Post by rabbet on Mar 27, 2008 16:11:50 GMT -5
basicsname;; Emily Dick
sex;; Female
birth date;;December 12, 1962
blood status;; Pure
school
house;; Slytherin
year;; 5th
details
personality;;
“Call me Emily. Anything else is mockery. I will only ever retell what other people have so generously told me about myself, since self-analysis is both consistently inaccurate and helplessly arrogant. According to my adoring panel of judges (it varies over time, and usually consists of all houses other than my own), I am an offensive, rude, and an angry young woman. Not to mention droll and zealous (these names, I assure you, were not given to me by anyone who wasn’t wearing green). Zealous, I suppose, because of my dominant will to succeed. This success is not at all related to Hogwarts, but to the period of time beyond that when I will be a valued asset to the Ministry of Magic. I plan on providing my services for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, primarily because of my astonishing talent with them. Magical creatures, I mean to say, are my most prominent passion, my most tantalizing talent. I can properly handle anything from a Chimaera to a Horklump. Half of my peers couldn’t even identify a Horklump, let alone provide it with proper nourishment. I’d love to keep a pet Pogrebin, or a Jarvey as a pet here at school. I find they’d be rather useful familiars. Unfortunately, all they’ll allow me to keep is a stunningly intelligent cat of Egyptian descent. She’s called Ptolemaeus, named after a very renowned geographer, astrologer, astronomer and wizard. I see students with toads and things that look like balls of lint... useless.
There is not a living witch or wizard that could care for magical creatures better than I could – and for this reason, I hate the class. I’ve more knowledge on the subject than any professor has ever taught me or ever could, and at this point there is little I don’t know. Maybe this is where some parties get the idea in their heads that I am full of myself, and rude in partnership.
That is gryphonshit.
I’ve got self-confidence, and anyone who can’t appreciate that is severely lacking their own.
Nothing else at Hogwarts has much use, really. They’re all, simply, distractions. Useless. Transfiguration is somewhat worth my time, but not until they begin to teach me how to transfigure myself. I plan on becoming an animagus, as soon as someone teaches me how to do it. It’s useless, what they’re showing me... I’ll never forget the day I heard a Hufflepuff girl begging the professor to teach her how to turn a turtle into a purse. What is the point?
My dad is never particularly pleased when he sees how poorly I do on my end-of-term tests, anyway. But they’re not important. Like I said earlier – distractions. So are boys.
Boys are distractions, I mean.
All the happy little girls in my year are completely caught up in what they call ‘relationships’. Relation-shit. There’s no use having a lover. I don’t want one, unless they don’t get in my way at all. And then, what’s the point of the title? I’ve certainly been on what people call ‘dates’ – about three in total. It’s far too many, already. I don’t know what makes people think I’d want to walk around with them and then snog under a window somewhere, but that seems to be what they want. It’s useless.
Well, admittedly, sometimes I think it’d be nice to have someone to talk - - never mind.
No distractions.”
physical description;;
“I am always comfortable in regular wizard robes. Stripes are abundant in my clothing collection.
I never feel the desire to tramp around in blindingly colourful, strangely configured Muggle crap. Muggles don’t know how to do anything themselves, not even dress. I often with that Wizards could interfere more in their hopeless lives – they don’t understand how much better off they’d be with our direction. How could they? It’s useless.
As often as I can, I wear scarves. Anything in green or purple will do. There’s no reason I wear scarves. What, you think I’m trying to hide something? That’s ridiculous.
The configuration of my face couldn’t be better – it is in perfect proportion, and an ideal shade of ivory-like flesh-tone.
Aren’t you laughing yet?
Haven’t you noticed the unpleasantness of my eyes? They’re so large and intruding, so brown and sparkly.. I can’t stand how daft they make me look. Perfect proportion my arse!
Well, I thought you’d catch the joke.
Most people find it funny when I criticize myself in a joke, like that, you know.
Anyway, it’s perfect beyond that.
My hair is at a maddening stage between straight and coiled. It’s awful, the way it sits there in nonsense loops and waves. It’s useless.”
Emily Dick, in fact, possesses more than one pair of blue jeans, despite her opposition to common Muggle dress.
She has a rather impressive forehead, large and broad, and her nose is unarguably piglike in shape. She does, however, have very nice-looking hair.
family History;;
“My father is Viktor Dick, and my mother Lila McKenna by her maiden name. I won’t be bashful and pretend we’re not very well-off, but just because I have money, it doesn’t mean I’m willing to help out anyone who needs it. With parents whose names mean success and beauty (and are both entirely well-suited), I’ve got the heavy burden of living up to that reputation. I can hardly leave such responsibility to the bottle of bubbling hell that, supposedly, I’m related to. Her incompetence is almost a physical contagion that could force the women and children in a room to evacuate. She’s that stupid. Dahlia. Just as stunning as the flower that lent her its name. Sadly, she’s got almost the same routine. Sitting around all day while other people feed her, and ogle her, and just wonder what it would be like, for one small moment, to be a careless, dainty little thing swaying around in a wind of trivial concern. I’ve never once wished I was her, and I’ve never once been jealous of all the attention she receives. She’s already graduated from Hogwarts (to the silent surprise of many a wizard), so I hardly need to tolerate her. That’s all the better for time to improve myself, I say.
Me, they’ve named Emily. Quite possibly the single most common English name in the existence of English names. Do you know what my name means? They’ve called me an emulator. I suppose it could be worse – my grandfather was named after a rare breed of self-sufficient fungus.
My grandfather is dead. He was a.., respectable wizard. He focused a little too much on his wives (there were three of them, unbeknownst to any of them, and plenty of other women that thought he was exclusively ‘theirs’), but he was still admirable in his behavior. I’m not upset about his death, and I don’t really miss him, like the rest of my family seems to. The purpose of life is to be born, reproduce, and die.
Some, I wish, would reach that last stage sooner than others.”
patronus;; Male Centaur, long hair and beard
role play sample;;
"I hope you realize that I will not, ever, place any part of my body, at any time in my life, on that unreliable bit of twiggy wood. No."
She stood rigid, looking at the broomstick in front of her like it was boiling and undulating under her gaze, with black smoke wafting off of it. That was, in fact, exactly how she was imagining it was behaving, just to achieve that possible maximum potential of visual discomfort and disgust. She wasn't going to let an awful fear of heights stop her from conquering the skill of flying and controlling a broom - she was going to let it steer her, sprinting, in the opposite direction.
Maybe if she stood still for long enough, one side of her mouth uplifted in a kind of sneer, the broom would disappear and there would miraculously be one less than the class called for. Pity, pity, she'd have to sit out.
No such luck.
Alright then, if God wasn't on her side, she'd use her wit. Wager with the instructor who was trying to strap her onto her deathmobile until she'd talked for so long and so nonsensically that they'd just dismiss her, and leave the grounds to ponder their meaning in life.
Another option was to jab someone in the eye with her wand. If she was called to her Head of House's office for a lecture, she could certainly avoid flying. She'd take detention over permanent brain damage.
---
Emily had never ended up choosing any of those options in her first year during flying lessons - she'd simply stood in one spot, feet together, and stared her professor down until they got the message that she was refusing.
Now, the exact same thing was happening again. It was in some sort of warped, backwards setting, though. Dark night instead of sunny afternoon, and in the place of the flying coach was a burley young man, one year younger then Emily, who was interested in, essentially, getting her in his pants. For whatever reason. Maybe, she pondered, he might think some of her brilliance would rub off on his lack thereof. He’d thought the broomstick to be a romantic thing, a wonderful way to observe the sky. To Emily, it was man handing woman a death wish in ink. He'd led her all in secret, sparing only a blindfold, down the stairs of the school into the Grounds (where they weren't supposed to be, anyway), and then...Accio! From behind a bush came the lethal weapon.
Emily hadn’t treated the affair like any special occasion. She was wearing her regular robes, the scarf she wrapped around her neck every day, and a normal unimpressed expression. She’d barely noticed what the boy said, or what he looked like. She knew he was useless, just from the way he walked.
"I hope you realize," she began, "That I will not, ever, place any part of my body, at any time in my life, on that broomstick, no matter how skillful you have the guts to think you are. No."
sex;; Female
birth date;;December 12, 1962
blood status;; Pure
school
house;; Slytherin
year;; 5th
details
personality;;
“Call me Emily. Anything else is mockery. I will only ever retell what other people have so generously told me about myself, since self-analysis is both consistently inaccurate and helplessly arrogant. According to my adoring panel of judges (it varies over time, and usually consists of all houses other than my own), I am an offensive, rude, and an angry young woman. Not to mention droll and zealous (these names, I assure you, were not given to me by anyone who wasn’t wearing green). Zealous, I suppose, because of my dominant will to succeed. This success is not at all related to Hogwarts, but to the period of time beyond that when I will be a valued asset to the Ministry of Magic. I plan on providing my services for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, primarily because of my astonishing talent with them. Magical creatures, I mean to say, are my most prominent passion, my most tantalizing talent. I can properly handle anything from a Chimaera to a Horklump. Half of my peers couldn’t even identify a Horklump, let alone provide it with proper nourishment. I’d love to keep a pet Pogrebin, or a Jarvey as a pet here at school. I find they’d be rather useful familiars. Unfortunately, all they’ll allow me to keep is a stunningly intelligent cat of Egyptian descent. She’s called Ptolemaeus, named after a very renowned geographer, astrologer, astronomer and wizard. I see students with toads and things that look like balls of lint... useless.
There is not a living witch or wizard that could care for magical creatures better than I could – and for this reason, I hate the class. I’ve more knowledge on the subject than any professor has ever taught me or ever could, and at this point there is little I don’t know. Maybe this is where some parties get the idea in their heads that I am full of myself, and rude in partnership.
That is gryphonshit.
I’ve got self-confidence, and anyone who can’t appreciate that is severely lacking their own.
Nothing else at Hogwarts has much use, really. They’re all, simply, distractions. Useless. Transfiguration is somewhat worth my time, but not until they begin to teach me how to transfigure myself. I plan on becoming an animagus, as soon as someone teaches me how to do it. It’s useless, what they’re showing me... I’ll never forget the day I heard a Hufflepuff girl begging the professor to teach her how to turn a turtle into a purse. What is the point?
My dad is never particularly pleased when he sees how poorly I do on my end-of-term tests, anyway. But they’re not important. Like I said earlier – distractions. So are boys.
Boys are distractions, I mean.
All the happy little girls in my year are completely caught up in what they call ‘relationships’. Relation-shit. There’s no use having a lover. I don’t want one, unless they don’t get in my way at all. And then, what’s the point of the title? I’ve certainly been on what people call ‘dates’ – about three in total. It’s far too many, already. I don’t know what makes people think I’d want to walk around with them and then snog under a window somewhere, but that seems to be what they want. It’s useless.
Well, admittedly, sometimes I think it’d be nice to have someone to talk - - never mind.
No distractions.”
physical description;;
“I am always comfortable in regular wizard robes. Stripes are abundant in my clothing collection.
I never feel the desire to tramp around in blindingly colourful, strangely configured Muggle crap. Muggles don’t know how to do anything themselves, not even dress. I often with that Wizards could interfere more in their hopeless lives – they don’t understand how much better off they’d be with our direction. How could they? It’s useless.
As often as I can, I wear scarves. Anything in green or purple will do. There’s no reason I wear scarves. What, you think I’m trying to hide something? That’s ridiculous.
The configuration of my face couldn’t be better – it is in perfect proportion, and an ideal shade of ivory-like flesh-tone.
Aren’t you laughing yet?
Haven’t you noticed the unpleasantness of my eyes? They’re so large and intruding, so brown and sparkly.. I can’t stand how daft they make me look. Perfect proportion my arse!
Well, I thought you’d catch the joke.
Most people find it funny when I criticize myself in a joke, like that, you know.
Anyway, it’s perfect beyond that.
My hair is at a maddening stage between straight and coiled. It’s awful, the way it sits there in nonsense loops and waves. It’s useless.”
Emily Dick, in fact, possesses more than one pair of blue jeans, despite her opposition to common Muggle dress.
She has a rather impressive forehead, large and broad, and her nose is unarguably piglike in shape. She does, however, have very nice-looking hair.
family History;;
“My father is Viktor Dick, and my mother Lila McKenna by her maiden name. I won’t be bashful and pretend we’re not very well-off, but just because I have money, it doesn’t mean I’m willing to help out anyone who needs it. With parents whose names mean success and beauty (and are both entirely well-suited), I’ve got the heavy burden of living up to that reputation. I can hardly leave such responsibility to the bottle of bubbling hell that, supposedly, I’m related to. Her incompetence is almost a physical contagion that could force the women and children in a room to evacuate. She’s that stupid. Dahlia. Just as stunning as the flower that lent her its name. Sadly, she’s got almost the same routine. Sitting around all day while other people feed her, and ogle her, and just wonder what it would be like, for one small moment, to be a careless, dainty little thing swaying around in a wind of trivial concern. I’ve never once wished I was her, and I’ve never once been jealous of all the attention she receives. She’s already graduated from Hogwarts (to the silent surprise of many a wizard), so I hardly need to tolerate her. That’s all the better for time to improve myself, I say.
Me, they’ve named Emily. Quite possibly the single most common English name in the existence of English names. Do you know what my name means? They’ve called me an emulator. I suppose it could be worse – my grandfather was named after a rare breed of self-sufficient fungus.
My grandfather is dead. He was a.., respectable wizard. He focused a little too much on his wives (there were three of them, unbeknownst to any of them, and plenty of other women that thought he was exclusively ‘theirs’), but he was still admirable in his behavior. I’m not upset about his death, and I don’t really miss him, like the rest of my family seems to. The purpose of life is to be born, reproduce, and die.
Some, I wish, would reach that last stage sooner than others.”
patronus;; Male Centaur, long hair and beard
role play sample;;
"I hope you realize that I will not, ever, place any part of my body, at any time in my life, on that unreliable bit of twiggy wood. No."
She stood rigid, looking at the broomstick in front of her like it was boiling and undulating under her gaze, with black smoke wafting off of it. That was, in fact, exactly how she was imagining it was behaving, just to achieve that possible maximum potential of visual discomfort and disgust. She wasn't going to let an awful fear of heights stop her from conquering the skill of flying and controlling a broom - she was going to let it steer her, sprinting, in the opposite direction.
Maybe if she stood still for long enough, one side of her mouth uplifted in a kind of sneer, the broom would disappear and there would miraculously be one less than the class called for. Pity, pity, she'd have to sit out.
No such luck.
Alright then, if God wasn't on her side, she'd use her wit. Wager with the instructor who was trying to strap her onto her deathmobile until she'd talked for so long and so nonsensically that they'd just dismiss her, and leave the grounds to ponder their meaning in life.
Another option was to jab someone in the eye with her wand. If she was called to her Head of House's office for a lecture, she could certainly avoid flying. She'd take detention over permanent brain damage.
---
Emily had never ended up choosing any of those options in her first year during flying lessons - she'd simply stood in one spot, feet together, and stared her professor down until they got the message that she was refusing.
Now, the exact same thing was happening again. It was in some sort of warped, backwards setting, though. Dark night instead of sunny afternoon, and in the place of the flying coach was a burley young man, one year younger then Emily, who was interested in, essentially, getting her in his pants. For whatever reason. Maybe, she pondered, he might think some of her brilliance would rub off on his lack thereof. He’d thought the broomstick to be a romantic thing, a wonderful way to observe the sky. To Emily, it was man handing woman a death wish in ink. He'd led her all in secret, sparing only a blindfold, down the stairs of the school into the Grounds (where they weren't supposed to be, anyway), and then...Accio! From behind a bush came the lethal weapon.
Emily hadn’t treated the affair like any special occasion. She was wearing her regular robes, the scarf she wrapped around her neck every day, and a normal unimpressed expression. She’d barely noticed what the boy said, or what he looked like. She knew he was useless, just from the way he walked.
"I hope you realize," she began, "That I will not, ever, place any part of my body, at any time in my life, on that broomstick, no matter how skillful you have the guts to think you are. No."
