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Posted: Jun 11 2017, 03:06 PM
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Name: Rick DesJardins
Age: Born 1962, Died 1994
Blood Type: Ectoplasm. Previously plasma, some platelets, and some red & white cells.
Ilvermorny House: Go Horned Serpents! Sssss.
Rick is 6'1". He's kind of gangly, stubbly, and transparent. Hair is slightly out of control, which didn't get any better now that he can't pick up a comb. Rick remains dressed in a killer Burn Like a Candle t-shirt, cargo shorts, and denim jacket combo, which really should still be a thing, guys. Come on.
He's also afraid to put down his Stratocaster in case it stops being ghostly, so it's strapped to his back.
Story So Far:
Rick grew up in small-town New Brunswick, before heading to Ilvermorny and the US of A. His childhood was pretty quiet, up until the thing with the levitating fish. Dad being good with memory spells helped sort that out. Mom was freaked.
As a student, Rick fell in love with potions immediately. They're a lovely sweet spot between science and experimentation. After graduating in '81 (getting held back over astronomy? Really, Professor Hatfield?), he enjoyed a brief stint as the lead guitarist in Too Many Kobolds. They weren't ever financially viable, but it was a hoot. When the band inevitably split up to pursue adulthood, Rick went to the University of British Columbia to pursue his degree. He took his thesis work on the application of thestral fur back to Greylock, consulting with the potions professor at Ilvermorny.
Returning students had some paperwork to fill out, but Rick lost some at a party, and the rest got used as an umbrella when he had to keep some potions dry, and... bureaucracy is hard. The red tape was still being wrestled with when, during an ill-fated attempt to harvest fur from an animal he couldn't see, Rick took a nasty kick to the head. On the upside, thestrals are way easier to find now, but they're much trickier to groom as an incorporeal being. Also, there's even more red tape for dead students.
But right now there's a lot of work to be done on thestral spit. Turns out none of them have fur left. Who knew? And the guys still come 'round to jam a few times a month, so things are alright.
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