1499: Blackened Sunrise - Harry "Weapon" Potter
aquidis sent us their "First Harry Potter Sue"! What makes it memorable occours when Harry sprouts wings! Plus, it has 67 chapters.
TITLE: Blackened Sunrise
PERPETRATOR: The Itch
SUE-O-METER:
(awful)
FULL NAME: Harry Potter aka Weapon
SPECIES: werewolf? vampire?
HAIR: "dirty black hair fell in tangles around his face to his chin".
EYES: "icy cold rebellion flickering in hazy green eyes". They turn silver-grey.
MARKINGS: five three, and fairly slender, "classic Bishounen features", "pale cast, skin turned milky white, like a ghost". "simple tattoo that lay nestled on the side of his wrist. He had a matching one on the right side, although the colors had been inversed on the right side. On his left wrist, lay five triangles. They were blue, with a black outline, and the pattern formed by the triangles was the mark of the Living Weapon. One triangle, tipped on his corner, base facing his fingers, while the other four were arrayed around it like claws extending from a paw." He also sprouts wings later.
POSSESSIONS: "hoops that ran through his lip, ears and nose", "Few, if any, noticed the leather collar around his neck, or the chain that ran from it, down into his robe. The chain that slipped out his left sleeve, and promptly connected him to the table. If he wanted to go, he'd have to take the table with him", "He wore clothing of course-- a pair of plain black muggle pants that seemed about to fall off his hips, and a black t-shirt reading "doesn't play well with others" in glaring red text-- but there were other things. The brown leather belt that was the only thing keeping his pants up was accompanied by another belt that ran only through one loop on his right hip, and fell limply from his other. There were the black leather gauntlets that stretched from wrist to elbow, a glint of black painted metal sitting solidly against his forearms. The collar and chain was much more visible, as was another pair of collars that wrapped around his upper arms. Magic wafted off these collars-- they appeared to be... locking Harry's power? A simple gold chain curled around his throat, disappearing beneath his shirt, and as he pulled that off to change into his pajamas, the golden image of a lion's head dangled from the end of the chain. He shucked off his pants, revealing shin-guards that matched his gauntlets, and a pair of pale blue boxers. Against all the black, the blue seemed startlingly bright. He tugged on a pair of pajama bottoms..."" Swords.
ORIGIN: Harry ran away, and worked in a workshop with "The Old Man". One day Harry went out to buy some supplies and Snape spotted him and brought him back to Hogwarts. He is bound to Hogwarts.
CONNECTIONS TO CANON: Everyone is in awe of him. Neville might be attracted to him. He is rude to everyone.
SPECIAL ABILITIES: Wandless magic. He tells things to the objects and they do it. He is skilled at fighting.
NOTES: It is formatted like it was written in Yahoo! Mail. How awful!
SAMPLE
At precisely four forty-five am, a yawn broke the sounds of gentle
sleep, and a pair of green eyes blinked open, to stare at the canopy of
his bed. He frowned at the red for a moment, "Looks too much like
blood," he muttered darkly, "A different color would be nice."
He stared at it for a few longer moments, then sighed, crawling into a
sitting position. He struggled through his blankets to the end of the
bed, reaching down to his muggle pants. A quick search of the pockets
brought forth his wand, and he pointed it at his bed, "No more red."
It wasn't really a charm or spell, per say-- Harry simply didn't want
the bed to be red anymore, so he told it that. He his lips twitched
with glee once the colors had cycled to something he liked. The
comforter and the canopy were a nice shimmery gold, while his pillow
case and the sheets were black. It was one of those 'if I have to be
here...' things.
Once this was done, Potter pulled himself out of his bed, and
stretched. A quick warm-up of his muscles, and he pulled back on his
black jeans, ignored his shirt and stepped over to his trunk. Like
pretty much every other student in the school, Harry's possessions and
school things were in the trunk.
Unlike everyone else, however, Harry had a number of items none in the
castle carried about with them. These, he carefully strapped to his
arms and chest, and tucked into his pants, prior to sweeping on his
Invisibility Cloak.
And then, he was gone. Swiftly moving through the halls of the magical
boarding school, using routes he hadn't taken in over a year, but
remembered with startling accuracy, to deposit himself at the Quiddich
Pitch. As he'd expected, at close to five in the morning, no one else
was up, she he walked out onto the field, settling himself into a ready
stance.
And he began to dance. It was a dance of lethal grace and beauty,
emerald eyes closed in concentration as he fought imaginary opponents,
as he'd been taught to do. A year of practice, day in and day out,
could not possibly yield the still by which Harry fought the air, yet
he moved as though trained for years upon years. He did not fight with
bare hands-- he fought by blade, his sword slashing ruthlessly, his
knives carving silvery trails in the sunrise.
With one final move, he slid his sword back into the scabbard across
his back, and his favorite dagger into it's sheath at his hip clipped
to the double belts. A whispered word, and all the knives he'd thrown
whisked back to him, and it was a twisting dance for him to catch the
blades in their own sheathes; the gauntlets that bound his arms, and
the small ones he'd managed to tuck in beneath the collars wrapped
around his upper arms. In the early morning light, several arcane
symbols glinted, sketched into the leather collars. Obviously, these
were professionally crafted wards of the highest degree.
Sweat glistening at each hard plain of his lithe form-- he was thin and
lanky, but he was a package of hard packed muscles-- the Boy-Who-lived
took a whiff of his own body odor and pulled a face, "Shower," he
muttered, "Definitely need a shower."
Again he swirled the cloak around his shoulders and entered the
building, cheerfully skittering past McGongall's feline form. Ah, yes,
the showers they do a call. He couldn't wait to have a hot shower and
scrub off his sweat and grime. Nothing like a shower to make up feel
alive.
He stopped off in his dorm first, putting all the weapons excluding his
dagger, and the Invisibility Cloak into the trunk, he picked up his
shirt and robe, and headed out for the showers.
TITLE: Blackened Sunrise
PERPETRATOR: The Itch
SUE-O-METER:
(awful)
FULL NAME: Harry Potter aka Weapon
SPECIES: werewolf? vampire?
HAIR: "dirty black hair fell in tangles around his face to his chin".
EYES: "icy cold rebellion flickering in hazy green eyes". They turn silver-grey.
MARKINGS: five three, and fairly slender, "classic Bishounen features", "pale cast, skin turned milky white, like a ghost". "simple tattoo that lay nestled on the side of his wrist. He had a matching one on the right side, although the colors had been inversed on the right side. On his left wrist, lay five triangles. They were blue, with a black outline, and the pattern formed by the triangles was the mark of the Living Weapon. One triangle, tipped on his corner, base facing his fingers, while the other four were arrayed around it like claws extending from a paw." He also sprouts wings later.
POSSESSIONS: "hoops that ran through his lip, ears and nose", "Few, if any, noticed the leather collar around his neck, or the chain that ran from it, down into his robe. The chain that slipped out his left sleeve, and promptly connected him to the table. If he wanted to go, he'd have to take the table with him", "He wore clothing of course-- a pair of plain black muggle pants that seemed about to fall off his hips, and a black t-shirt reading "doesn't play well with others" in glaring red text-- but there were other things. The brown leather belt that was the only thing keeping his pants up was accompanied by another belt that ran only through one loop on his right hip, and fell limply from his other. There were the black leather gauntlets that stretched from wrist to elbow, a glint of black painted metal sitting solidly against his forearms. The collar and chain was much more visible, as was another pair of collars that wrapped around his upper arms. Magic wafted off these collars-- they appeared to be... locking Harry's power? A simple gold chain curled around his throat, disappearing beneath his shirt, and as he pulled that off to change into his pajamas, the golden image of a lion's head dangled from the end of the chain. He shucked off his pants, revealing shin-guards that matched his gauntlets, and a pair of pale blue boxers. Against all the black, the blue seemed startlingly bright. He tugged on a pair of pajama bottoms..."" Swords.
ORIGIN: Harry ran away, and worked in a workshop with "The Old Man". One day Harry went out to buy some supplies and Snape spotted him and brought him back to Hogwarts. He is bound to Hogwarts.
CONNECTIONS TO CANON: Everyone is in awe of him. Neville might be attracted to him. He is rude to everyone.
SPECIAL ABILITIES: Wandless magic. He tells things to the objects and they do it. He is skilled at fighting.
NOTES: It is formatted like it was written in Yahoo! Mail. How awful!
SAMPLE
At precisely four forty-five am, a yawn broke the sounds of gentle
sleep, and a pair of green eyes blinked open, to stare at the canopy of
his bed. He frowned at the red for a moment, "Looks too much like
blood," he muttered darkly, "A different color would be nice."
He stared at it for a few longer moments, then sighed, crawling into a
sitting position. He struggled through his blankets to the end of the
bed, reaching down to his muggle pants. A quick search of the pockets
brought forth his wand, and he pointed it at his bed, "No more red."
It wasn't really a charm or spell, per say-- Harry simply didn't want
the bed to be red anymore, so he told it that. He his lips twitched
with glee once the colors had cycled to something he liked. The
comforter and the canopy were a nice shimmery gold, while his pillow
case and the sheets were black. It was one of those 'if I have to be
here...' things.
Once this was done, Potter pulled himself out of his bed, and
stretched. A quick warm-up of his muscles, and he pulled back on his
black jeans, ignored his shirt and stepped over to his trunk. Like
pretty much every other student in the school, Harry's possessions and
school things were in the trunk.
Unlike everyone else, however, Harry had a number of items none in the
castle carried about with them. These, he carefully strapped to his
arms and chest, and tucked into his pants, prior to sweeping on his
Invisibility Cloak.
And then, he was gone. Swiftly moving through the halls of the magical
boarding school, using routes he hadn't taken in over a year, but
remembered with startling accuracy, to deposit himself at the Quiddich
Pitch. As he'd expected, at close to five in the morning, no one else
was up, she he walked out onto the field, settling himself into a ready
stance.
And he began to dance. It was a dance of lethal grace and beauty,
emerald eyes closed in concentration as he fought imaginary opponents,
as he'd been taught to do. A year of practice, day in and day out,
could not possibly yield the still by which Harry fought the air, yet
he moved as though trained for years upon years. He did not fight with
bare hands-- he fought by blade, his sword slashing ruthlessly, his
knives carving silvery trails in the sunrise.
With one final move, he slid his sword back into the scabbard across
his back, and his favorite dagger into it's sheath at his hip clipped
to the double belts. A whispered word, and all the knives he'd thrown
whisked back to him, and it was a twisting dance for him to catch the
blades in their own sheathes; the gauntlets that bound his arms, and
the small ones he'd managed to tuck in beneath the collars wrapped
around his upper arms. In the early morning light, several arcane
symbols glinted, sketched into the leather collars. Obviously, these
were professionally crafted wards of the highest degree.
Sweat glistening at each hard plain of his lithe form-- he was thin and
lanky, but he was a package of hard packed muscles-- the Boy-Who-lived
took a whiff of his own body odor and pulled a face, "Shower," he
muttered, "Definitely need a shower."
Again he swirled the cloak around his shoulders and entered the
building, cheerfully skittering past McGongall's feline form. Ah, yes,
the showers they do a call. He couldn't wait to have a hot shower and
scrub off his sweat and grime. Nothing like a shower to make up feel
alive.
He stopped off in his dorm first, putting all the weapons excluding his
dagger, and the Invisibility Cloak into the trunk, he picked up his
shirt and robe, and headed out for the showers.