Post by heartsandhands on Nov 27, 2009 13:31:22 GMT -6
Name: Briony Cecilia.
Age: For now, she remains frozen at seventeen.
Gender: Female.
Race: The fair folk. Or fae. Or fairy.
Alliance: Essentially light.
Appearance: Briony, you should know, will never escape being “cute”. The initial thing most everyone notices is that she’s adorable. Not in a manner that turns the head of anyone in her vicinity, but in one which suggests you take a second look. She’ll dispute this verdict until the death of her, Bri never could take a compliment, she refuses to believe anyone thinks highly of her, or her looks. Not especially insecure, she just acknowledges that beauty is a narrow road, while ugly is infinite. Maybe there’s more diversity to being cute than beautiful, though.
Bri has a baby face, and a perpetual smile. Hey - if she’s such a smiley sort of girl, why’s she so shy? Who knows, the only thing that’s for sure is that Briony is happy. Her general facial shape is something of an ovular heart, coming to an almost-point at her chin. Her complexion is generally clear, aside from the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose - which wrinkles delightfully when she grins. Speaking of Bri’s smiles - they’re the one thing everyone seems to notice. Her lips are very full, slightly unbalanced with the top being infinitesimally plumper. Her teeth are very straight. Her eyes are slightly almond in shape, and green. Briony doesn’t wear makeup, not usually. Her eyes being framed by a spray of dark (if not short) lashes, her lips naturally pink. On some occasions she’ll indulge and wear some cosmetics, but typically she goes au natural.
Most girls, as you know, are very concerned with their hair. Bri, on some days, can be put in that category. She has shoulder-length red hair, a natural ginger (the carpet definitely matches the drapes), which she has a tendency to manipulate. It’s been platinum, it’s been two-toned, brunette, everything. She wears it in its natural curls. With enough gels and magic, they’re not unruly at all. They frame her rounded face quite prettily. Bri is very taken with her hair, wearing it down is her favorite style. It’s layered very delicately, with a few lone curls framing her face when worn up. On lazy days, days she hasn’t bathed, or days she hasn’t styled her hair, she will throw her hair into a sloppy bun or ponytail, looking disheveled in a charming sort of way.
Personality: Oh, how to sum Bri up in words? A delicate task, to say the least. But why not take a stab at the impossible, when you have nothing better to do?
Let it be known now, that Briony thinks of she herself epitomizes cool. Veins of purely undiluted ice water, the ultimate calm. And her façade of composure is a convincing one indeed, from the aloofness she wears about her shoulders like a pretty burial shroud, to the arms length she keeps everyone at. Truth be told, she’s more shy than composed. The distance isn’t always intentional, but what her tactless mother swears is social retardation makes acquiring friends a somewhat difficult task. Bri’s only redemption would be an infectious smile, or perhaps her knack for calling an awkward situation for what it is - awkward.
Certainly any situation Briony is tossed into becomes awkward. You’d think someone with unlimited time would have garnered some sort of handle on social situation. But alas, no. Since Bri seldom speaks to anyone, she doesn’t exactly know how.
One the very surface, Bri’s calm, she’s relatively shy, she’s awkward. But that’s not knowing her. She’s full of secrets, a past, loyalty to give, friendship to receive, and life. For those who legitimately know her, they know Briony as full of life, vivacious, lively. She throws her hands to the air in delight of a new day, to have woken up, to become intoxicated with sunlight. She pirouettes (sloppily, horrendously) in the pouring rain for the sake of feeling (wet, soaked, water droplets dripping from the tip of her nose). She doesn’t need a gaggle of venom-tongued “friends”, or attention, or popularity to feel alive. Her semblance of life is the cool dirt beneath the pads of her feet, the blades of grass tickling her ankles. Bri is content with her life, and the lives around her. She strives to make everyone feel, feel as she does; and she works at this through art.
Briony is an old soul at heart and there‘s a young heart in her soul, she’s patient and willing to listen. Really listen, and reply with her own sage advice. Or, at least she tried for sage, since good advice is often difficult to come by. The first impression of indifference people gather is such an error. Secondly, she comes off as a little odd, too, because she dances when people watch - regardless of the snickers coming from the dance students - and sings too.
History: Once upon a time, Briony was born. From what? Why an infant’s laugh of course! And she was abandoned, for some fairy’s typically leave their young to fend for themselves. She’s never quite been right, but she manages.
Abilites: - Immortality, for one. But that too, could be a disability. She’ll live for as long as the world allows her to.
- Briony can manipulate her size. The tiniest she can shrink herself to is three inches, or roughly finger length, and the largest she can become (with some difficulty and for a set amount of time) is five feet tall. The most comfortable size for Briony is her smallest, and so to travel she uses birds.
- Briony speaks the language of the earth, and thus animals. She can also grant this boon of tongues, but it is seldom that a fairy grants favors.
Disabilities: - Briony, like all fairies, has a severe allergic reaction to iron. Even being within the vicinity of iron causes her skin to smolder uncomfortably, but when it actually touches her, it burns away the skin layer by layer. Fairies cannot escape from iron, and so if anyone fancied to capture her, she would be under their mercy.
- Bri hears faint snatches of the Authinia, and it drives her to absolute insanity.
Sample;She was sixteen, and it was the summer before her sixth year. Being an October child had its disadvantages, that was certain. But being summer, she was almost free to do whatever she pleased. Almost because the three Black sisters could not idle, it was not becoming of them. An idle mind was useless or scheming, or some such nonsense, it wasn’t as if Andromeda was particularly avid when it came to listening, at least not to her mother’s prattling. But being home, home to the grand, magnificent, unnecessary splendor of the Black residence - mansion - Dromeda knew that it would not be long before she was aloud to convene with her dance instructor, her French tutor.
Her nerves were strung so unbearably tight with excitement that she was on the threshold of trembling. What a silly thing to do, in anticipation! Not really though, Andromeda didn’t believe that. It was a belittling comment that her mother might make, in the unpleasantly shrill voice in which she customarily spoke to her daughter, her ‘black sheep’ daughter. If the wool is not white, perhaps dye it. Dromeda loosed a sigh from her lips, missing Emmeline. They had just recently struck up a tentative friendship in their fifth year, but it was certainly becoming something! Already Dromeda felt that she could confide everything in the Gryffindor - which was uncanny on two levels. First, because she did not strike up particularly close friendship, and second, because she was a Black (and having a Gryffindor as anything but and enemy Simply Isn’t Done). They’d known one another since their first year, of course, and had once or twice met eyes unintentionally when amused or bored, but Dromeda had never imagined she’d be so frantic to be in touch with the girl, to confide her secrets and troubles into the girl.
How curious life was becoming, slowly veering in an opposite direction than her sisters.
Although she still loved them dearly, how could she not? With Bella’s obvious superiority and Cissa’s imperious glares, how could she not love these two familiar creatures she bunked with? In reality, they didn’t actually bunk together, each girl had an enormous room of their own, but living just down the hall from one another and in the same wing of the same home must count for something, mustn’t it?
Ah, but she was becoming distracted, drifting in thought. Of course the true distraction was the prospect of joining her ballet tutor - so soon! Andromeda had never been particularly patient, why would she be when, as a Black, she was allowed whatever she desired whenever she desired it. It was just too bad that time did not adhere to her wishes, her needs. For her body ached to dance, ached to arc, to twist, to leap. Communicating her very soul across the worn wooden floor - wait a moment, she was immersing herself in thoughts much too passionate, she was beginning to sound silly. Or was that just another derogatory assumption instilled in her by a critical mother?
Andromeda stood, her thin upper lip curling back over impeccably straight teeth - at the thought of her mother. It was not a look of disgust, but genteel disdain at the most. She harbored a warring affection for the woman - warring with something that resembled loathing. But that loathing did not match what she felt for her father… a bitter resentment that can be left for another day.
Unfolding her slender legs, Dromeda slid off her massive four-poster (it was not suited to her taste, rather the decadent extravagance of the Blacks’), and wandered to the heavy mahogany door of her room. With her hand hovering lightly over the handle, she deliberated for a moment. A hot shower, or a fascinating book? The choice really was difficult, soothe her tightened muscles through scalding water, or unwind and lose her mind in the pages and words of a favored author? Of course, the author won. Andromeda actually opted to read one of her new spell books (already purchased, although summer was just several weeks old), get a head start on Transfiguration. Sometimes, it seemed, endless riches and endless connections - such of which could score her her schoolbooks months early - weren’t too unfortunate.
Poor little rich girl.
OOC Name hearts & hands
Contacts(Required) uh_ohadria@ymail.com
Age: For now, she remains frozen at seventeen.
Gender: Female.
Race: The fair folk. Or fae. Or fairy.
Alliance: Essentially light.
Appearance: Briony, you should know, will never escape being “cute”. The initial thing most everyone notices is that she’s adorable. Not in a manner that turns the head of anyone in her vicinity, but in one which suggests you take a second look. She’ll dispute this verdict until the death of her, Bri never could take a compliment, she refuses to believe anyone thinks highly of her, or her looks. Not especially insecure, she just acknowledges that beauty is a narrow road, while ugly is infinite. Maybe there’s more diversity to being cute than beautiful, though.
Bri has a baby face, and a perpetual smile. Hey - if she’s such a smiley sort of girl, why’s she so shy? Who knows, the only thing that’s for sure is that Briony is happy. Her general facial shape is something of an ovular heart, coming to an almost-point at her chin. Her complexion is generally clear, aside from the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose - which wrinkles delightfully when she grins. Speaking of Bri’s smiles - they’re the one thing everyone seems to notice. Her lips are very full, slightly unbalanced with the top being infinitesimally plumper. Her teeth are very straight. Her eyes are slightly almond in shape, and green. Briony doesn’t wear makeup, not usually. Her eyes being framed by a spray of dark (if not short) lashes, her lips naturally pink. On some occasions she’ll indulge and wear some cosmetics, but typically she goes au natural.
Most girls, as you know, are very concerned with their hair. Bri, on some days, can be put in that category. She has shoulder-length red hair, a natural ginger (the carpet definitely matches the drapes), which she has a tendency to manipulate. It’s been platinum, it’s been two-toned, brunette, everything. She wears it in its natural curls. With enough gels and magic, they’re not unruly at all. They frame her rounded face quite prettily. Bri is very taken with her hair, wearing it down is her favorite style. It’s layered very delicately, with a few lone curls framing her face when worn up. On lazy days, days she hasn’t bathed, or days she hasn’t styled her hair, she will throw her hair into a sloppy bun or ponytail, looking disheveled in a charming sort of way.
Personality: Oh, how to sum Bri up in words? A delicate task, to say the least. But why not take a stab at the impossible, when you have nothing better to do?
Let it be known now, that Briony thinks of she herself epitomizes cool. Veins of purely undiluted ice water, the ultimate calm. And her façade of composure is a convincing one indeed, from the aloofness she wears about her shoulders like a pretty burial shroud, to the arms length she keeps everyone at. Truth be told, she’s more shy than composed. The distance isn’t always intentional, but what her tactless mother swears is social retardation makes acquiring friends a somewhat difficult task. Bri’s only redemption would be an infectious smile, or perhaps her knack for calling an awkward situation for what it is - awkward.
Certainly any situation Briony is tossed into becomes awkward. You’d think someone with unlimited time would have garnered some sort of handle on social situation. But alas, no. Since Bri seldom speaks to anyone, she doesn’t exactly know how.
One the very surface, Bri’s calm, she’s relatively shy, she’s awkward. But that’s not knowing her. She’s full of secrets, a past, loyalty to give, friendship to receive, and life. For those who legitimately know her, they know Briony as full of life, vivacious, lively. She throws her hands to the air in delight of a new day, to have woken up, to become intoxicated with sunlight. She pirouettes (sloppily, horrendously) in the pouring rain for the sake of feeling (wet, soaked, water droplets dripping from the tip of her nose). She doesn’t need a gaggle of venom-tongued “friends”, or attention, or popularity to feel alive. Her semblance of life is the cool dirt beneath the pads of her feet, the blades of grass tickling her ankles. Bri is content with her life, and the lives around her. She strives to make everyone feel, feel as she does; and she works at this through art.
Briony is an old soul at heart and there‘s a young heart in her soul, she’s patient and willing to listen. Really listen, and reply with her own sage advice. Or, at least she tried for sage, since good advice is often difficult to come by. The first impression of indifference people gather is such an error. Secondly, she comes off as a little odd, too, because she dances when people watch - regardless of the snickers coming from the dance students - and sings too.
History: Once upon a time, Briony was born. From what? Why an infant’s laugh of course! And she was abandoned, for some fairy’s typically leave their young to fend for themselves. She’s never quite been right, but she manages.
Abilites: - Immortality, for one. But that too, could be a disability. She’ll live for as long as the world allows her to.
- Briony can manipulate her size. The tiniest she can shrink herself to is three inches, or roughly finger length, and the largest she can become (with some difficulty and for a set amount of time) is five feet tall. The most comfortable size for Briony is her smallest, and so to travel she uses birds.
- Briony speaks the language of the earth, and thus animals. She can also grant this boon of tongues, but it is seldom that a fairy grants favors.
Disabilities: - Briony, like all fairies, has a severe allergic reaction to iron. Even being within the vicinity of iron causes her skin to smolder uncomfortably, but when it actually touches her, it burns away the skin layer by layer. Fairies cannot escape from iron, and so if anyone fancied to capture her, she would be under their mercy.
- Bri hears faint snatches of the Authinia, and it drives her to absolute insanity.
Sample;She was sixteen, and it was the summer before her sixth year. Being an October child had its disadvantages, that was certain. But being summer, she was almost free to do whatever she pleased. Almost because the three Black sisters could not idle, it was not becoming of them. An idle mind was useless or scheming, or some such nonsense, it wasn’t as if Andromeda was particularly avid when it came to listening, at least not to her mother’s prattling. But being home, home to the grand, magnificent, unnecessary splendor of the Black residence - mansion - Dromeda knew that it would not be long before she was aloud to convene with her dance instructor, her French tutor.
Her nerves were strung so unbearably tight with excitement that she was on the threshold of trembling. What a silly thing to do, in anticipation! Not really though, Andromeda didn’t believe that. It was a belittling comment that her mother might make, in the unpleasantly shrill voice in which she customarily spoke to her daughter, her ‘black sheep’ daughter. If the wool is not white, perhaps dye it. Dromeda loosed a sigh from her lips, missing Emmeline. They had just recently struck up a tentative friendship in their fifth year, but it was certainly becoming something! Already Dromeda felt that she could confide everything in the Gryffindor - which was uncanny on two levels. First, because she did not strike up particularly close friendship, and second, because she was a Black (and having a Gryffindor as anything but and enemy Simply Isn’t Done). They’d known one another since their first year, of course, and had once or twice met eyes unintentionally when amused or bored, but Dromeda had never imagined she’d be so frantic to be in touch with the girl, to confide her secrets and troubles into the girl.
How curious life was becoming, slowly veering in an opposite direction than her sisters.
Although she still loved them dearly, how could she not? With Bella’s obvious superiority and Cissa’s imperious glares, how could she not love these two familiar creatures she bunked with? In reality, they didn’t actually bunk together, each girl had an enormous room of their own, but living just down the hall from one another and in the same wing of the same home must count for something, mustn’t it?
Ah, but she was becoming distracted, drifting in thought. Of course the true distraction was the prospect of joining her ballet tutor - so soon! Andromeda had never been particularly patient, why would she be when, as a Black, she was allowed whatever she desired whenever she desired it. It was just too bad that time did not adhere to her wishes, her needs. For her body ached to dance, ached to arc, to twist, to leap. Communicating her very soul across the worn wooden floor - wait a moment, she was immersing herself in thoughts much too passionate, she was beginning to sound silly. Or was that just another derogatory assumption instilled in her by a critical mother?
Andromeda stood, her thin upper lip curling back over impeccably straight teeth - at the thought of her mother. It was not a look of disgust, but genteel disdain at the most. She harbored a warring affection for the woman - warring with something that resembled loathing. But that loathing did not match what she felt for her father… a bitter resentment that can be left for another day.
Unfolding her slender legs, Dromeda slid off her massive four-poster (it was not suited to her taste, rather the decadent extravagance of the Blacks’), and wandered to the heavy mahogany door of her room. With her hand hovering lightly over the handle, she deliberated for a moment. A hot shower, or a fascinating book? The choice really was difficult, soothe her tightened muscles through scalding water, or unwind and lose her mind in the pages and words of a favored author? Of course, the author won. Andromeda actually opted to read one of her new spell books (already purchased, although summer was just several weeks old), get a head start on Transfiguration. Sometimes, it seemed, endless riches and endless connections - such of which could score her her schoolbooks months early - weren’t too unfortunate.
Poor little rich girl.
OOC Name hearts & hands
Contacts(Required) uh_ohadria@ymail.com
