Post by Gideon Prewett on Sept 23, 2007 20:05:38 GMT -5
Name ;;
Gideon A. Prewett
Age ;;
15
Year ;;
5th
vanity ;;
The Prewett ancestry is one of the few to have evolved to a relatively low level of prejudice against Muggle borns. That, of course, doesn't mean that they would marry a Muggle born--quite the opposite. The Prewett family tree has been documented for nearly the entire stretch of written history and not a drop of Muggle blood has ever been recorded.
It shows.
Gideon has a straight, long nose that might be unseemly in another individual, but actually fits quite nicely with the rest of his straight, long face. His eyes are narrow and wide set--gray or silver in color, depending on the light. His eyebrows are thin and well groomed. Though Gideon, having great personal pride, would never admit it, his fingernails are always perfectly clean and rounded and he has a bit of a paranoia about breaking them.
A firm jaw presents a slightly protruding chin and, combined with a lower lip that is significantly fuller than the upper one, gives him a permanently pouty appearance, but pleasantly so. His frame is long and pleasantly lean--nearly six foot three inches--with broad shoulders and subtle muscles.
Most noticeably, Gideon's chocolate hair falls with a careful lack of styling into his eyes. It is his favorite feature, and he thoroughly enjoys using it to make all manner of females swoon . . .
. . . As long as they don't touch it.
Gideon Prewett is smarter than you, cuter than you, better dressed than you, and better with the ladies than you. Did he mention cuter than you?
Poor Gideon, spoiled oldest child of an impoverished Pureblooded family, was never granted the gilded furniture and expensive jewels his kingly nature deserved. Instead, his parents catered to every one of his whims they possible could, enforced virtually no discipline, and spent a great deal of time bathing, feeding, and dressing him. As a result, Gideon is a bit obsessive compulsive about his appearance, even to a fault. In the past fifteen years, he has not held a single conversation without the mention of "personal hygiene."
Gideon is quite fond of other members of his house, often consenting to converse with them when their shabby appearances would otherwise repulse him. Of Gryffindors he is not fond. They are stupid jocks, and he has no use for them. Of Hufflepuffs he thinks little. They are prone to life-long loyalty, something he cannot quite understand. Slytherins, though, are the worst. Despite his slight superiority complex, Gideon is a Prewett, and Prewetts cannot stand dark magic.
Excepting the sweat, dirt, and otherwise unclean elements of it, one of the great joys of Gideon's life is Quidditch. Well, he is a Wizard, after all. Though soccer and other "real" sports are completely uninteresting to him, there is not a single Quidditch player, match, rule, or fact that has escaped Gideon's obsessive research. Of course, Gideon would never condescend to actually play Quidditch. His family is too poor to afford a decent broom and he is far too proud to be seen flying around on anything other than a Cleansweep. Nevertheless, the rare paper has been left undone in favor of a Quidditch match--the true show of Gideon's affection.
Second only to hygiene and just a little bit before Quidditch in Gideon's expansive (if eclectic and slightly egocentric) heart is the female gender. Not one in particular, but mass as a whole. Short, tall, large, round, small, thin, angry, sweet, or angry, Gideon loves females. It is, like everything else in Gideon's life, a bit of an obsession. Though no single girl has ever held Gideon's attention for more than, say, two weeks, while she does she is the luckiest girl in the world.
Gideon's past obsessions have been treated to breakfast in bed, middle-of-class flower and chocolate deliveries, perfume, jewelry, constant attention and the rare, badly composed sonnet. All of this attention, however, suddenly ceases when Gideon's head is once again turned by the sway of another hip, only to be lavished on a new female once more.
Though it is most probably a moot point, the observer is better warned that Gideon has a tendency towards obsession. Though his upbringing and unwarrantedly regal nature deem most things in life completely unworthy of his attention, he persues anything that does with blind devotion and almost stalker-like persistence.
Heaven help the Witch or Wizard who tries to stand in his way.
cuzimrad ;;
“I am not wearing this.” Her Royal Majesty Harper Elizabeth Lavender Linton glanced down at the very frilly, very pink dress hiked up around her knees. She had already proven her point about riding side-saddle. It just wasn’t for her.
“Really? It certainly looks like you are,” Carrick Yorke, Her Royal Majesty’s Official
The gesture she gave him in response was not exactly royal. “I’m taking it off. I really am. Right now.” She put her weight forward in the stirrups and attempted to detangle herself from the heavy, constraining fabric. It was not so eager to release its prey. Though she was wearing a shirt and a pair of her brother’s black pants underneath the dress, she would rather show up naked than wearing the idiot depiction of a wedding cake.
“You have fun with that.”
“Oh, believe me,” Harper sank her teeth into the white lacy collar of the dress and attempted to tear it, making a sound like a dog, “I will.” A small wet spot appeared where her mouth had been as she gave up, sighing. “I hope they send me back before dinner. This country smells like peasantry.”
“I hope they send you to military school,” Carrick said, not altogether sarcastic. The further away from him she was, the safer it was for her. Memories of fishing the kitchen staff from the under dock sent a shudder through his spine.
“It’s cold.”
Carrick glanced up at her. There was snow on the ground and she was bundled in three layers of baby animal fur. Of course it was cold. Thirteen years of schooling had taught her nothing. The twenty-one-year-old shook his head slightly.
Harper fell silent, contenting herself with making a mental list of complaints. Perhaps she could aggravate Carrick into some minor act of vandalism later. It was endless fun to watch him destroy priceless artifacts hanging on her walls. Or maybe she simply had a twisted sense of ‘fun’.
The road wound around and they entered the town. Red noses pressed against window panes to get a look at the future royal, but Harper showed no interest in “the people.” They needed baths. In Carmel, there were no poor. They either supported themselves and stayed clean and out of everybody’s way or they died.
“It’s small,” the princess said at last as they paused in front of the castle.
Carrick was silent for a good fifteen minutes. Where was the welcome parade? The balloons? A friendly “hello”? “Yep, lame, let’s go.”
“Really?” Harper lifted the reigns and turned her horse sharply.
“No, sit still.”
“You’re late.” The thirteen-year-old Harper Linton was about as kind and cuddly as an eighty-year-old cactus. She raked her eyes over Lethal’s form and then returned them to his face, unimpressed.
“Her Royal Majesty Miss Harper Elizabeth Lavender Linton of Carmel,” Carrick half-muttered, sounding bored.
Harper seemed to take great pride in her name. One corner of her mouth lifted in a secretive smirk as she inclined her head ever-so slightly and extended one gloved hand to Lethal to help her off her horse. “Master Lethalzion Animus, I presume,” she said, not slightly condescending.
Carrick rolled his eyes and hopped down from the large armored beast. His eyes shifted to the bland landscape of the castle, the yearning for Carmel growing. He had never liked Narlenex, especially growing up. It was such a boring town. “Is anyone else coming to greet us?” He snapped at Lethal, handing the reins of the horse to a stumbling servant.
Harper fixed her eyes on Lethal, clearly not amused, and narrowed them slightly. What, did he think he got to be all big, bad and condescending because his family stole her life in order to keep her country from slaughtering them all? Oh, she was so afraid.
“Delighted,” she returned, looping her arm through his. It was neither ladylike nor caring, but rather a possessive gesture. I don’t want to be here, but as long as I am, you may as well know that you, everyone you know, and everything you have belong to me. “It depends,” she said dully, turning her eyes towards the castle. “Is there a noose in my bedroom?”
