As much as he loved a dress code, formal events in the summer were cruel, at least to those who fancied suits. Gowns at least allowed for barely-there straps, or slits that allowed a breeze to brazenly graze bare legs in the way that his fingers itched to do, but Richard was being strangled by his bowtie and his jacket was suffocating. He needed air; even if the outside temperature was typical for June, at least there would be space to breathe. That had been the plan, before a pretty little someone passed by, and the inevitable eye-lock meant Richard was no longer watching where he was going, and he promptly knocked right into another figure. It was an uncharacteristically sloppy moment, and the person he'd been making eyes at gave a giggle and slipped inside, out of his line of vision. "Damn it," he murmured, before finally acknowledging the one who'd intruded on what could have been a moment. "Ah. Moody. I'd say it's a pleasure, but -" Richard adjusted the sleeves of his jacket as though the action would finish his thought for him. "Should I assume you're on the hunt, or are you actually here to enjoy yourself?"
Richard was not really the type to stare, much preferring to be on the receiving end of a lustful, envious, or otherwise longing gaze, but he found himself doing just that, eyeing a fellow wallflower. Standing on the periphery of the socialization, he'd eventually grown bored with people-watching, less than impressed with the artificial pageantry of the evening, and his eyes had fallen on a face he knew - but didn't. A few names flickered through his mind, all fizzling when they didn't quite fit. Ordinarily, he would have let it go, unbothered by not knowing the name of a random someone-or-other in favor of those who actually had something to offer him, but she must have felt him looking, and he was caught mid-stare. Well, now it was a thing. With an internal sigh, he easily closed the distance between them, not bothering with a greeting beyond: "Why do I know you?"
BIRTHDAY :: October 26th - Arriving in the final throes of the Libra-Scorpio cusp, Richard is every bit the braggadocios, critical, and passionate man as is written in his stars. His veela bloodline only bolsters his astrologically-appointed good looks and sexual prowess, Scorpios being the masters of the, ahem, nether regions. While at first blush he can appear cool to the point of apathy, he is inherently callous and poised to sting when anyone or anything falls below his lofty standards. Richard is capable of greatness, and intrigued by his girlfriend's lust of ascension, but the stars foretell he must learn far more self-discipline: natural charisma must become diplomacy, aggression must become determination, and dissatisfaction must become aspiration. If not, he'll remain in the cycle of perceiving his life's happenings to be out of his control, dictated by extenuating circumstance, which leaves his oscillating between moody sulking, overindulgence in beautiful diversions, and destructive havoc. Overall, Richard Ellington is - difficult, but for those willing to withstand his dramatics, he'll make it worth their while. Then again, there's always the old allegory of the scorpion needing to cross the river ...
WAND :: From the outset, Richard knew he wanted a visually stunning wand. While morning on about the history and tendencies of various woods, the shopkeeper pulled multiple options, some the boy refused to even take in hand based on their aesthetic. Eventually, the elderly man paused for a moment before once again disappearing into the shelves. When he returned, he placed before Richard a sleek box, revealing a 14 1/4" silver lime wand housing a dragon heartstring core. The boy was instantly taken with it, snatching it up immediately, so captivated by its beauty that he'd almost forgotten to try it, without prompting. After several assurances to his father that it was indeed genuine silver lime, the shopkeeper mentioned something about that particular wood being an ideal match for seers and legilimens - whatever those were. Unbeknownst to anyone, however, was exactly how apropos the core of the piece would turn out to be: "While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental." (source)
AMORTENTIA :: It's a cliche, and Richard knows as much, but his amortentia is reminiscent of his first infatuation: Clarice, and the delicate, practically floral scent that always clung to his pillowcase when he'd woken up in the morning after she'd already left for work. The next fragrance is likely just as predictable: Georgine's essence, which is richer, almost spicier than her older half-sister, a scent he once had to diligently rid himself of with hasty showers but in which he now revels. The third element is not dissimilar to the deep, masculine earthiness of expensive leather; he can't quite place it, not for lack of trying, but rather because it's relatively impossible to recognize one's own distinct pheromones. Each layer is pleasing enough on its own, but what sets Richard on fire is the way each complements the other, swirling and playing so intoxicatingly that he truly goes a bit weak in the knees.
BOGGART :: Richard's boggart takes the form of his darling Georgine. She is furious and blood-thirsty, lunging at him with fangs bared. He is less terrified of the idea of Georgine draining his very life from his body, and instead deeply unsettled by the creeping suspicion that if it came down to it - if that was truly to be the end of his natural life - he wouldn't even put up much of a fight.
PATRONUS :: While the man has never come anywhere near conjuring his patronus, Richard likes to imagine it would be a fierce creature along the lines of a wolf, or a panther, maybe even a scorpion. If he ever did attempt to conjure one, he'd be enraged to see that all of his work had manifested itself in "a bloody swan?!" A black swan, to be specific: uncommon, striking, elegant - and vicious.
Mirror of Erised & Writing Sample below the cut - minorly NSFW ...
MIRROR OF ERISED :: Studying his own reflection, even during sex, is far from unfamiliar territory for someone as vain as Richard Ellington - but this ... this is new. To start, he's not actually having sex, not at the present moment; he's standing completely alone, staring into a mirror, yet somehow his reflection is in another realm entirely, very much so not alone. He's sweat-soaked and breathless, fingers gripping his companion's hips in a way that will surely leave dark, watercolor splotches of bruises in the morning, moving inside of the gorgeous other. But what's making his mind completely explode is that the other, the one digging fingernails into his arms, completely blissed out, gazing at him like he's a god - that other keeps changing, shifting, transforming with every rhythmic thrust: Georgine ... Adairia ... Clarice ... Garwain ... Celestia ... Georgine ... Adairia ... Clarice ... Garwain ... Celestia ...
WRITING SAMPLE :: What takes probably five seconds feels like five lifetimes: the unmistakable sound of a key in a deadbolt, the gasp from the woman who feels so impossibly perfect right where she is that he can’t help but reach for her as she pulls away, the swishing and swirling of bedsheets as she clambers to get away from him, which they both know has never been her forte. He blinks at the ceiling as one, two of those seconds tick right by, not waiting for him to catch up with the reality of the moment, but he does manage to bring himself up on his elbows. He can’t stop this, he can’t redress and chase the flush from his cheeks and remake a bed and pretend he wasn’t just inside his fiancée’s younger half-sister.
But he can stare it down. He can watch it all implode. He can do that much.
It takes another five seconds/lifetimes to watch her come through the door, seeing them, catching them, taking in the way he’s so completely shattered their life together. Maybe her life in its entirety, he considers, forcing himself to keep his blue-grey eyes on her face as she works through all the emotions one might expect. He’s not sure which emotion he’s feeling at the moment, so instead he shuts them down entirely, offering little more than a barely-there shrug of his right shoulder.
With another five seconds/lifetimes, she’s gone. It’s over. Her diamond is on the dining room table, which - thanks to the modern layout of the London flat he’s definitely overpaying for - sits directly between where she stands at the front door, and where he watches from the bedroom. Maybe a more traditional floorplan would have saved his relationship, bought him some time, given them a chance. Maybe he knew that if she ever deemed to come through the door at a time dictated by anything other than her goddamn work schedule, she’d see exactly what he’d been up to in her absence. He doesn’t let himself wonder if her sister knew too.
But he does manage to tamp down the hint of a smile threatening to tug at the corner of his lips. He knits his brow in what he’s pretty sure looks like shame. He can do that much.
