Post by Alice Logan on Sept 24, 2007 19:51:43 GMT -5
Name:: Alice Logan
Age/Year:: 17 :: 7
House:: Gryffindor
WhatIlikeaboutyou::
Alice was born of a normal family, or that’s how she liked to view it. The Logan blood line was just was well documented as any other family’s, but she found no need to worry herself in the trifle task of undergoing the memorization of who was pure and who was not.
Alice Olivia Logan is the perfect daughter in the eyes of her loving parents. (Though you really don’t have to try as an only child) She cleans, she cooks, and she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. The perfect little apple of their eyes,
Though all of this is only what her parents see. Alice is a feisty individual who’s not afraid to be the first one into the pool. Life is her passion, and everyday is an opportunity to live it to the fullest. She has been called a ruthless extremist, but she’ll dare you to prove it.
Another passion of Alice is that of arguing. This sweet round-faced girl with locks of dark blonde tainted with wispy strains of chestnut brown seems like an unlikely opponent for the violet attacks listened upon her record. She lets her fists do the talk’n.
One ‘little fault’ that belongs to Alice happens when her two passions collide. Gambling. Alice will do anything to win a bet, especially when it proves her point.
Even with all her faults, Alice is a true Gryffindor through and through. If a person can tame her wild spirit they would gain the best friend they could ever imagine. Loyalty runs strongly in Alice’s veins as does the love of history. It’s hard to find a time where there isn’t a thick dusty book filling the remaining space of her messenger bag
Books=Good
thisishowwedo::
The club sat quietly from the outside as the few speaks of light faded with the setting maroon sun. As darkness slowly engulfed the cold asphalt surrounding the socially incorrect hangout the buzz of artificial light could be heard by those lingering by the club’s doors. Along with the hissing of electronic signs warming up to face another day of drunken nudity the smell of bleach and rum flowed from the opening club. The smell was enough to send any newcomer to the hills, its putrid odor churning stomach acid against the walls of soft tissue.
Though none budged from the clanking club as doors began to push open. Its red-eyed liver eroded faithful patrons seemed to be lured in by the toxic scent. Its hypnotic spell weaving down their lungs drifting into their bloodstream which in turn seeped into their wallets. The smell was almost too much for York as stood as back from the crowd, yet as much as he tried he was still a fly lost in a web of bleach, alcohol, and cheap perfume.
The man’s eyes drifted to and fro as the many sleepers and drunken fools wondered in the now alive outfit of cheap thrills and over priced drinks. He wasn’t going to look like those idiots pouring in within the first five minutes. Oh no, York Stone had the class to wait at least ten minutes before claiming the club as his own. He would give the idiots their few minutes. It’s all they deserved.
The time seemed to pass by like painful years for the vampiric doll. Each unnecessary breath sent a shiver of taunting delight up and down his hollowed spine, the sensations feeding on twisted memories. Finally, the darkened sun fell completely into its night haven leaving the pale moon to care for the lonely creatures that dare not to show their faces in the bright light it released. York cracked his neck before dusting off the sleek black suit that rested upon his lusty frame. A sick smirk crawled against his pale cheeks finally resting in its normal smart-assed place. The fly was finally ready to fall into the crowd and follow them all the way off the cliff.
York took one finally look at the sea of pavement before moving to the buzzing bleach doors. He inhaled once more before plunging his senses into a cataract of lights, sounds, and of course smells. His amber eyes seemed to dance from sleeper to sleeper to a neon sign advertising that its brand of rum was superior to others to an unconscious man face down in his own pile of vomit. The sights mixed brilliantly with the base of rum and bleach splattered floors. He was finally close to home.
Age/Year:: 17 :: 7
House:: Gryffindor
WhatIlikeaboutyou::
Alice was born of a normal family, or that’s how she liked to view it. The Logan blood line was just was well documented as any other family’s, but she found no need to worry herself in the trifle task of undergoing the memorization of who was pure and who was not.
Alice Olivia Logan is the perfect daughter in the eyes of her loving parents. (Though you really don’t have to try as an only child) She cleans, she cooks, and she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. The perfect little apple of their eyes,
Though all of this is only what her parents see. Alice is a feisty individual who’s not afraid to be the first one into the pool. Life is her passion, and everyday is an opportunity to live it to the fullest. She has been called a ruthless extremist, but she’ll dare you to prove it.
Another passion of Alice is that of arguing. This sweet round-faced girl with locks of dark blonde tainted with wispy strains of chestnut brown seems like an unlikely opponent for the violet attacks listened upon her record. She lets her fists do the talk’n.
One ‘little fault’ that belongs to Alice happens when her two passions collide. Gambling. Alice will do anything to win a bet, especially when it proves her point.
Even with all her faults, Alice is a true Gryffindor through and through. If a person can tame her wild spirit they would gain the best friend they could ever imagine. Loyalty runs strongly in Alice’s veins as does the love of history. It’s hard to find a time where there isn’t a thick dusty book filling the remaining space of her messenger bag
Books=Good
thisishowwedo::
The club sat quietly from the outside as the few speaks of light faded with the setting maroon sun. As darkness slowly engulfed the cold asphalt surrounding the socially incorrect hangout the buzz of artificial light could be heard by those lingering by the club’s doors. Along with the hissing of electronic signs warming up to face another day of drunken nudity the smell of bleach and rum flowed from the opening club. The smell was enough to send any newcomer to the hills, its putrid odor churning stomach acid against the walls of soft tissue.
Though none budged from the clanking club as doors began to push open. Its red-eyed liver eroded faithful patrons seemed to be lured in by the toxic scent. Its hypnotic spell weaving down their lungs drifting into their bloodstream which in turn seeped into their wallets. The smell was almost too much for York as stood as back from the crowd, yet as much as he tried he was still a fly lost in a web of bleach, alcohol, and cheap perfume.
The man’s eyes drifted to and fro as the many sleepers and drunken fools wondered in the now alive outfit of cheap thrills and over priced drinks. He wasn’t going to look like those idiots pouring in within the first five minutes. Oh no, York Stone had the class to wait at least ten minutes before claiming the club as his own. He would give the idiots their few minutes. It’s all they deserved.
The time seemed to pass by like painful years for the vampiric doll. Each unnecessary breath sent a shiver of taunting delight up and down his hollowed spine, the sensations feeding on twisted memories. Finally, the darkened sun fell completely into its night haven leaving the pale moon to care for the lonely creatures that dare not to show their faces in the bright light it released. York cracked his neck before dusting off the sleek black suit that rested upon his lusty frame. A sick smirk crawled against his pale cheeks finally resting in its normal smart-assed place. The fly was finally ready to fall into the crowd and follow them all the way off the cliff.
York took one finally look at the sea of pavement before moving to the buzzing bleach doors. He inhaled once more before plunging his senses into a cataract of lights, sounds, and of course smells. His amber eyes seemed to dance from sleeper to sleeper to a neon sign advertising that its brand of rum was superior to others to an unconscious man face down in his own pile of vomit. The sights mixed brilliantly with the base of rum and bleach splattered floors. He was finally close to home.
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