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Post by Andromeda Black on Aug 24, 2012 1:29:20 GMT -5
 __________________________________________________________a b o u t . y o u !
Name: Lyly
Preferred Pronouns: She, Hers, Her
Age: 23
E-mail: Same one as registered
Twitter and/or Tumblr: Tumblr
Years of RPG Experience: ~6 years
Other: REMOVED BY STAFF
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q u i c k . q u i z !
How did you find us? Advertised on DTLA
What about ISS inspired you to join? Post length requirements, site layout, site life (since 2007!).
Do you have any suggestions for us? Keep it up. C:
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a b o u t . t h e . c h a r a c t e r !
Name: Andromeda Persia Black
Date of Birth: May 5 1959
Gender: Female
Year: Seventh
Face Claim: Keira Knightley
Canon or Original? Canon
Distinguishing Physical Features:
Standing at 5’6’’, Andromeda hardly cuts an imposing figure, and yet one sharp look from those dark brown eyes is enough to make many a first, second, even sixth year shrink away. Overall, her figure is slightly boyish; long and lean, few curves to speak of (and a few she wished she had—if she ever cut off all her hair she could pass as a boy…no problem). Another delicate pureblood spine easy to snap. Dark eyes a bit too big for her face, which she accentuates often with mascara and liner, giving them a slightly narrowed look, as if she’s always watching, thinking—a look as if she knows something you don’t. Never. Blank. A light in her eyes, pupils wheeling&wheeling like the cogs of her brain.
In match with her eyes, her hair is also a darker brown, of longer length, ends curling around her nonexistent chest. The strands have a natural curl, and much of the time she leaves her hair down. A few side bangs, usually parted neatly to the left, although when she’s studying they fall forward, awry. Rarely does she ever pull it back into JUST a ponytail; far too lackadaisical a look for her—if she’s wearing it up, she pulls it into a complicated twist, braid, or bun, accentuating the sides with curls, and choosing with precision the strands to be left around her face, curl at her neck, not a strand out of place.
Of note is the scar just above her left eyebrow—courtesy of Bellatrix; who took one of their games just a bit too far. Other than that, every now and then a bruise can be seen on her person—bumping into things, catching a corner, unfortunate little mishaps—the healers said she had anemia, ever since she was small, not severe, but enough to bruise easily. Add some iron to the diet, they said. Andromeda just smiled. A crooked smile, not quite full, but mocking. The only time she truly smiles with any warmth is when she laughs. Which. Is. Not. Often. Not these days.
Wand Type: Ash, 9 inches, owl feather, sturdy. Good for charms and protective spells.
Patronus: A giraffe; tall, elegant, yet unassuming.
Boggart: At this point in time, should she come across a boggart, Andromeda would see herself, dressed in a dark cloak, hidden behind a mask—no longer her own person but just another follower of the darkness… going along with everything she was taught and against everything she has come to believe. That thought scares her more than anything.
Personality:
|STUBBORN|&you would leave me, if i told you what i’ve become. no light, no light, no light.
Did you know that muggle studies are NOT mandatory in the Hogwarts curriculum? A shame, really. My parents did not appreciate when I elected to take such a worthless class, though it was their hope that it may help me realize how inferior muggle and muggle borns are to the pureblood wizarding class. They were mistaken. Like the sorting hat. It must be a mistake, they said. All Blacks must be Slytherin, they said. Sirius is no longer a Black, they said, Gryffindor blood traitor. Maybe, they are right. It would not have been a mistake to put me in Slytherin; I always get what I want, ambitious, that way. And yet… here I am. A Ravenclaw. Not bad enough to be disowned, but not good enough—never…good enough. Nothing I do, will ever be good enough. So, why not take muggle studies? Some interesting theories, those muggles come up with. So much time spent pondering and trying to explain the enigma of a human being. I wonder, if perhaps, they are just trying to find the magic within themselves. I wrote an essay, in fact, on one such muggle theorist: Abraham Maslow.
|MATTER OF FACT|&i will disappear in plain sight. Heaven help me, i need to make it right.
I have everything. By that, I mean that I lack nothing. I know that not everyone can say that, I know that I am very blessed. My needs are met. You see, Maslow concocted a theory about the psychological development of human beings, put most simply, in the form of a pyramid. There are five different levels. At the base, are physiological needs. One must have physiological needs met before they can attempt to fulfill any others. I have shelter. I have food. I have clothing. I am in excellent health. The base of my pyramid is strong. The second level entails safety, building upon the idea that fulfilling physiological needs is the basis for feeling safe, and adding in a few other elements, such as property, resources, and family, all of which I have in vast abundance. The theory, after all, does not suggest that these things must be present. These are the facts.
|HUMBLE|&i never knew daylight could be so violent, a revelation in the light of day.
I have everything. As you move up the pyramid, the needs begin to gradient from physical to emotional. The third level entails people, involving a sense of love and belonging, listing family, friends, lovers. I suppose you could say that the middle of my pyramid is where the structure begins to falter, that if I cannot cement it, how can I possibly build on? But I have. It's strong enough. I have family. I have classmates and professors and tutors. You don't have to be in love to have love. I love them all. They are all important to me. The fourth level is, in my opinion, easier to obtain than the third: esteem. It entails a sense of confidence and achievement, giving and earning respect. I've won several awards, though, really, I don't think I deserved them. So many of the other contestants were far better than I. After all, a Ravenclaw should never beat a Slytherin. The last level is called self actualization; if you have everything else, then you have the time and the frame of mind for creativity, morality. Acceptance. It is an interesting idea. Very well accepted. And yet, I can’t help but wonder if the entire human psyche, entire human experience, entire human being, can be defined and contained inside the confines of a triangle.
|TEMPER|&tell me you want me to stay, through the crowded islands, crying out at me, in your place there were a thousand other faces.
I have everything, but nothing that really matters. I like routine. Structure is very important in life, according to my mother or rather, my mother’s letters. Without structure, there will be chaos, and no progress can be made in chaos. Life is about progression. Everything that I do now is about lying down a firm foundation for the future. I understand that. Once, when I was five, my father told me not to jump from the swings, swings are for swinging, of course, not for jumping. Once, I didn’t listen. Once, I jumped and consequently I broke my arm. I’ve learned my lesson. Swings are for swinging. Not jumping. Never jumping. I went back and broke the chain on the swing. I never told anyone, after all, vandalism, isn’t it? Sometimes my temper gets the best of me. Heated words melt the cool exterior—words, so dangerous, and yet so easy do they slip off the tongue, sharp like plaque and just as heavy; funny thing about words… you can never take them back. Carve them on a tombstone; eternal. Perhaps I should change. Look out the window, see the light. I want to and instead, I close the blinds. Here I am. Always present, but never truly there. I have everything, what more could I want? I have everything I have everything and yet still I feel so empty. Maybe, I am being, just a bit dramatic. There’s this Gryffindor. He’s always telling me to lighten up. But I can’t, you see? Black. In. The. Blood.
Likes:
+ Acid pops
+ Rules and structure
+ Charms
+ Cleaning
+ The giant squid (secretly, of course, of course).
Dislikes:
– Ill mannered people
– Feeling helpless
– Marshmallows
– People who don’t try
– Failing
History:
Andromeda Persia Black. Born to Druella and Cygnus Black. The middle child. Not the oldest and not the youngest. Just… in the middle. Less expected of her than Bellatrix, more than of Narcissa. An easy child; speak only when spoken to, well mannered, followed the rules. Not one step over the line. Except, of course, for her temper. It was not often that she lost her temper, it took push after push after push (falldown), but when she did, she was inconsolable. Full out on the ground, thrashing, screaming, every hateful and hurtful word out of her mouth, violent and uncontainable. Sometimes, her parents would have to hex her (or beat her, after all, a good SMACK across the face is often enough of a shock to the system to halt anyone) just to stop the chaos. Something. Disconnected. Inside. As she grew older, she learned to tame her anger. What was it that she was SO angry about ALL the time? Now, only ever in secret does she throw herself down on the floor when everything is TOOMUCH, and instead of screaming&raging, uses her words like daggers—short, sharp, and too the point—a very well placed point in the heart. Nothing, she is proud of, not anymore.
Despite the few stains on her pristine childhood, Andromeda grew up wanting for nothing. She enjoyed the company of her sisters—looking to Bellatrix for adventure and fear, and Narcissa for comfort and safety. She followed every plan her parents had for her; she dressed as they said, spoke when they said, lived as they said. No. Questions. Asked. No doubt in anyone’s mind that she would be yet another prized possession; another trophy on the wall in the long history of the Blacks. When Bellatrix went to Hogwarts, it was all Andromeda could think about. She desperately wanted to go as well, wanted to wear the silve and green, wanted a wand. And yet… her parents wondered. Thought about sending her elsewhere. Beauxbaxtons, perhaps. Something just not quite right, about their little girl. Something…SOFT about her. Andromeda never understood the cruelty of her parents, of Bellatrix, of the Blacks. A gentler spirit, one that needed to be broken.
And then it happened. Andromeda went to Hogwarts. And Andromeda sorted into Ravenclaw.
Oh, the disappointment. What was happening, to this generation? First her cousin Sirius (whom she had always gotten on well with, much to her parents dismay) and now her—perhaps there was something wrong. Her parents cautioned her to stay away from Sirius—bad news, bad news. Of course, Ravenclaw was not Gryffindor… but neither was it Slytherin. Only a young girl, she felt she had to make up for this failure—so she worked hard, harder than anyone she knew, worked to get the best grades, be the best student: BE. THE. BEST. And yet, it was never enough. It never could be enough. Not Slytherin, after all. And so…slowly, Andromeda began looking elsewhere for confirmation…confirmation that she was not a failure, not a disappointment, not worthless. Not hard to find—she collected an assortment of friends, of all blood statuses (of which Bellatrix immediately reported to their parents), and several of the professors praised her… for all of the qualities that made her the white sheep in the Black family.
The years passed without much fuss, though things were changing behind the scenes; darker and darker—her parents throwing money into a cause unbeknowest to her, a name being whispered in the gatherings, and soon, whispered in public. People disappearing, people being killed, people fleeing to the darkness in droves. Ever observant, Andromeda, she always read the papers, always heard the stories, always listened carefully. Things…were changing. And yet life went on. She got the best grades, had a close knit group of friends (held at an arms length, of course), went on to become a prefect. Even at home, she stayed to the shadows, just a fly on the wall. Few people understand the art of silence, and it is an art (not a science). Even fewer people appreciate it. Everyone moves to fill it, fearing to let it settle, chase it away with useless thoughts and words and sounds. As if something might happen should there be simply nothing and how we do fear something happening. Andromeda valued silence. Silence is not nothing. It is something in and of itself. It can be used or it can simply be. Sometimes silence says more than words ever could. And so she stayed silent. For years and years and years.
Positioning, of course, is of the utmost importance as well. Combined (silence&positioning) it is amazing, the events and words and people you will witness; at the things you will learn, at the information suddenly at your disposal, and oh the ways you can dispose of it. Endless. Possibilities. There is one other requirement though, one that without, even with positioning and silence, will ruin you. Shadows, you see, must be just that, and only that: shadows. Nothing more. Mere shells without thoughts and emotions and feelings. The only way to do that is to cut out your heart. Or rather, its connotations. Let it be simply myocardial tissue: a machine, a machine that’s only purpose is to pump, pump, pump. Nothing. More. And slowly, over the years, that’s what happened. Andromeda became a shadow, kept any&all emotions to herself. Painted her white sheep Black—and yet still the spots stuck out. Just not quite a Black, and not quite anything else.
Then Sirius got disowned.
And she knew she was next. She absolutely knew it. Though she was not as brave nor brash as Sirius, she felt an unease.. she could not place on toe out of line…or she too would lose everything. And what, exactly, was everything? What did she have to lose? Nothing, nothing, nothing, except the only life she had ever known. A life she knew…and was coming to know, that was completely and utterly wrong and dark and black. A life she didn’t want. And yet… yet she had to be careful, had to be cautious. Best to stick to the shadows and wait in the wings. Life went on; Sirius graduated and she moved into seventh year… Head.Girl. Overjoyed at this achievement, yet barely a notice from her family. But even so… now, with the students disappearing and fear ruling the masses… she decided to hold all her cards; after all, we wouldn’t want to burn any bridges just yet, now would we?
Sample Post: From another site: Nymphadora Tonks (speaking for the first time with Narcissa).
It never actually occurred to Tonks that she might run into Narcissa. Why that was now, she couldn’t say. It seemed silly. They may not run in the same circles but they certainly were apart of the same picture, the strokes painted with the same brush. In truth, Tonks did not know much about Narcissa, Tonks knew more about the Malfoys. The family. As a unit. And specifically, about Lucius. But Narcissa? The woman in front of her an enigma. Andromeda did not speak about her family very often and when she did… she only told facts, not stories, and not memories. Tonks felt that her mother, though too stubborn and stoic to admit it, missed her sisters. Yes. SisterS. Plural. Narcissa and Bellatrix, though Andromeda had long given up on Bellatrix. Tonks tried to hide it from her mother that Bellatrix had been the one to hex her into St. Mungo’s. Didn’t see the point in telling her. Didn’t want to tell her. Didn’t want to hurt her. In the end, Andromeda found out. Tonks was marked by that one. Good to have so much attention! She simply must be the favorite niece. Blood meant nothing. Blood meant everything. Bloody bleeding blood.
The use of her first name made Tonks flinch slightly, though she said nothing. Protesting would only give Narcissa more ammunition and clearly she had plenty of that. Besides, it was unlikely, improbable, impossible, that the woman would ever refer to her as Tonks. Slumping against the wall, Tonks shoved her hands into her pockets, shifting her weight back and forth, feeling the need to move and fidget next to the pristine statue of a woman in her presence. Must have rods for bones, that one. “Yes, I am rather fond of existing,” Tonks added mildly, noting the severity of her tone, each word sharp and cold, flung off her tongue like chips of ice. “Well. Looks like we agree on something!” Nodding to affirm her point, she continued on with a shrug. “That blood means nothing that is. Didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that though. I am pleasantly surprised.”
A crooked grin played onto her lips and she raised her eyebrows, unable to hide the lines of amusement etching around her eyes. “It’s all the same anyway, you know. Bunch of red cells coursing through a bunch of vessels pumping in a bunch of hearts. You think that you and I are so different. Why? Because of blood? I don’t think that’s it. Cut down to the bone and look at that, all the same.” Stretching her hands out in front of her, chipped black nail polish stark against bitten finger nails, Tonks continued on, tone light. “It’s not actually blood that makes you my aunt. See, there’s these…well… things. I can’t think of the technical term,” And her brain just could not be bothered to stretch itself for something so trivial, “I read about it—oh! DNA.” She announced. “Muggle word. Looks like a coil, I think. Not sure what it stands for. Although in OUR family,” particular emphasis on the word ‘our,’ “probably Do Not Associate,” she snickered, composing herself. “Anyway. That’s what makes us related. It’s very fascinating. My point, Auntie, and I do have a point, is that you always have been my Aunt and you always will be!”
A flash of anger clenched at her stomach at the way Narcissa spoke of her mother, but it washed away soon enough, flame turned to smoke. The fact that Narcissa spoke of her with any hint of emotion at all meant that somewhere in that frozen chest and somewhere in that black little heart, Narcissa still cared—or at least thought about-- Andromeda. “You abandoned my mother, not the other way around,” Tonks said quietly, tugging on the end of her sleeve. “I mean, really, what’s being a pure blood ever done for you?” Don’t, Don’t, Don’t. “You now have a big, EMPTY, house and a husband in prison.” Stop. Stop. Stop. “And if you want to keep it that way, your son is basically going to have to marry a Weasley.” Just couldn’t keep her mouth shut, could she? Not known for holding her tongue, that Tonks. Sirius would be proud. About to go on, because when she was on a roll she couldn’t possibly cease, but the words were suddenly knocked out of her. Literally.
The elevator lurched, slamming to a halt, sending Tonks stumbling forward into Narcissa, boots c L u N k I n G together. “Oops! Sorry about that.” Quickly pulling away, she stood there for a moment, before kneeling down to rap her wand on a few of the lower buttons. “That… didn’t… sound… good.” Nothing. “I think we’ve stopped.” Ever stating the obvious. Grey eyes glanced up to Narcissa from her kneeled position, one hand tangling in her hair as she tilted her head to the side. “Funny. There’s something about you that reminds me of mum.” Fingers snapped in the air suddenly. “Aha! Congratulations! I think you dropped the temperature in here by ten degrees! That’s it. Impressive.”
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c o n t r a c t !
I solemnly swear that I, LYLY, 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.
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