novus_sardonyx (novus_sardonyx) wrote in novus_sceptrum, @ 2009-10-10 22:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | when: october 1999, where: london, who: nymphadora tonks, who: sardonyx monsonego |
Characters : Sardonyx Monsonego, Nymphadora Tonks
Date: : October 10th, 1999
Location : Diagon Alley, London
Rating : TBD
Summary : Unable to make contact with his former teacher and fellow werewolf, Sardonyx has come to investigate why his letters get no replies.
Status : Complete
The weather in Britain had always been shit, and if Sardonyx could help it he didn't even like to visit. British wizards tended to be uptight, close-minded, and generally all around unpleasant in ways those of other countries were not. It was kind of funny, really, the whole world thought the British were stuck up these days and not worth the trouble of dealing with most of the time, but the British themselves seemed to think pure UK blood was actually worth something in the grand scheme of things.
Looking around Diagon Alley, Sardonyx wasn't impressed. There were ladies in fine robes (dear GOD did they selective breed the ugliest females they could here?), an Auror or two in their badges and cloaks (obviously the Ministry didn't administer IQ tests, that guy there didn't even tie his boots this morning), and a lot of people passing by quickly with their heads down.
Sardonyx was used to much different surroundings. The milder weather of his favored areas in China, the peaceful, laid back Buddhist majority in his town, the complete lack of people with sticks stuck so far up their asses they were constantly tasting wood.
He wouldn't have been here at all if Hemingway hadn't stopped answering his owls. He had gone first to Brighton and found the apothecary burned to the ground, now he was somewhat at a loss. He didn't know much about Britain, and he was going to have to learn quick if he wanted to find a safe place to spend the full moon. He could brew some Wolfsbane potion but he doubted the innkeeper where he was staying would be pleased with the smell of some of the steps it required. If need be he could rent a bit of brewing space somewhere, but he'd still have to figure out where in the city he could do that.
He could only assume at this point that his mentor and sire had been taken by the British Ministry, and if that was the case he was going to have to find a base of operations and figure out how to spring the old mutt from whatever kennel he was in. It was going to prove to be difficult...he spoke his father's native Arabic somewhat, and of course enough Hebrew to participate in religious ceremony when he went with his father to his home country of Morocco to visit family in the Jewish community. He spoke Mandarin and Cantonese fluently, having grown up in Beijing.
His English, however, was decidedly spotty. He could understand most of what was being said around him, but he could only say half of whave he would need to, and people who understood Arabic, Hebrew or Chinese were sadly lacking in his immediate vicinity. It wouldn't eve have been that much of a problem, but the people here were so impatient they didn't want to take the few moments necessary to understand what he was trying to say. He'd already been called 'chink' twice, which was actually kind of funny since he only had the barest slant to his eyes and was over six feet tall.
It was not funny that nobody would even let him get out a full question. All he was trying to find out was if anybody knew of an apothecary run by a Hemingway Lovell, in case the older werewolf had moved his shop from Brighton to one of these godawful wizarding streets and the shop that had been burned turned out to not be his. He'd eventually given up standing at the end of Diagon Alley and asking people who looked like they had Potions ingredients about it. Nobody really understood what he was asking, and so far three separate people had looked him down and asked 'how much?' while grinning stupidly. So now he was sitting grumpily at a table outside of a small cafe (this crap they served here in Britain was not real tea, he'd tasted stronger water), amber eyes watching the world go by with his usual animal intensity, idly wondering on occasion how British baby tasted.
Thus far his conclusion on that one was that they were probably much like their parents...sour, tough, and quite possibly rotten.