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    Welcome to I Solemnly Swear! ISS is an active, literate/advanced Marauders-era roleplay based in the Marauders' sixth year. Please sign up with your character's First and Last name in Titlecase (e.g., Lily Evans).

    The beginning of the summer holidays are a much-needed break from the stress of schoolwork, exams, and the like. It has been a difficult year for everyone, what with the dark events happening during term, and the increasing panic and fear outside the school's walls. Now, with a fresh batch of graduates to go face the world, everybody must still be on their guard, because anything might happen, and everyone must be prepared to face it one way or another.

    Gryffindor 7 6
    Hufflepuff 3 6
    Ravenclaw 7 3
    Slytherin 8 5
    Professor 1 5
    Order Member 1 1
    Death Eater 5 1
    Neutral 2 2
    Order Sympathiser 2 3
    D.E. Sympathiser 0 1
    TOTALS 36 33

    skin by darren criss @ atf, caution & shine. toggle cbox by kismet. header code by ring wing..

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  castro, mars m., 20, tyler hoechlin, whiskey
Mars Castro
 Posted: Sep 3 2014, 04:12 PM
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Whiskey IS Offline
Death Eater Sympathiser
1975 Graduate
Rep: 1 pts

mars castro
tyler hoechlin
all about mars maximilian castro

“I know what I look like,” he tells you, head ducking down a little, a small smile splitting his handsome face. But know that he isn’t feeling shy, or bashful, but is rather using his own features to his advantage. He’s looking at you from under his lashes, eyes sparkling with a hint of the playfulness that fills his voice. “It’s hard to go through life without knowing what you look like, you know? And I never thought anything particularly great about -- about this,” he says with a gesture at himself, with a look that screams of insecurities he doesn’t have, the wry twist of his smile evidence enough of his own confidence. He’s playing at being modest. He’s pretending he’s naive. “Not until I noticed the way people treat me differently.”

He leans forward, delighting when you lean back a little, his long nose crinkling up in amusement. He spreads his hands against the table, palms down with long fingers spreading wide. He licks his lips, his eyes following your eyes following the movement. “There’s a way people speak at me -- not to me, never to me. I guess I make people,” and he pauses, then, his smile widening into a grin as you lean forward, even slightly, looking very much like the cat that cornered the mouse. And the pause persists, past the point that it should, and he doesn’t finish the thought until you’ve squirmed in your seat, until you’ve opened your mouth to ask your next question, “Nervous. I make people nervous. I don’t know if it’s my size --” it’s not, he knows it’s not, because for all of his muscle, he knows that his most winning feature is his face, are those multicolored eyes and the wide grin, and those stupid little teeth that Venus always teases him about “-- or what, but there’s just a way that strangers deal with me. It’s endlessly entertaining.”

“I’m attractive. Sure,” he shrugs, easily, leaning back again and relaxing. He’s still smiling. Still so helplessly amused by it, voice rounding warmly at the edges, softening the sharp reality of his words. “Conventionally. Strong features, a body built on Quidditch and protein shakes, and I like to smile. I know what I look like.” And then, because he’s still having too much fun, he winks at you. “And so do you.”


“There are two ways to win a Quidditch game,” he says, brushing a hand away, ignoring the question you actually asked him in favor of whatever it is he wants to say, “typically -- or, well, I suppose that there’s only one real way, you know, but mostly what I’m getting at is that it’s strategy that separates the good teams from the great. Like -- the 1966 cup, right? When Australia won, not from catching the Snitch, but from the sheer talent of Royston Idlewind alone. If the States had given it a bit more strategy -- if they had focused more on defense, they would’ve taken it. Easily.” He brushes his hand to the side, shaking his head grimly. “Strategy is what’s important. In most everything in life. Wandering around aimlessly will get you no where fast, but if you know where you’re going, know what you want, it makes it easy to get there. Strategy gets you from where you are to where you want to be.”

“But that’s not what I’m asking,” you say, and he looks at you as if you’re dumb, and you feel dumb, under the weight of that gaze.

“It’s exactly what you’re asking. You want to know who I am, but I’m telling you it’s not who, it’s what,” he says, simply, with a shrug of his shoulders. He leans forward again, the earlier amusement gone in favor of sheer determination. It’s just as intimidating. “Who I am depends upon what I need, and what I need depends upon what I want, and what I want depends upon me, sure, but it varies. Right now? Right now, I want you to understand as little and as much about me as you ever will, without giving away too much too quickly. I’m being purposefully vague for the sheer entertainment of it,” and there’s the smirk, the little quirk of his lips, the spark in his eye, the posture that screams trouble, trouble, trouble, “I’m being misleading because I don’t want you to know too much. This is an interview, not a date, not an interrogation.” He shrugs. “I’m under no obligation to be truthful. So why be truthful?”

“So you’re a liar,” you say, slowly, and there’s that dumb look again, the one that makes your stomach squirm. You open your mouth to correct yourself, but he holds up a hand to stop you.

“Right now? Yes.”

And then he leans forward again, resting his chin on his hand. “Because it benefits me. I don’t know if I want an accurate description of myself in the hands of a stranger. But I don’t want things to get too out of hand, either. An inaccurate description of me that makes me seem worse than I am will do me no favors, either.” He licks his lips again, blinks slowly at you, head tilted as he assesses the situation. The pause is long and uncomfortable, but, it seems, only to you. He watches you shift in your chair again, his smile growing more pointed.

“Why don’t you tell me about your sister, then? If you don’t want to talk about yourself,” you suggest, and you watch as something hardens over his features, suddenly making him seem much older than he is. His entire posture changes, becoming more rigid. You struck a nerve.

“What do you want to know about her?” he asks, and you flinch at the tone of his voice. It’s hard, but you can see from the way that he’s holding himself that it’s not from anger. His relaxed posture has turned into something defensive -- arms crossed, shoulders set, jaw clenched -- and you realize he’s being protective. Suddenly, his aggressive behavior becomes a little less frightening. It’s endearing.

“How’s your relationship with her?” you ask, and he tightens up even further.

“She’s the best friend I’ve always wanted, and the only one I’ve ever needed.” You wait for him to elaborate further, and he doesn’t.

“What’s she like?” You ask instead, and he shakes his head.

“She’s amazing. She’s so brilliantly smart, and just so strong, you know?” he says, and his voice softens, his posture loosens, and you’re the one leaning forward now. “I’ve never met someone who stuck to her guns so much. The fucking brat.” There’s the pause again, and you wait, and you wait because you want to hear more about her, but that’s all he’s giving you. You sigh and write down those few comments, and you hear him shift around a little.

“I’d do anything for her. That -- that is something everyone should know about me. The rest of it means nothing, not when it really comes down to it. I don’t -- our family hasn’t always been… it’s complicated, the whole dynamic, but Venus and me? The two of us? That’s the one thing that’ll never change. And I -- I will do anything to make her happy, to keep her safe.” He licks his lips and shifts around, frowning. “It’s not even -- it’s not even just a big brother thing? An overprotective thing? It’s -- it’s just something I have to do.”

“I get it,” you say, and watch as he almost appears offended.

“You don’t,” he affirms, and you sigh, writing down nothing just to have something to do other than watch him stare at you. He clears his throat after a little while, shifting. And you take pity on him, then, knowing that you’ve shook his confidence, even if only that little bit.

“Do you have plans? For the future?”

“Nothing concrete,” he says with a shrug, and now he looks uneasy. “I -- injured myself. About a year ago, and I -- I had to put off my plans for pursuing Quidditch professionally.” It’s the first time you’ve seen him look vulnerable, look upset, look anything other than the picture of ease and confidence. “I’ve been, uh, looking around, trying to think of something else to do, but it’s --” and he breaks off, then, letting out an anguished breath. “There’s nothing I’ve loved more than Quidditch, and -- and yeah, sometimes I wonder if it’s just my parents’ influence, if it’s just that I’ve literally grown up in it and around it, but -- I’ve never imagined doing anything else, but my fucking knee, man.” He jiggles the leg, grunting. “A bar fight gone horribly, horribly wrong. But if you think that’s stopped me from drinking,” he says with a leer, but now -- now you can see that it’s fake, you can see that he’s pretending to be the picture of confidence from you. And you’re torn, then, between feeling endeared by it and pitying him for it. “You’d be wrong.”

“So to recap,” you say, and he seems a little thrown by the sarcasm, “You’re an overprotective older brother who likes to lie and manipulate depending on what the situation calls for with a bum knee, no ambition, and a drinking problem.”

And you think you might have finally gotten him flustered, maybe even a little angry, but you look up from the paper to find him grinning at you. And it’s right back to where he was before, hopelessly amused, reeking of confidence.

“I’m the classic anti-hero, babe, haven’t you read the stories?”


“God, you’re just asking all the wrong questions,” he says, with a sigh, slumping into his seat. “Have you ever grown up knowing you’re not wanted?” He sighs and rubs at his face. “No, no, that’s not fair, either -- it’s just. My mom always wanted a girl and she just -- she wasn’t subtle about it. Or -- or kind. I had been born first, and that was my mistake. I tell Venus all the time -- if she had been older, and I had been younger, we would’ve both been a lot happier. You don’t need to know how my parents met -- it wasn’t really that romantic. Wasn’t some epic story, no matter how many times they tell it -- um. He tells it now, I guess. I --”

He pauses and breaks off, looking down at his hands, seeming to get a grip on himself. He swallows thickly, clears his throat. “They met at the Quidditch World Cup. It’s -- I grew up around Quidditch. My dad -- he was -- still is, he’s really into all the teams. We still follow the United States team, even though we live here now. And I’ve -- I’ve played the game for as long as I can remember. It’s one of the things my dad and I had in common. Have. God -- um,” he breaks off again, running a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and you watch as he steels himself up, literally builds a wall between the two of you with his gaze, his body language, and when he speaks again, his voice. “But I -- God, Venus teased me all the time. But I really -- I spent all my life trying to make up to my mom that I wasn’t the daughter she wanted? I just -- it hurt, growing up, knowing I was a disappointment without being disappointing, so I -- I spent a lot of time with her. I loved her. More than -- more than I think she knew.”

And he won’t say it, won’t mention it, but it’s there in the way he refuses to talk about it. In the way that he forces out the past tense like it’s a particularly bitter curse word.

“I enjoyed Hogwarts as much as the next person,” he said, with a shrug, “and I wish -- I bitterly wish now that I had worked a little harder, tried a bit more in my classes, particularly when it came to the end. But I’ve always been stubborn, always had something to prove, and I knew -- I knew I was good enough to play for the national team, knew I could make it, so I never thought of anything else. I was going to be a star Quidditch player, and that was what was important.” He takes another deep breath. “And I trained. So hard. Every day, for hours. Venus had to pull me away, most of the time, and I just -- I worked so hard for so long, and then that stupid fuck.”

He gestures vaguely in the direction of his knee. “It wasn’t my fault. Some asshole decided he was going to attempt to take a girl home who was obviously too drunk to make that decision, and he didn’t take kindly to when I stepped in between. I spent the night in Mungo’s, she went home with him anyway, and now I can’t play.” He scratches at his jaw, not looking at you directly. “Venus says I should be proud, but it’s hard. When things -- when I’m still bartending at some little shit dive, or when these places look at my N.E.W.T.s and it’s just -- how do you explain that you built your life to be one thing, and then that failed? You can’t go back and change your choices, and maybe I should be proud that I stuck to my guns and my morals and what the fuck else.” He gestures again, and there’s the anger you didn’t realize you were waiting for. “But it cost me my future.”

There’s the same anger, boiling under the surface, but he visibly swallows it. And then he says, and it sounds like it comes from someone else, “There is no shame in working a blue collar job. Making ends meet. Living an average life.”

And then, there’s that grin again, happy and unashamed, “It’s just never been what I wanted.”

patronus & boggart
Red fox
An empty bank vault, signifying his own failures to succeed.
likes & dislikes
+ quidditch, with particular preference of the United States national team, though he has a grudging respect for the English team, as well.

+ his sister, and his family, though in a lesser sense.

+ divination. it reminds him of -- her.

+ coffee. please don’t ever offer him tea.

+ the mets. because he grew up in the states, and baseball is a way of life just as much as quidditch.
– london. england in general, even, if only because it had been her biggest dream, her greatest love, and it took her from him. and he hates that he’d feel guilty leaving, because it would mean leaving her here.

– feeling useless.

– rainy days. it makes his knee hurt.

– the food service industry, because it makes him bitter.

– jelly beans. they stick in his teeth.
whiskey ▪ HRH ▪ twenty-three
ty lexy @ atf

Professor Albus Dumbledore
 Posted: Sep 3 2014, 06:25 PM
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admin IS Offline
infinite YEARS OLD
Rep: 0 pts

WE HAVE A MARS AGAIN *CHANTS* ugh whiskey how do you make such perfect characters? I loved the app style with the interview, and how damn sassy he is and what a player oh my god. I adore his relationship with Mads and he's such a lovable jerk and I can't wait to see what you do with him! (aka I want plots please) so yep

Mars graduated from Slytherin and is now a member of the Death Eater Supporters!

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