus his suffocation of the world around him formed: his hatred of impure wizards, his disgust at anybody who wasn’t just like him. And how could anybody be? He loved himself far too much to realise anybody else could be just so wonderful, so talented, so special.
And he was special indeed, every day being reminded of the way he was sold away by parents who couldn’t train him: he was too important, and thus his ego became strong. Again, a protective force: without such an ego, he would surely have melted away by now; but his self-confidence kept him strong. Sol’s head is often found tucked firmly between his asscheeks, with nothing but a good word for himself and something nasty to bring others down. He finds the chase, the wind-up, fun. Exciting. Life is all about the chase: the wolf that hunts his prey with a grin on his face. After all, what’s a fight if there’s no agrivation to start the blood boiling? What’s a meet-up in the broom closet without the eye contact and teasing glances that come before it? The chase and the excitement of getting to the end fuels every part of Sol’s life.
He calculates. The chase gives him time to think: perhaps one looks at the young man who likes to throw his fists around and forgets that he can know things. If he hadn’t been able to learn and study, by now, he would be dead by the hands of the man he lived with. He is, most of all, useful. A jack of all trades, a near-master of most. He aims to perfect everything; to be good at everything. Things he can’t do right are either deemed as useless, nothing, stupid; or they enrage him to the point of that deeply-concocted façade smashing against the rocks of difficulty. Sol aims for perfection, for purity. Nothing less.
- [tw] v. brief mention of physical abuuuuuse, general bad childhood with a mean foster-dad
bouquet (n): an arranged group of flowers, especially one presented as a gift
Deep in a forest, far away from muggles and purebloods alike, the Flowers grew.
At first, it began with two: Evening and Hawk Flowers lived alongside a small community of other druids who focused their magical skills on the natural world. The couple were the most dearly beloved in the woodland settlement, their caravan painted delicately with a mosaic-like sun dappled against the trees and the clouds. They lived quietly, where Evening would paint, forsaking a wand and instead weaving her magic through the brush into scenes where the trees swayed in a sketched breeze, the flowers grew and wilted as the seasons changed, and tiny charcoal-mark birds nested in the dried flakes of thick paint. Hawk had been a farmer, and where he walked it seemed that the plant life bore through the earth just to see him; their tiny vines tangling gently over his toes as he would wander, watering and pruning as he went.
Life was idyllic for the company, and soon the couple became married, a beautiful ceremony decorated with coloured lights, soft satin curtains that swung between wedding arcs like monkeys in the trees. The child was next, and Evening began to glow in her pregnancy. Her art become larger, more vibrant: the suns she painted seemed to give off light and warmth; the rain she composed made one’s skin wet if they moved too close. In the midst of an annual celebration, as the people outside danced; Evening’s waters broke, and she gave birth to her son, who Hawk and herself named after the celebration’s cause: Summer Solstice. With hair as dark as a crow’s wings, the leader of the commune gave warning that Summer was to be trouble. Of course, this was their tiny baby boy; so young he barely woke most days, so Evening and Hawk ignored the elder’s warnings.
One day, Evening’s paintings stopped moving, and a strange man visited the woods. Clothed in robes and with a tattoo upon his arm that gave an aura of fear, of darkness; he visited and took the child. With little magic apart from that which grows crops, which warms the sunlight or paints beautiful pictures; they could not stop him. He was stronger than all of them, and the man left the community with the child in his arms and left the Flowers wilting. Perhaps it was the young child’s fate, his raven-black hair that cursed him to be taken away, or perhaps simply bad luck from a man who planned to steal a child from a place where he knew none could fight back. Summer Solstice never returned to his home, and was taken to London, far away. Evening never painted again.
train (v): the act of teaching a person a particular, correct, type of behaviour
In London, Summer Solstice died and Sol was born. After all, what could a child with a druid’s name hope to achieve in the real world? This was no longer a life of flowers and folklore: this was a world where Hogwarts and the magical world awaited, teeming with mudbloods and muggles to be taken down a peg. The new child would be the weapon with which to infiltrate the corrupt system that had abandoned its pure roots, and Deus Argyle knew better than most purebloods the dangers that an impure magical world could wreak. He raised Sol as anything but his own, instead spinning a story like spider silk that his parents, unloving; unwashed nobodies who lived in caravans and mud, sold him away like a dog. Deus was the only father-like symbol than Sol had had in his life, so believed him without a single doubt. His parents had sent him away for a trade of quick money, and he grew up deeply reliant on Deus as his caregiver: if he didn’t do as he was asked, he might be sold on again.
He was raised gulping down the ideals of blood purity at it’s finest and most toxic; the horror stories of the disgusting muggles and their demonic mudblood spawn that contaminated the lake that was the magical world, and Deus would explain regularly how much this lake needed purifying. While the magical world was taught to him, magic itself was a different component in his life. Sol had natural talent, of course, as almost any pureblooded children did – though he thanked everything he could each night that he had not been born a squib, in fear of what Deus might do. His talent grew through his childhood, yet it was very particularly guided. Deus would call Sol to his office, ask his to perform magic; and unless it was perfect he would be punished. Often with a ruler against his knuckles, or a belt against his back. Sometimes a lit cigarette.
Deus’ plan was clever, if not truly evil: to foster something within Sol that would make his magic an explosion of power. By drilling it into him that his magic was evil, was wrong, was incorrect; Sol’s power could manifest itself to burst forth stronger than ever before, after being locked away like a prisoner. As to whether he succeeded in germinating the dark seed of the creature he aimed to create is a different topic indeed.
He attended Hogwarts at the same age as any, given a wand by Deus himself: an heirloom, he’d called it. The most powerful ally Sol may ever have in the world. Sol himself had been unsure of the exact meaning of Deus’ explanation, but he treasured the wand anyway. Somehow he felt it sucking him dry whenever he used it, as though it became an elongation of himself in the worst possible way, like a parasite that drew out his magic like a leech and shot it out like bullets, only fit to harm. He rarely cast spells, avoiding his magic when he could. After all, it was evil, it was wrong, he was incorrect. Why rely on something he could not perfect when he could simply hurt people in other ways? Sol found quite quickly that he liked to hurt. He liked to cause pain, he liked to make trouble. But even still, as every biting world spat out of him towards the mudbloods of the corrupted magical world, he felt a darkness grow inside. Perhaps, he feared, it might one day eat him alive.
host (n): an animal within which a parasitic organism dwells, wherein it feeds
- "If these witches and wizards are so wonderful, why do they need a hat to tell me where I'll be living for the next seven years?" A thought, a pondering of the competency of these so-called professors, yet silence. He could burn inside later, and relieve himself with a fight. For now, stay quiet. Wait. "Let's do this".
- obscurial, baby >;3
- [insert obligatory "i live here" statement here]
First Revision (Beginner)
appearance: 000 words / personality: 000 words / background: 363 words
- Name: Summer Solstice Flowers
↪ Better Known as: Sol Flowers
↪ Name Meaning: Summer (the warmest season); Solstice (point where the sun is at it's highest or lowest); Flowers (the seed-bearing part of a plant)
↪ Birthday: March 29th
↪ Zodiacs Aries (Fire)
Year: Seventh Year
↪ Raised: Pureblood Elitist
-- i. bouquet --
- "There hasn't been a Flowers at Hogwarts for quite some time" the Sorting Hat had pondered whilst it sat crownlike on Sol's head, and it had been correct.
The Flowers were once, like many other Pureblood families, suitable members of society. A Scottish family at it's furthest roots, and one that took pride in it's blood: both the pure, magical kind; and the Aberdonian kind. Despite their pride in their pureblood status, the Flowers were never one of the families that people really knew of. They were at the parties, they held Ministry jobs, they attended Hogwarts... but they seemed to be merely there. Too proud of themselves to sit comfortably with heavily muggle-based families, yet not enough to entwine themselves with the Pureblood elite. Thus, they simply existed amongst their peers for years, as any normal wizarding family might have.
The change in reputation stemmed from Moritasgus Flowers, third child of a simple worker in the lowest rungs of the Ministry of Magic. Asgus, like his siblings, attended Hogwarts; and similarly to the majority of his family was sorted into Hufflepuff: the same way a Flowers lifestyle had played out hundreds of times before. However, it became quite quickly apparent that Asgus had a natural talent in Healing. While his other subjects seemed to be just "normal", he found himself working solidly at sixth year-level Healing within his first year alone. By his teachers, Moritasgus was branded a natural, a prodigy. By his second year he was the highest-ranking intern in the Hospital Wing, second only to the qualified healers themselves. By his fourth year, he took his Healing O.W.L a year early; and the same occurred with his N.E.W.T in sixth year, acing both with a near-perfect O. Asgus left Hogwarts before even starting his final year, after being offered a prestigious apprenticeship scheme at St. Mungo's where he soon rose to the ranks of Head Healer for a floor. He worked there for the rest of his working life, doing what he loved and building a large following of students that only grew when he published a handful of books and essays on various diseases and illnesses.
It wasn't until a handful of generations later, once the Flowers family had been branded moguls of the Healing world, when their reputation was quite suddenly sullied. There was no cliche moment where a their pureblood children ran off with a muggle, or anything so drastic as crime... simply a very odd child who saw very strange things. Mathilda Flowers was delicate, sickly even - she had been kept inside a hospital ward for a majority of her life, but she could recall beautiful places across the globe with astounding accuracy, despite never visiting them once.
"Who told you about that forest?" Her father would ask, and she would swear on her young life about the voice of the woman through the woods who spoke to her through her dreams, showing her beautiful visions of the natural world, untouched by hands magical or muggle. The family saw Mathilda as a strange young girl, but what teenager didn't go through... perplexing stages? Her father had become near-obsessive with cheesy Muggle music, and he grew out of it soon enough - Mathilda would surely be the same with this reverent figure that she swore spoke to her. Mathilda met a kindred soul in her last year of Hogwarts who changed her life: the young druid-in-training Trinette, who spoke of the way a goddess lurked in every breeze-blown leaf, in every rain drop, in every mound of dirt.
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