Your Nickname: Rooney
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Are you over thirteen? Yes
How did you find us and decide to write with us? Friend
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Is this a Primary or Secondary Character?: Primary

Full Character Name: Lyndon Pringle Harper
Character Birthday & Age: 28/02/1975, 37
City & Country of Birth: Oxford, England
Blood Purity: Halfblood
Alma Mater: Hogwarts, Slytherin
Job/Position:Club Ramora Proprietor

Wand: 11",Hornbeam, dragon heartstring, rigid, ornately decorated shaft

Physical Description:
Standing at just over six feet and three inches, Lyndon Harper isn't a man who is easily looked down upon. Years of physical activity and a rigid diet plan have left the man with a particularly lithe figure.

In terms of to complexion, Lyndon's skin is a naturally pale colour, and his skin is hard to tan. His torso is noticeably dotted with a spattering of freckles and scars that he swears were gained in adolescence. 

When it comes to physical movement, Lyndon is the kind of man that moves with a slow deliberation to each action, and is rarely in a rush to do anything. Whilst it is not rare to see Lyndon smile (or more accurately, smirk) it is incredibly rare to see that smile make it to his eyes. His eyes are a piercing blue-green colour and have a tendency to be overshadowed by a brooding deep frown or deathly glare.

Lyndon has always had naturally thin lips, that almost disappear entirely when pursed in thought or annoyance, and insists that his angular features were not born for expressions of happiness.

Personality Description:
There are no clean and simple adjectives that can clearly define a man like Lydon Harper. Though outwardly he is seen to be motivated by financial greed, it would be fair to say that Lyndon's motives are far more complex. Driven primarily by his need to control those around him, Lyndon is prone to ugly mood swings if things don't go according to plan for him, or if the actions of someone outside his control effect the bigger picture that he is often quietly planning.

When faced with those he cares about Lyndon prefers to work in mysterious ways. Burnt too many times by showing his affections outwardly, Lyndon prefers to actively distance himself from those he holds dear (particularly in a physical or sexual sense), fearing that tangling with them could only end in disaster. Generally he prefers to quietly look after these people by showering them in anonymous gifts, or pulling something out of the bag to save the day when they need it. He prefers to remain the unsung hero in these events, and hates nothing more than his caring for others being pointed out to him.

Scheming is one of the few things that Lyndon is naturally good at, in fact he is second to very few. Although his ambitions don't seem all that grand outside of  Club Ramora, it's no secret that Lyndon uses smooth words, and a knack for flattery to bend people to his way of thinking.

As far as enemies go, Lyndon has no problem cutting people off for even the most minor of offences, and is quick to fly into ugly rages. He is cold, cruel and often down right viscous to those that threaten him, his staff or the success of his club.

Anyone who's unlucky enough to know Lyndon on a personal level will know that he has an obsession with creatures and the macabre. He aligns himself particularly with those he deems to be potentially uglier on the inside than they let on, or are even actively aware of. And loves nothing more than attempting to drag these negative traits in others to the surface.

When it comes to lovers, Lyndon gravitates to emotionally broken types, and gives bonus points to the physically unusual. He refuses to label himself with any particular sexuality, and although is capable of creating the illusion of romance, takes no inner pleasure from it beyond being able to use it for his own gains, sexual or otherwise.

History:
Lyndon Harper born the only son of a trapeze artist and a soothsayer with milky coloured eyes. He grew up a bastard son in a weird world of supposedly false magic that danced on the fringes between the wizarding world and the muggle realm. Lyndon grew up surrounded by bright lights and loud music, but they failed to dazzle him like they did to the punters that came to stare at him and his family of misfits. From an early age, his was a life of fitting in with the freaks and the oddities, and although he looked normal enough with his thicket of copper curls and pale skin, he was just as strange as the rest of them. He was quiet, clever and a little bit too cruel for a boy his age. Where he could, he chose to spend his time alone, sitting on the roof of his caravan and simply watching those around him - looking down on them as though they were ants that he would one day tire of, and not the family that would propel him to a glittering future.

For Lyndon, lines between real magic and practiced parlour tricks was always blurred, but quietly he knew that the things that he could do were more than just slight of hand or tricks of the light. They said his mother was blind as a bat (a fact that simply gave him another reason to resent her because it meant he spent too much of his childhood looking after her when he could barely look after himself), but she seemed to see just fine when twinkling lights danced around his fingers at night or when he lit the campfires without a match or a torch. She knew what Lyndon was capable of because he had inherited those things from her.

For the longest time he convinced himself that she was lying. That the strange things he could do were just tricks he'd inadvertently picked up along the way, and when she told him that he had the ability to do so much more, he snatched himself away from her and called her crazy. Told her she'd been in the circus too long, that he'd be getting as far away from her as possible the moment he could.

He didn't expect that opportunity to actually materialise on the night of his eleventh birthday as he wriggled his bony body into his spandex trapeze suit ahead of his first live performance alongside his father's troop. The relationship with his father had always been an odd one. He acted as though Lyndon was nothing to do with him and although he was young, he wasn't naive enough to believe that his parents had ever loved one another. It wasn't even as though he hated Lyndon per say... he just couldn't connect to the odd little boy. Found him too strange, too quiet, too cold in his response to every joke he tried to make. Yet quietly they both knew that the only reason Lyndon bothered with the trapeze was to try and find some level on which to connect.

Lyndon can easily remember the night of his eleventh birthday like it was yesterday. He remember standing on the edge of that platform, looking down into the blinding lights and the delightful prickling sensation of having all those eyes staring at him as he started his routine. The youngest in the troop, the bravest. He  can remember the warm breeze on his sweating face as they let go of his ankles, he can even remember the way time felt as though it had almost come to a halt as he careered through the air. Not to mention the memory of the instant jarring panic and terror that hit him as his fingers grazed his father's and missed the catch.

He was just inches short of the net when he came to a shuddering halt, arms and legs still flailing as he damn near pissed his pants. It was his magic  that saved him that night, infront of an entire tent full of people that thought it was all just some elaborate trick. His hogwarts letter arrived the following morning and he struggled to read it with his lack of schooling. At first he thought it was a prank. Perhaps one of the clowns. But when he slammed it down infront of his mother, she told him it was all true. That his time had finally come. That the ringmaster would see to it that he made it to Diagon Alley for his supplies and then to the platform. She kissed Him on the forehead and cried as though it was the last time he would ever see her.

It was.

Hogwarts was just another circus to Lyndon. Just another melting pot of freaks and oddities and in the beginning He had no desire to fit in. Lyndon taller than his peers. Lanky and lithe from his athletic former life, but behind in every academic aspect. He loved his magic from the get go, and his wand movement was exquisite, but the other kids picked on him mercilessly every time he stuttered over a written word or when the professors graded him low because they couldn't read half his answers.

Over time he learned not to let it get to him. He had his friends and despite his best efforts not to get too attached, he held them close to his heart. He was a Slytherin back then, a walking stereotype in second hand robes. His salvation was a Hufflepuff boy with a round face and a pair of doe eyes that saw him in a way that no one else did. When the school holidays came, he stayed with Lyndon at school despite his sister's protests. He sat with Lyndon in the library for whole days, and in the evenings they would lay  on the roofs of the towers and stare at the stars long after curfew.

Fifth year was when he finally started to figure himself out. He learned that appearing to fit in would help him get far, and now that he had caught up with his classmates, he was  unstoppable. Lyndon filled out in sixth year, joined the Quidditch team and made a name for himself with the girls and boys alike who were caught off guard by his practised wry smiles and silver tongue.

Seventh year saw Lyndon come crashing back down to earth. His best friend got a girlfriend, and it got to him more than he could ever have anticipated. Lyndon threw his friendship with the Hufflepuff boy away when he decided that he wasn't ok with being replaced by a equally coppery haired girl from Ravenclaw. Lyndon found new friends. His studies suffered a little but he scraped through, and when his new found friends said they were going travelling after school finished, he barely gave his Hufflepuff saviour a second glance.

Ibiza was Their first stop. Lyndon hated every minute of it. Couldn't even raise a laugh when his mate got his name tattooed on his arse. He skipped out on their wet t-shirt competitions and crept into closed museums instead. They got hang overs whilst he hunted for the culture of the place. The same thing happened when they took Lyndon skiing in italy. Together they toured half of Europe, picking up odd jobs on the way to pay their fares. Long after they went home, Lydnon was still travelling, getting further and further away from home, the circus and his Hufflepuff.

Lyndon was just turning thirty-two when he finally made it back to England. Missing out on every slice of the iconic Golden Trio history that no doubt he would have done his best to have avoided anyway. He wasn't a scruffy teenager anymore. His mass of curly locks were gone and his once patchy attempt at a pubescent beard was now designer stubble that went perfectly with his designer suits. He came back suave and well spoken. Cultured and clever with a taste for expensive things and dangerous people.

He traded blue alcopops for top shelf wines, and he now walked in social circles that were mountains above the status he had been born into. He was someone's walking protege, but he walked and talked as though he was his own person. Buying up anything and anyone that took his fancy.

But the confidence, the suits, the money in his pockets. It all belonged to someone else.

He met her in a bar when he was still young, starry eyed and in love with everything the world had to offer. She was older than him. By a lot, in fact, and he was naive enough to believe that the love he bore for her was in some way reciprocated. He became easily addicted to her and the twisted way in which her mind worked, falling quickly in line with her harem of other lovers. She had big plans for him, she said. For all of them really. She was looking to build an empire out of Mongolia where she had been pushed out too from her homelands in Russia. This woman was... something else, cold and unbending, and if Lyndon could have been considered clinical and cruel in the way he thought of others, then she must have been down right barbaric in her approach to her fellow human beings. She picked her favourites, and used them to her own ends. Pulling them in with a bite of her lip and a flick of her hair, and casting them down with her cold words and and quick rages. Carefully she groomed her 'warriors', breaking them down and bending them to her will. Lyndon was her favourite for a time thanks to that silver tongue and cruel streak of his. Whilst all others were there purely to serve, Lyndon was allowed to venture into her inner sanctum, to share in her thoughts and her plans, and to lay with her when all others were dismissed. He was her pet for all intents and purposes.

And she kept him hanging on, moving from place to place and snatching up everything she wanted along the way. For years he was enthralled by her, allowing himself to be led further and further away from those that had once cared about him. For years he let her pick at his insecurities, highlighting even the most petty of mistakes, and stomping down his victories for her. She had killers, snatchers, creatures that all bowed to her, but Lyndon? Lyndon was her suit and tie guy. His naturally cool demeanour and quick thinking made him a natural at pulling off even the most ridiculous of cons. So that's what she had him do for for the better part of eight years. Until it became almost second nature to him. His mid to late twenties were spent swindling lonely old ladies, defrauding greedy rich fools, bringing businesses to their knees,  orchestrating very hostile take overs, and bringing it all back just for her.

But of course after a while, the protege began to grow tired of the master. Others began to turn his head, and the idea of regaining the independence that he couldn't remember losing, became all he could think about. Little by little her cruel taunts stopped having an effect on him, and when she flew into her vile rages, he stopped thinking that it was his fault.

It took a year for him to decide to leave, and of course he didn't do it quietly. He stole from the woman that he had spent years stealing for. For that year he quietly turned his hand to siphoning some of her gold into a private Gringotts account ready for when he felt safe enough to go back home. He stole a small fortune from that raven haired murderess and walked out on her with a man he had met in a bar who said he knew how to fly a car when they had exchanged pillow talk.

Lyndon was thirty two when he left her behind for the man with the flying car, but returning to London was still another year away. Once he'd made it back to the UK, the man he had bedded to get there was no longer of any use to him, and Lyndon moved on, and on again, struggling to find anything or anyone that could spark his interest for more than a few months. As much as he tried to live an ordinary life, the one he had led before, always seemed to come back to plague him. He had not expected the paranoia that plagued him for a year after his 'escape' from Mongolia. Nor had he anticipated the intense desire to return to the one that had made his life so... out of the ordinary.

By the time Lyndon decided he was finally safe from the ebony eyed seductress he had left behind, he was almost thirty four, and it was finally time to claim his prize from that hidden vault under the ground in Gringotts. He could have bought a house in the countryside and a pet crup and lived out the rest of his days quite happily on it if he had wanted to... but of course that was simply not Lyndon Harper's style.

Lyndon was going to make a name for himself. He was going to start something that reflected who he was, where he came from, and where he was going. He bought a matching pair of derelict buildings on Knockturn Alley, had the adjoining walls knocked through and within a year he was opening the doors to London's first creature staffed classic old fashioned jazz club - in direct competition with Le Masquerade and the other blossoming bars and clubs further up the street... Though it would be tough to argue which of the big two clubs is the seedier establishment given that one has 'private rooms' whilst the other makes no bones about the fact that you can get a slow werewolf lap dance or get high in the backroom on gillyweed if you've got the money for it.

Loving nothing more than to rock the boat, Lyndon wasted no time in showing his face at the other clubs and pubs that line both Knockturn and Diagon Alley. With some he formed interesting partnerships based on the exchange of information and lines of credit. With others, his inability to hide his ego severed any chance of friendships he might have had. Attracting creatures from all corners of London under the promise of employment and a roof over their heads, some  could easily fall into the trap of thinking that the club is designed primarily to take advantage of the 'poor' souls that work there. For anyone in the know, that thought is about as far from the truth as one can get. Paid above award rate, and keeping every tip they make whilst paying minimal rent actually makes the  club the ideal place to start for those creatures still trying to find their place in the world. But with the club still clawing to get to it's third birthday, Lyndon's future on Diagon Alley still hangs very much in the balance, but of course, Lyndon being Lyndon means that he's quietly confident that his club will find a way to thrive whilst others fade away.

Club Ramora was the definition of exclusive. It catered for a clientele with a particular taste. A taste for freaks, oddities and showmanship. For werewolves and veela, banshees and fawns. Lyndon glamorised them. Made them desirable. Dressed them in sequins, stuck them on a stage and called them his. He built up an empire with gold flakes in the drinks, smooth jazz sounds and a penthouse on the top floor. He furnished the remaining rooms for the staff that couldn't get a lease anywhere else because of what they were. He made connections both criminal and ministry alike to secure his future.

And now?

Now he sits on top of it all. He lives and breaths Club Ramora. He pretends otherwise but it's clear that he lives and breaths his staff as well - which is a dangerous thing with the political climate being what it is these days. He's vicious and vindictive when it comes to protecting whats his, and it's a well known fact that he loves his nightclub more than he could ever love another human being... or creature for that matter. He bends the ideas of romance, love and lust to his own ends and refuses to commit to anything that doesn't line his pockets.

Describe your job duties and how you go about them:
Lyndon Harper built Club Ramora up from the ground. It's a highly exclusive classic jazz club establishment that is staffed almost exclusively by creatures from all walks of life. Given the nature of many of the creatures that work there, acts are often 'seasonal' and subject to change at the drop of a hat meaning that the number of creatures on Lyndon's payroll has become quite extensive.

Whilst appearing to stay outwardly neutral, Club Ramora's location on Knockturn Alley gives the impression of it being for a certain kind of clientele, and is priced accordingly.

Lyndon's primary role is behind the scenes running the financial side of things. However it is by no means unusual to see him dressed in fine suits making very public appearances in the public parts of the Club Ramora building. He likes to know a lot of his clients personally and makes a point of being there to greet any big names that show up.

Behind the scenes, the second and third floor of Club Ramora are home to the creatures that work there, and Lyndon, respectively.  The basement of the building is where the food preparation takes place, and it is rare to find Lyndon anywhere near there. Preferring instead to schmooze between signing off papers.

Elaborate on your expertise in your field:
As the son of circus folk, Lyndon has always had the ability to weave the illusion of grandeur around anyone with a decent amount of coins in their pockets. Although not academically gifted, Lyndon insists on being involved in all paperwork aspects of the nightclub, but initially when the club was first starting out, took an active role in creating the acts that still headline it today and picking out the decor.

Now that the club is established enough to generally maintain itself, Lyndon's role is far less involved than it used to be, and he spends less time rolling his sleeves up and more time picking out entree menus than he cares to talk about.

Writing Sample:
Angle bead of sweat ran down creases of his forehead, pooling on the crest of his brow, quivering as it hung there, suspended on the edge. It went unnoticed, and even as another droplet formed and ran down the same rivulet, he did nothing. His blue eyes were hidden behind heavy lids, the rise and fall of his bare chest barely sending ripples across the steaming surface of the water. The bathroom was silent, save for the white noise that thrummed in his ears, and the water felt like a warm embrace as he allowed himself to slide even further down into the sloping stone tub until only his nose and mouth were visible through the last of the lingering suds.

The passage of time was lost to him as he lay there, his mind embracing the muted sloshing sounds of the miniature waves that crested and broke against the walls of the tub with ever rise and fall of his chest. It was soothing somehow in it's repetitiveness, and it was all he could do to wonder whether this was the kind of nothingness that awaited him on the other side.

He sank another inch, holding his breath as his lips tingled with the heat of the water he had sunk into. He ran his fingers down the smooth sides of the tub, feeling for any imperfection in the stone that might somehow let him know that he was still alive.

His breath caused angry bubbles as it escaped him, and his heartbeat pulsed slowly in his ears, but he didn't move. Instead waiting for the water to grow calm again as he let his mind wander to a dark land of what ifs that made the few seconds that he had been submerged, feel more like minutes.

The first sound he heard sounded nothing like his name. It sounded distant and muted somehow, lacking any definition or meaning. and, for a moment, he was convinced that he had imagined it.

But then the sound was followed by another... and another to the point that it could not be passed off as some imagined sound. He felt... reluctant somehow to answer them though. And perhaps would have ignored the curious burbling sounds altogether if his body hadn't started screaming for air with such force that his body had begun to tremble.

His head practically erupted from the surface of the water, and the sudden intake of breath was sharp and painful, droplets of water catching in his throat. He snatched the towel from the rim of the tub and couched into it. And once his lungs were still again, he let his head rest against the rim of the tub for a moment longer - blue eyes staring up to the plain white ceiling as he mentally readied himself for whomever might be lurking beyond the bathroom door.

He emerged with little more than that same towel tied dangerously low around his hips. It wasn't like there were many people with a key to the penthouse suite of Club Ramora, yet there was still a curious feeling of apprehension that twisted his stomach. Perhaps it was the idea that he might have to pretend to be ok infront of another human being that day.

He looked down at his arm as his wet feet padded across the large slate tiles of the hallway, leaving steaming footsteps in their wake. His fingers trembled, and he grimaced at the sight of them. He shook his arm out, though the action rarely did anything to relieve the tremors that came and went.

"Oh, it's you..." His tone was more relieved than he had meant it to be as he hung in the doorway to the open plan living area, leaning against the white painted wall to stand and admire the sight laid out before him.


Sum up your character in one paragraph:
To summarise, Lyndon Harper is the enigmatic owner of a creature nightclub. Primarily driven by his own ego, Lyndon prefers to appear neutral in all matters that do not directly impact him or his nightclub, but is known to quietly pull strings by flattery or intimidation to get what he wants.

Although he prefers not to become emotionally attached, it's obvious that his staff are essentially his family, and that personal loneliness is a driving factor in his overriding ambition where the club is concerned.