Jack Sparrow

[jacksparrow]

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About You - -

Name: Kiara
Gender: Female
Age: Eighteen
Years of RPG Experience: Five
Other: [Removed by Staff]

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Quick Quiz - -

How did you find us? --
What about ISS inspired you to join? --
Do you have any suggestions for us? --

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About the Character- -

Name: John Thomas Kinger, Jr. Jack Sparrow
Age: Sixteen
Gender: Male
Year: Fifth Year
Face Claim: Ryan Reynolds

Canon or Original? Original

Facial Properties:
One of the things Jack has always clung to was the advice his parents had instilled in him at a young age. For one thing, they taught him that everything has a value, and a price someone is willing to pay for it. Including things as basic as a face. For example, his eyes were his most "bankable" feature, something his mother loved to tell him about. The chocolate brown eyes that sit just so on his face have been able to melt little old lady's hearts-- and empty their pockets --for years now, and they are, quite literally, the portal to his soul. Anything and everything you've ever been curious about knowing, it lies within his eyes. They tell his mood, whether or not he's telling a lie, and if he really does think your ass looks fat in those jeans. It's why he often finds himself wearing sunglasses inside. Not only do they up his "cool" factor, but they also keep people from knowing the things his subconscious seeems oh-so-eager to shout at them. The many girls he finds himself associating with tell him he has "very kissable" lips, something that he doesn't quite care about too much. He really hasn't ever attempted to smuggle someone's wallet out of their back pocket while making out with them, but he's never been one to just let something go. Now, his parents also told him about "trademarks", like his high forehead and strong jaw-line, things that ran in his father's family. Things that people could recognize and pick him out of a crowd of look-alikes for. Then there were "individualistic" things about him, things that could really screw him over if someone else were to pick up on. Like the birthmark behind his left ear, or the fact that he spikes his hair occasionally. Still, there's also something else that he can count on. He's handsome. The combination of all of his bankable, trademark, and individualistic qualities balances out into an over-all handsome face, something that can easily get him out of trouble if the right person's causing it. He's a heart-breaker, to be sure, but he barely even notices. Those aforementioned chocolate brown eyes? Are always focused on the destination; never really on the journey.

Physique:
Con-artists, outlaws, and convincts all need to know how to run away from the cops. Quickly. Sometimes, not even just the cops, but perhaps some random good Samaritan who saw you jack that old lady's purse. An avid runner and weight-lifter, Jack is in extremely good shape. He's tall and thin, but by no-means a waif. He has broad shoulders and a sleek torso. He has strong muscle tone in both his chest and abdomin area, dissolving into two long, muscular legs. He's built, to say the least, but what else could you possibly expect from a guy who spends nearly ever waking moment-- when not in class or in the library --working out? To be weak physically makes you vulnerable to getting caught, and you never, ever want to get caught. It's another reason why he's usually wearing dark clothing; a simple black t-shirt, black pair of jeans, and Chucks have become his uniform. When he's not wearing them, he usually has a pair of sunglasses tucked away in a pocket for easy-access. The only other thing he wears is a large, leather cuff that holds a watch and acts as a cover-up for the tattoo he illegally obtained by forging his age on the paperwork. "Troupeau de moineaux" was scrawled elegantly across his thick wrist, twisting and swirling around, as if the wing had carried the letters and forced their impressions into his skin. It was one of two homages to his parents, French because of their travels amongst Europe and the ruckus they caused in Paris-- also, it was highly unlikely for anyone to really know what it meant, which helped him when he needed to convince someone it was a bit more badass than simple "flock of sparrows" --and the obvious meaning behind it in homage to their gang. His second homage are the two sparrows he had tattooed on either side of his chest; one in remembrance of his parents' love, and the other for good luck in finding his own true love. Someone he can share his spoils in, and who would love him for the scoundrel that he is.


Personality:
p r i v a t e
Jack brings a whole new meaning to the word, really, with the way he handles things, situations, and people in general. He's the master of all things deflection, having learned from the best in the art of twisting words and skewering definitions. He knows how to turn every conversation around so that the focus is taken off of him and placed, unknowingly and usually unwillingly, on someone else. He plays things really close to the chest, never once letting on to anyone of his true intentions or plans. He's not afraid to lie in order to keep someone from finding out the truth; sometimes, it's even safer that way. In another effort to keep on his toes, his plans constantly change; he is an efficient person able to think off to top of his head at a moment's notice. His notebook is constantly on his body; he has multiple locks and other such jinxes around the rest of his things. He doesn't like the idea of someone nosing through his things. The only time he is not on his guard is when he's in the shower, and even then, he doesn't merely let his notebook sit out idly. He has it levitate over his head in the shower, out of the grips of the water cascading. It's not even so much about trust for him as it is about survival. Exposure is so much more frightening than death to him, really. He would die to protect his secrets and his plans. He feels that strongly about his mission.

l o y a l
To disrespect his family would be the worst and last thing someone would ever do. It took everything in Jack to walk away from the cops on that warm May afternoon, and he constantly replays the scenario over and over in his head. He regrets that decision more than anything else; he almost sees it as disrespectful to his parents to have not started something. It is why he has vowed to seek vengeance; he wants to make up for his disloyalty. Though Jack doesn't consider himself a popular person-- nor does he believe he has that many friends --the ones he does have, he is completely loyal to. Almost, ironically, to a fault. His skewered version of right and wrong-- developed from a life of believing that crime is perfectly okay as long as no one dies --can often cause him to butt heads with people. Particularly people who don't understand that stealing is just his way of life, and that doesn't mean they shouldn't accept his gifts. He will do anything to defend the people around him who care enough to watch out for him; if you have his back, he'll have yours. He'll steal, lie, cheat, and scam people for you; he just won't kill for you, or die for you. Mostly because dying would defeat what he believes his entire purpose for living is, and, really, who wants to die? He hasn't met anyone worthy of his life yet, but who's to say what would happen when he does?

c h a r m i n g
Another thing he had inherited from his father, besides his dashing good looks, was his natural charm. He just turns up a smirk and whispers the exact thing you want to hear right in your ear. Compliments, insults, and even the occasional bribe; Jack knows how to charm his way in or out of most situations, and when he can't, he finds out how he could have later on. Ever the ladies man, Jack is a natural flirt. He loves the games he can play with people's emotions and their attitudes. He finds no greater pleasure than watching someone go from pissed to enraptured with a few well-placed statements. How he can turn most conversations away with the right questions, and when he can stump even his teachers with his blantant-- and often abraisive --honesty. He holds nothing back when he wants to, and he has a habit of keeping people on their toes. He's the kind of boy who could get away with murder by simply smiling at the officer. The only time he isn't at his most charming is when he's caught off-guard, which isn't often enough to be bothersome, but definitely often enough to annoy him. He's quick-witted and definitely a friend of sarcasm, to the point that he often considers it his second language.

k l e p t o m a n i a c
He steals. Constantly. Sometimes for the thrill, and sometimes just because he can. He steals large things like broomsticks and pet-cats-- things that he sells behind closed doors at Hogsmeade for extra cash --and small things like spare quills and ink wells from unguarded bags. He'll yank out someone's wallet from their own pocket, read up anything and everything he finds in there, and wow them with his sudden sense of knowledge about who they are. He'll steal notebooks for the extra homework instead of asking, always returning them before it's noticeable, and he'll steal diaries to find out secrets that people think they've hidden so well. He'll steal the food right off your plate right under your nose, just to see if he can do it without you noticing. It's an obsession. It's a habit. It's a problem. Except he only sees it as his one and true talent.

p r o f i l e r
Jack likes to believe that he knows just about everything about everyone, taken clues from notes written in the margins of the Transfiguration he stole from you on your lunch break, to the heart-wrenching diary entries that you thought were safe hidden beneath your mattress. From those he finds about about your past. He discerns your mood from simple things like your posture, the way you wear your hair, to your nervous ticks. He can tell when you're pissed, happy, sad, depressed, angry... and he usually knows how to deal with you at that point. He has poured over countless books his parents had been reading, knowing plenty about body language and what you really want to say when you're not really saying it. He's fantastic at reading between the lines and finding hidden meanings, even if you didn't actually mean them. He likes feeling omniscient. It makes him feel nearly invincible.

r o m a n t i c
Having witnessed the affair between his mother and father and having felt the love first hand, Jack has romantic inclinations about women. He loves grand gestures of romance, and he's almost gentlemanly in that way. He believes that women are beautiful, intelligent creatures to be respected, and he loves sharing experiences with them. The problem is that he enjoys sharing experiences with all of them; he has many difficulties keeping a steady girlfriend for too long. As a firm believer of living-in-the-moment, being tied down for too long seems like he's missing out on his soul-mate. If he's not feeling it anymore, neither will she. He'll go from worshiping the ground a girl walks on to nearly ignoring her entire existence. He's constantly on the look-out for The One, that he might have missed her when she was already within his grasp.

Likes:
+ Girls. Jack will have, and always has had, a soft spot for the beautiful girls he has met over the years. To him, age is simply a number, and it has never stopped him from attempting to woo girls both younger and older than him; if he find someone interesting enough, he rarely lets her go for too long.

+ History. Both muggle and magical history enraptures Jack; he feels like he can learn best by looking at his past more so than his present or future. He devours every piece of history about his parents-- even the things he knows for a fact are fake. These small tidbits and vignettes from his parents' lives helps him keep them close.

+ Stealing. Obviously.

+ Chocolate. When he was little, his mother used to slip him M&Ms to keep him quiet while they were out pick-pocketing. He had a habit of blurting out his true intentions, and this was her way of keeping him from doing so. He quickly became addicted to the things, and now can't seem to go a single day without at least a little chocolate. It is also another thing he employs in an effort to keep his family close to him.

+ Knowledge. He feels that without knowledge, he'll never get anywhere in life. Even though he's really only interested in continuing his "life of crime", if he lacked the proper knowledge, he wouldn't be able to get away with half the things he can possibly get away with anyway.

+ His parents. They're more than just his heroes, and they're definitely more than simply his parents. They are his everything. Nothing gets between Jack and his family.

+ Flirting. Because he already said "girls", and it was definitely worth mentioning twice.

+ Running. Nothing clears his head better than a good, brisk run around the lake, or a few laps around the Quidditch pitch. It's also good practice for all those times that he's being chased.

+ Sparrows. For more than obvious reasons, but he also finds most birds to be beautiful. Though he's not an avid bird-watcher, he still finds them to be enchanting and marvelous creatures. Consider it a soft-spot for him, if you will, or perhaps just another narcisstic item to add to the list. He doesn't really care; he adores them, anyway.

+ Writing. It's a secret hobby of his-- everything from short stories to poetry. In fact, if he wasn't so determined to finish up his parents' job, and devote himself to a life of being a bandit and a criminal, he would consider becoming an author.

Dislikes:
- Authority. Most particularly, the police of any way, shape, or form. He has no respect for anyone behind a uniform, and usually makes that known. The only time he is ever really "hostile" is when someone attempts to throw their "authority" in his face. He blames authority for what happened to his family, and it has remained an unforgiven sin for him since it originally happened.

- Rats. Snitches. Tattle-tales. Whatever you want to call them, Jack hates their guts. Almost as much as authority, but not quite there. Another thing he's obsessed over has been finding out who exactly ratted out his parents; he even considered breaking his "only rule" in order to truely gain the revenge he seeks.

- Meat. His mother was a vegetarian for reasons unbeknownst to him. Something about the smell of it when she was pregnant, or the lack of it when she and her father were on the run. At any rate, Jack has always been a vegetarian, and he clings to it because of his mother. Meat sort of grosses him out.

- High-Society Purebloods. Honestly? He's a muggleborn. Get the fuck over it. He could still steal your wand from out of your back pocket and use it to hex you to kingdom come, so do you really want to make a big deal about his "tainted" blood?

- Charms. They feel so... remedial to him. He'd much rather learn hexes and jinxes that he could use to his advantage; he really has no interest in using a cheering charm to keep himself from sinking into a depression. He'd rather just make a lame joke and laugh anyway. Works just the same.

- Teachers. He sort of groups them in with most other "authority figures"; Dumbledore's the only one he really likes.

- His foster parents. He wishes that the courts would've just let him live on his own. He hates it when they pretend to be his mother and father, because they aren't.

- Alcohol. It fucks with his senses, and he doesn't really appreciate that. He'd rather be completely sober and alert than drunk off his ass; it all has to do with vulnerability, see. Alcohol opens you up to being susceptible, while remaining sober keeps you one step closer to being invincible.

- Alarm systems. "They're a pain in the ass to dismantle."

- Detention. He's had too many of them to really enjoy himself anymore.

History:
Bonnie and Clyde had nothing on Geneveive and John Sparrow.

It was really sort of coincidental, the way they met. Geneveive Emmanuelle was a waitress, making ends meet at a small cafe in the cheapest part of London, and John Sparrow was a beautiful, charming young man who had a habit of hiding out in the restrooms. Actually, to say that he was charming feels like such a strong understatement; it was near-impossible for a girl not to fall in love with him, even when he was simply spinning stories of why he locked himself in the men's room for hours on end, nearly every day. Vibrant, colorful stories of how public restrooms are the only places he can think, and Geneveive wouldn't want to disturb his thought process? After all, he was an artist, and he was always looking for a new muse. Wouldn't it be glorious if he could do a portrait of her? Geneveive fell, hook-line-and-sinker for every single glorious tale that fell out of John's mouth, eating up all the details and devoring the facts later. She spent many restless nights tossing and turning, just imaginging his beautiful crooked smile and the mischievous glint in his grey eyes. She found herself unable to sleep because she wanted that desperately to get into work, to place the now-customary cup of black coffee outside of the bathroom door, taping up the "Out of Order" sign so that her lovely little artist wouldn't be disturbed. Then, after hours, when she was closing down the restaurant, she'd cook him eggs and bacon and he'd tell her stories about the next painting he had in mind, and she spent all of her time wondering when he was going to finally admit that he wanted to paint her. He'd compliment her cooking heartily, grinning at her from across the table, and she'd blush and pour him some more coffee. Usually, he left abruptly with only a single, lingering kiss on her cheek. It became a glorious routine for the both of them, and she found herself falling head-over-heels for her mysterious restroom tenant.

Except for the day that he didn't show up.

She spent the better part of her day worrying about him, spending the rest of the day insanely jealous for a reason she couldn't quite put her finger on. Later, when she was closing up the cafe and he still hadn't appeared, Geneveive finally put her finger on why she was feeling so jealous. All day she had been desperately wondering if he had found a new "muse", and if she had suddenly become inadequate. She found herself crying as she mopped up the floors that night; she was praying that tomorrow he'd come back. That nothing would change, because she couldn't stand the thought of losing him, despite never having him in the first place. She was picking up a newspaper from one of the abandoned tables when she saw it. In big, bold letters was this morning's headline:

JOHNATHON KINGER FINALLY CAUGHT:
THE OUTLAW'S FAILED ATTEMPTS TO FLEE AND FINAL CAPTURE!
DETAILS ON PAGE A-5.

Underneath had been a picture of her artist, grimacing at the camera with a black eye and a fat lip. Johnathon Kinger. She had never known his name. Transfixed, she found herself reading all about his arrest and capture, devouring every detail and fact as she used to devour his stories. The next day she called in sick to the cafe, instead trekking down to the library where she looked up every last article about her elusive "artist". Turns out, he wasn't a painter at all, just a pathological liar and a fantastic con-artist. Instead of feeling the anger that anyone else would have felt, Geneveive found herself lusting after this strange, beautiful man even more. She called up the courthouse and arranged visiting hours for the next day. She called off work again, putting on her best dress and curling her hair in the way he had once complimented. To say that John had been surprised to see her there would be yet another understatement, but the initial shock was just that. Initial. Quickly, he recomposed himself, his face taking on the characteristic smile and the charm that she remembered from this man. "My little Jennie," he had cooed into her hand, planting a lingering kiss to what he had assumed would be her cheek, except that Geneveive had been tired of waiting for the real thing. She had turned her head quickly, capturing his lips in hers. It was an unspoken promise; an alliance. The plans remained a silent agreement between them, an unspoken language appearing in their would-be normal conversations. He was going to escape, and she was going to help him. Together, they were going to be in this crazy world together.

It happened on a Tuesday. Geneveive, under Johnathon's orders, stole a car from the neighboring apartment building's garage, having hot-wired it in the way he had instructed her. She pulled around, down the street from the Courthouse, with the clothes he had requested in a bag on the front seat. They had an appointment with Stretch-- a tall, thin man known for his knowledge of firearms --in fifteen minutes, where they would also get their forged papers from Luci. She was wearing the dark dress she had bought the day before with some of Johnathon's smuggled funds. She had the car running when Johnathon suddenly jumped in the front seat, yelling at her to drive. She hit the gas-- and nearly hit the car in front of her in her haste --and they were off, laughing their heads off as Johnathon quickly changed out of his regulated uniform. He lit a cigarette in the front seat, still chuckling as he threw out the uniform and leaned his head back, thanking Geneveive for the convertable. "It feels good, the fresh air," he had murmured, closing his eyes and sighing. She wanted to marry him in that moment; he just seemed so beautiful to her, then. They picked up the guns, hiding them amongst Geneveive's purses, and grabbed their papers from Luci. In less than an hour, they were on a boat, on their way to France. From there, they moved about, from city to city, town to town. They became artists in their own right, stealing wallets and purses with ease and class, robbing banks cordially and with the best of manners. They hopped borders, fleeing to neutral areas when the heat became too much, skipping around from country to country, making quick, easy money under clever guises. Their names changed as frequently as their locations; they wired money to and from their safe-place in London, waiting from the word from Luci and Stretch that the cops were off their trail. As much as Europe enticed them, and as beautiful as Paris had become to them, they missed their homeland. The dreary days in London were worth ten times the amount of beautiful Parisian summers they endured while they waited, all the while planning out the biggest heists anyone could even dream of.

When they received word that the hunt for Johnathon Kinger has since died down-- along with the "mysterious disappearance of a London waitress" --they decided it was time to return to England. Her family believed her to be dead, a victim of a kidnapping that they could never prove, and the cops had let Johnathon's case go cold. He asked her to marry him before they returned, simply a formality at this point; something to make their previous activities somewhat more legitimate. With the marriage came their final, chosen names. They became John and Geneveive Sparrow, a beautiful couple from gypsy heritage. At least that's what they told customs upon arriving back in London. The surname "Sparrow" came from Johnathon's nickname for his sweetheart; A sparrow is different from most birds, when they find their soul mate, they stay with them until their life's end. She was his soul-mate; the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. She had been his freedom, and she became his life. It was a quick wedding, done in the courthouse, ironically enough, of Paris before they left on the boat for London. So far, their plans were in order. John had other alliances amongst his friends, and together they had formed a gang. They called themselves a "Flock of Sparrows", each counterpart taking on the given last name in an effort to furtherly bind themselves together to their cause. They were the modern-day Robin Hoods, stealing money and wallets from the oblivious rich, and spending it on themselves. Perhaps they were the modern-day Robin Hoods who weren't about to deny themselves some luxuries before giving some of their profits to those less fortunate. By less fortunate, it was usually the inhabitants of their favorite bar, who never really minded when Geneveive and John would buy the entire place round after round of drinks.

It was on a fine, October morning that their plans were finally going to be executed. On the corner of Fifth and Jones, there was a large bank; one of the largest banks in the city, and they were going to rob it. Their plan was flawless. Geneveive was going to walk in first and flirt with the security guard, while John came in behind and grabbed his keys. Then, the rest of their gang would come in and stage a hold-up, just to distract away from John sneaking into the back vault. They'd get the money out of the main registers while John cleaned out the vault, while Geneveive would remain completely undiscovered; if they were going to get caught, she wasn't going to be associated with them. John had been adamant about that; he didn't want Geneveive to get caught up, particularly if he could help it. Their plan was being executed to perfection, everything was in place until the cops showed up shortly after Johny had gotten the keys off of the guard; there had been a leak in their Flock, and John and Geneveive were arrested for their crimes-- past and present. They were brought to the Courthouse, kept in similar cells to the one John had the first time around; the only difference was the twenty-four hour guard stationed at the front of both of their cells. They had been separated, despite their marriage; the authorities didn't want them planning another grand escape. They annulled the marriage, saying it was counterfeit in the first place due to their changed names. They were given a courtdate, and were seemingly forgotten.

Until Geneveive announced she was pregnant.

The public, after discovering the news, grew frantic; it wouldn't look good to keep a pregnant women incarcerated, particularly since she hasn't been indicted yet. They had the prison doctor examine her, and, once affirmed, she was released, though they kept John behind bars. The love between the two outlaws was palpable; they knew that she wouldn't go far if they kept John behind bars. Throughout the span of her pregnancy, John was kept in jail, going through trial after trail, appeal after appeal; it was exhausting for the both of them. Geneveive came to every court-hearing, every visiting hour she could. The legitimately got married in the prison's chapel; John and Geneveive Kinger wed just in enough time that their darling baby boy was no longer a bastard. John Thomas Kinger, Junior was born on a warm April morning, but he was immediately dubbed "Jack" so as not to confuse him with his father. Geneveive began taking her darling baby boy to visit his father when she could, and John fell in love with his wife all over again. Jack looked like the perfect mixing of both of his parents; the warm brown eyes of his mother, and the face that could break a thousand hearts like his father. They were an odd sort of family, but they were just that. A family. They stuck together, through everything, even after John was sentenced to a mere twenty years in prison. Not enough evidence for anything else, the jury claimed. The other lawyers accepted the sentencing, if only because they just wanted the outlaw finally behind bars. When John was moved to the prison in the main portion of the state, it became harder and harder for Geneveive to see him. She had attempted to go back to the normal life, spending her days with Jack and then working as a bartender at night to support the both of them; all the money they had stolen over the years had obviously been confiscated. It was just too much. She slowly slipped back into the life she was familiar with, reverting only to petty-thefts and pick-pocketing; Jack was her perfect accomplice. It was hard for people to notice her hands in their pockets when they were cooing over the little boy in the stroller. Even at a young age, Jack was raised to become a criminal.

When he was around three, and could walk and talk for himself, his mother began training him to help her find the money necessary for them to survive, always promising that the more money they earned, the faster he could see his father again. Jack, enraptured by the beautiful, charming man as his mother might have been, was a quick and eager learner. He wanted to please his father, a man he idolized like a God. His mother started with teaching him how to be bait. How to find out which pocket someone's wallet is in by simply talking to them. They'd use a wallet she had previously stolen, and she'd send her son over to some man. "Excuse me, sir, is this yours?" He'd ask in his most innocent of voices, holding the man at his mercy with the power of his pout. The man would slip out his own wallet to reaffirm that the wallet Jack was holding was not his own, in which point, Geneveive would step in. She'd bump into the man in her haste to get a hold of her son-- who had "run off on her" --and she'd slip her lithe fingers into his pocket, depositing his wallet in a backpack Jack was always wearing. They had good days and bad days; from thousands of dollars in cash to nothing but business cards and condoms. After being bait, Jack soon learned the ways of pick-pocketing himself, using a mannequin wearing a suit and little bells attatched; a bell rings, Jack's caught. He spent hours in front of it, hoping to please his mother and father, who wanted nothing more than for him to be the best that he could be. They dreamed of the day he could join their Flock, which they vowed to restore the moment John stepped foot of free soil.

Except, things seemed to have gotten weirder and weirder as Jack grew older. Strange things would happen while he and his mother were out and about. One moment, Jack would have his fingers in a man's coat pocket, the next thing he knew, he'd be in a different spot, wearing the man's clothes. For the life of them, John and Geneveive had no idea what was happening to their son; why whenever he was upset glass seemed to break or whenever he was happy that birds seemed to appear out of nowhere. Sparrows had a habit of following him around after a while, and none of them could get a handle on why. Just as quickly as it had come, it had stopped, and Geneveive and John worried and worried after their precious little boy. Jack had to give up stealing, instead remaining as simply the carrier for whatever wallets and watches his mother could steal. It was dreadfully boring, but it never stopped him from continuing to practice at home. He was obsessed with the idea of following in his parents' footsteps. It was all he wanted in the world was to please them. He wanted to make his father proud. The idea had been slightly foiled with the coming of his eleventh birthday, when Jack and Geneveive received an odd letter in the mail, that suddenly explained all the mischief of the past few years. Jack was a wizard, and everything seemed to fit into place. Geneveive was thrilled, and John was surprised. Jack took both of those emotions and decided that they were good emotions. He would often bounce in his chair at the prison, ignoring the glares from all the other inmates as he would excitedly tell his dad all about it, "I mean, this can only help us, right?" he'd insist, grinning up at his father while his mother beamed at him. They would talk about how it would help, particularly when his father got out of prison in the next few years-- he was up for parole soon, having "good behavior" helped him immensely --and how Jack would fit in perfectly to the Flock. Jack's hopes and dreams were being realized, and he couldn't wait until he made it off to school.

He was a little upset, at first, when he realized that he couldn't use magic outside of school until he was seventeen, and even then he couldn't do it in front of "muggles"-- whatever that meant --which meant that his help in the Flock might be more limited than he and his parents had first considered. He didn't mention this to them, however, merely writing back about all the cool spells and potions he was discovering. He spent nearly every single day in the library, poring over books of spells and potions he wasn't learning about. Things that he felt could help him in the future. He would write home about it nearly every day his first few years at Hogwarts, his parents replying with their own travels and schemes. His father had been released from jail on parole shortly after Jack began Hogwarts. Without wasting much time, he and Geneveive were back to their old tricks. Jack would read and reread the letters his father would write over and over and over again until he memorized each detail. They'd send the letters from no return-addresses, the muggle way. He'd get them from Hogsmeade a few days after they were first sent. It was hard to keep track of where they were when, but the owl his mother bought him his first year never seemed to have trouble finding them. They sent him postcards from far-off cities-- even foreign countries --all with the promises of him joining them when he was old enough. He spent Christmases with them in the Caribbean, summers with them in South East Asia. They went on safaris in Africa; the riches his mother would regale him about in bedtime stories as a child had finally materialized right before his eyes. His father spent their free time teaching him how to shoot a gun, while Jack would show his father the spells and potions he had written down in his notebooks over the years. They were the perfect family. Nothing, it seemed, could stop them. They all walked around with this sense of invincibility, barely even thinking about their own mortality until it came knocking on their door.

Jack was in the middle of an exam when he was suddenly pulled from the classroom and led down the labrynth of halls to the Headmaster's office. As much as he knew what was happening, he didn't want to believe it. The entire time he was led along, all he could keep thinking was not them. Not them. Not them. He hated the look of pity he saw on the old man's face as he sat down across the desk from Dumbledore. He hated the words that poured out of his mouth, the strong surge of violence ripping through his body as he jumped up. "You're lying!" He had shouted at the top of his lungs, ignoring the arms that wrapped around him. He kicked his head of house in the shins, knocking over another chair in the process, "They said they wouldn't leave me! They promised they wouldn't leave without me! No! You're lying! You're lying!" He must have repeated that phrase over and over, but no matter how many times he said it, it didn't make it true. Dumbledore wasn't lying, and he went to their funeral. He let himself be hugged by relatives he had never met. He let himself be told what "good people" they were on the inside, because, apparently, their outsides were so ugly that they had to have a closed casket. He stomached all the people who had gathered outside, wanting to look one more time on the faces of their heroes. What he couldn't handle was the police officers that were stationed right across the street. As if he was going to try something. As if his parents were going to come back to life and attempt to rob the graves they were being laid to rest in. It took everything inside of him to take a deep, calming breath and walk into the taxi waiting to take him back to King's Cross Station. It took everything inside of him not to pull out his wand, and kill the men who killed his parents.

He began his fifth year at Hogwarts with a single mission; he was going to seek revenge for his parents death. Not in the stereotypical way; he didn't want to kill them. His parents had never shot a single bullet, despite the many firearms they carried. They were oddly moral about it. The guns were for show; there were never any bullets. Instead, Jack quickly began formulating a plot for the greatest heist London would ever see. At sixteen years old, he was already pouring over blueprints and reading up on how to disarm alarm systems. He spent hours and hours slaving away over it, keeping all of his notes in a tiny little notebook. He practiced charming the shit out of people, sending cool smiles and saying all the right things. Jack quickly took on a name he knew his parents would be proud of. Jack Sparrow, the sole surviving member of the original Flock. He started putting himself out there more, using all of his parents' old tricks and schemes to pick out the people who could possibly help him; the con-artists among the rest of the poor, innocent little sheep. He would do his parents justice. He would become infamous. He knew the rules. It was all a game of distraction. It was all a game. Jack Sparrow's life had become a game before he was even old enough to play, but that wasn't about to stop him now.


Sample Post:

{as james potter}

There's a penny on the floor and you're g o n e;

It had been a week. Seven whole days since he had last talked to Marls. Seven days since the last time he had heard her say she loved him. Seven days since they broke up, foolishly, in what he thought was right. In what was fair. In what was-- he groaned, rolling over and falling out of bed. He landed somewhat gracefully on his feet, managing not to smack his head off of the bedside table. He shouldn't even be in bed. Everyone else was at dinner, but he couldn't bring himself to go down. He wasn't hungry. He had lost his appetite when he realized all the people he was going to have to face. All the ignorant, stupid people who just... they wouldn't understand. They'd assume that he broke up with Marls for Eva-- Lily. Except that Lily was dating Regulus Black, of all fucking people. Except that he couldn't announce that to people. So, instead, he had to suffer the "knowing" looks of ignorant people, and he couldn't even justify himself when he really just wanted to punch them in the face. He had done a decent job at avoiding Sirius like the plague; the jerk could have at least told him about his feelings for Marls himself. Sure, sure, he admitted that he had feelings for her, but he should have come to James when he realized he loved her, instead of running his mouth to-- was he really freaking back at Lily freaking Evans again? It was pathetic how much of his life revolved around that girl. Seriously. He groaned, lazily fixing up his rumpled clothing and pulling on a pair of sneakers. He dragged his feet to the bathroom, throwing some water on his face. He was supposed to be at practice. He had scheduled this practice months ago. The rest of the team was probably already there. He attempted to bring something to his face. Maybe a little anger? Perhaps some impatience? The corner of his lip twitched, but that was all that really happened. He just... he couldn't bring himself to care. His life was falling apart, and he was supposed to whip up his team? They probably didn't even care; he wouldn't. Not when their captain was so... indisposed.

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face and dragging his feet out of the bathroom. He crossed his dormitory, slinging his broom back over his shoulder. He's had it with him since the break-up, spending nearly every free hour he has up in the sky, doing stuff that could easily kill him if he made the slightest mistake. Adrenaline to replace everything that had gone missing. Marls had been such a constant, and... it hurt now just to think of her and what they had, and what he knew they would have had. He was done with gossip. Done with the rumors and the lies, and everything else that just... ruined everyone's lives. It definitely ruined his. At least, it ruined his relationship with Marls. Possibly screwed up any chance he may have had with Lily-- except, of course, he didn't want that chance anymore. He shook his head at himself, surprised to have found his mind could so quickly go back to where he never wanted to be again. This year had been about getting over Lily Evans. This year had been about him getting his own life, and grabbing it by the reigns. He was tired of letting everyone else control it. Except, he failed, hadn't he? Letting everyone else control his relationship with Marls. He growled under his breath, about ready to chuck his broom down the stairs he was descending, quickening his pace as he made it to the Entrance Hall. It was empty. How long had dinner ended? Shit. How late was he for practice? Damn, damn, damn. He swore vehemently under his breath, tempted to just fly his way over, except... he really couldn't use another fucking detention. Apparently Professor Slughorn had become aware of James' situation, and he didn't take to kindly of him just bowing out. Except Lily fucking Evans, his bloody fucking favorite, got out of it. Naturally. He rolled his eyes, slamming the gate to the pitch open with a bit of a crashing sound. As if he broke it. He didn't turn around to check; he really couldn't be bothered.

"Right," he muttered as he approached his team, already there. None of them looked too pissed, anyway. He wasn't really looking anyone in the eye. "So, I'm fucking sick of drills, and we really don't need them. Except for Scham, but that's because he's new," he gestured vaguely in what he thought was Pierre's direction. Truely, he couldn't be sure, he was squinting up into the sky as if willing it to start raining so he could just... cancel. It was a beautiful day, sun shining, birds singing, and he just really, really wanted to kick something. Hard. "And, I don't want to make the rest of you go through that just because he needs the extra practice. Personally, I think he'd do better if we made this like a game," he didn't really mean to pick on Pierre. He was just new. And James was just annoyed. Really, he wasn't even picking on him, just sort of making an excuse for himself to be able to sit out this practice instead of running drills. It was better to referee than it was to actually have to watch what was going on. "So, shirts and skins, boys-- and Oliv-- Thompson." He reverted back to her last name, something that, he assumed, made him seem more like a captain. Or... something. Actually, it was easier to remember last names; they were the ones on the back of the uniforms. He glanced at everyone, who were staring at him expectantly. Right. Teams. "Right. Teams," he muttered outloud, pulling his wand out. He muttered a quick, "Accio playbook," and caught the thick muggle notebook in his hand. He flipped to the last page, where his notes from the last game were, and attempted to ignore the places where Marls had drawn-- Right. Teams. No time for him to be sitting there, daydreaming about a girl he broke up with because of-- "Scham. Thompson. Edwards-- can someone tell Edwards which team he's on?" He muttered distractedly. "Shirts, obviously." He glanced up at Olivia with a tiny little smile. "Erm... that leaves Cartier, Fletcher... Black." He spat out Sirius' last name. He didn't mean to. But with what he had just learned about his best friend-- and his little brother --James was not quite in the "Padfoot + Prongs = BFFLs" club anymore. "Wait." James rethought the situation, watching as the two teams divided. "No. Scham, switch with Cartier. I'd prefer if you had practice attempting to score with an actual Keeper. Black," he spat the name out again, "play keeper for the next team. Cartier and Fletcher, I'm gonna release the bludgers-- can someone tell Edwards that he's going to have to play Chaser? Anyway. First team with five goals wins. The rest'll have to run laps around the pitch. Fly laps. Yeah. You knew what I meant." Distractedly, he walked over to the broom shack, leaning his broom against the wood, unlocking it with a swift flick of his wand and dragging out the balls. "I'm going to keep score and make sure no one cheats. Right, so... Black," he couldn't really stop now, "and Thompson, keepers. Cartier and Fletcher, beaters-slash-helping-chasers-- oh, and could you make sure not to break any bones? We do have a match coming up. Then... Pierre and Edwards head-to-head. So... can someone tell Edwards that he has to work with Cartier? And Fletcher, if Scham needs help, I don't give a fuck about the bludgers anymore, alright? I'll have an extra bat incase anything goes... wrong, which is shouldn't? Right. So... Scham, Black, Fletcher. Shirts off."

Distracted was an understatement, really.

"Any questions?"

[/b][/blockquote]

Have you found another man to take my p l a c e ?

^{__________________________________________________________}

And Finally - -

I, k i a r a, have read the rules, understand clearly what my responsibilities are now that I am joining ISS, and will abide by these standards set by the staff.[/color][/blockquote]

[Narcissa Black]

Do I really even have to say it? accepted. Izzy and I had trouble placing him xD So, enjoy!