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[> [> Something like human -- Pandora Fallon, 12:32:33 03/26/02 Tue

She had roused from lethargic sleep to attend this condemnable ceremony that no one had shut their traps about since it had been announced. The effect of the total darkness of her dormitory and the slowly encroaching dawn had been potent on her arousal from where she her place of nightly retirement. The bed had seemed to have swallowed her slight form and engulf it and she was most reluctant to leave the comfort it bestowed in abundance. She had been physically warm, for she could never be emotionally warm. Even lukewarm. Nonetheless, she had eventually risen with much protest from her barely awakened, tired body. After all preliminary hygenics were diligently completed, she was now merely adding 'finishing touches' to her distinct poise. Presently, her diffident stare gawks with naturally wide eyed wonder into the her dormitory mirror, her reflection staring stonily back at her and looking incredibly glum. The delicate rose of a girl, so indifferent and pain strikingly beauitiful, heaves a melodramatic sigh. A dainty hand extends in impatient exasperation to grapple for an elite diamond clad hair clip while her atmospheric hued eyes still gape coldly at the stoic girl in the mirror. Her silken, dark chocolate hued tresses are taken with expedite into slender digits, and the trite routine in which her straight hair is flipped into an intricate French twist; her signature coiffure, ensues. The staid femme fatale gives herself an arrestive glance in the mirror as if in mocking all the rest of her gender and she simpers her galvanic smirk before flipping the lights off and striding into the dormitory in all her pristine, timeless splendor. She perfects the art of classical finesse with unlabored polish and ease.

I'll go ahead and get this tedious ordeal over with, sighs her less than chipper mind dramatically as she descends the winding staircase; her destination: the Gatherplace. She particularly has an odious distaste for that specified district because the announcements she had been unjustly required to attend did and continue to do nothing but corrosively waste her time and energy. She vapidly contemplates the bleak vissicitudes of life as she peers blankly with unnerving, violet eyes at the masonry and tapestries of the ornate and divine corridors. Such a insouciant, ungrateful wretch she is. She'd probably go to Hell, if such a place exsisted, when she died. Death was a subject that enamored the snide female, especially such themes as a premature burial. What suffering it would cause for one to die such a horrendous death. At least they'd have time to remember what it was like to live. She smiles with inappropriate amusement as these thoughts cross her sinful, eternally irresolute mind. Hell, the impassive wanton reasons, everything you do to avoid death is just a procrastination. And so, Pandora Fallon, cynical and prepared with dragnet, ala twisted Aphrodite, mentally discordantly makes her graceful and leisurely way to the aggrandized ceremony.

Hogwarts. Hogwarts. Hogwarts. It's all anyone had gossiped about in their shallow ways for weeks. It has begun to get a bit pablum in the angsty adolescent's complicated, sometimes morbid mind. Long ago, she had committed social suicide, and she had no intent of resurrecting herself. Of course, she was renowned for her admirable genes, and she attended opulent banquets with her family which she could care less about it (except for her brother), but she was never outgoing. She was the firstborn Fallon in the new generation, hence her eminence in Oregon's wizarding society. If she had been of worthless muggle heritage, she would be a social zero. Ironically, she is very slightly intrigued in a way, with false hope. She, being impersonable and insufferable to the world, holds the slightest ray of withering prospect that there will be someone 'like her' arriving. The chance is slim for such an irrational and quixotic wish. Her nearly extinct enthusiasm mixed with pessimism for the oncoming ceremony has sparked resentment towards the milestone of introducing students from overseas into their less than humble abode.

With mien of regal dame, the female with a certain inpalpable elegance beyond the reach of the arts sweeps swiftly and clearly into the coveted for others and loathed for herself Gatherplace. The location where so many boring speeches and pointless screeds have occured monotonously. Not a bouncy or buoyant gait does this ineffably exquisite muliebral behold; such sophisticated background and semblance does not allow for such mockery for the Fallon name. No, the peacocking youth... damsel, perhaps... has a fluent, flowing, and naturally nonchalant gait only possessed by a veritable aristocrat. With great apathy, her cerulean optics ferret out the newcomers in unhurried languor. Her trademark, beguiling smirk flickers over her pale peach lips and she reclines oh so deliberately casually against the nearest wall, with a clear cut "holier than thou" look on her rawly attractive face. Her defined collar bones displayed by a tastefully adorned, ebony shirt with sleeves that billow at her fragile wrists. Black pants, of a near polyseter material, (not jeans, of course, for she is much too prominent in society for such an disgraceful first impression upon those arriving), that have been magicked to fit her delectably, rest upon her hips. All of this gives her a decisively female appearance. Such a cherubic looking female... surely she must have fallen from above. And fallen right through the ground and emerged again, snipes her magnanimous and mazy mind. An impeccable style she does possess, and fast acting wit as well. She's never impulsive, though. Acting now then thinking later is the lifestyle of a frivolous fool who would probably die in poverty, as history had proved time and time again.

Hmmm. Wonder how many of them I can corrupt, is one of the most novel thoughts in the youthen individual's constantly reeling mind as she jauntily contemplates the British crowd. She stands... and stares... unnerving and unwaveringly, as if sizing them up but without purpose or evident motive... perhaps out of mere boredom. The cynical vixen rolls densely lashed oculars and trails a hand delicately across the bronze skin around her elevated collar bones. Everytime her elongated lashes make contact with the creamy, incredibly soft skin beneath her eyes as she blinks, they cast dim and gray shadows allectively across her pallid visage. Although, one cannot seperate their presence from that of the dark circles beneath her eyes. She's full of blank faced, colorless beauty and glamour. Underneath it all, just beneath the surface, she's remarkably different from the others. Even if her true colors and loyalties are dark, they're unique shades. She stands and stares.

Standing akimbo, with frail hands on her hips and elbows set at right angles, her body language screams that she wants to get this epically torturous ordeal over with. The enigma that is Pandora Fallon can be a thorn in one's side, or a thorn about to go into one's side. Haughtily, she yawns in an exaggerated way but has the etiquette (dwelled into her mind by her patriarch and matriarch) to faintly cover her mouth as she does so. The vextatious girl refrains from speaking a bitingly caustic remark on the incompetence of the staff to move things along and accomplish the required; for the unspoken word never does harm. Except in the instance of "I love you too," retorts her aberrant conscience... or lack thereof. Yet, the inclementless girl would not know about love. She, as many others, had recited rumors to memory of what the meaningless (at least to her) word meant. It held no dominance in her. Potent is the effect of irony upon a soul permanently immersed in the abyssal depths of despair. She aches in ways she desperately wants to ignore. She wants to feel true apprecipation and perhaps even empathy about her endless tribulations from a mere companion compatible with her execrable personality. For now, she ascertains that her only friend... no, ally, rather... is herself. She doesn't know if she wants it that way or not. I have no mouth but I must scream. This about summarizes her indignance with the world and humanity and her plight in general. For now. For tomorrow. For forever. Solitary exsistence. A superior look plastered on lovely, alabastor characteristics, her face offers no indication of her conflicting emotion. Empty, lazuline eyes, depthless in their imbibing of her ambiance, study the crowd disdainfully, but she really isn't seeing. Or is she? No one, surely, can tell with such an unpredictable and patronizing person. And so, she stares... what's going on behind those sapphire oculars? No one knows except the coolly staid beholder of the forlorning windows to the soul. Better to be alone than in bad company. Such a cliche, dearest darling. Do free your mind of such hackneyed quotes. The same massive, inwardly suffocated sigh that's she's emitted many times over during this day is exhaled spiritlessly, and she suddenly falls motionless except for the barely detectable rise and fall motion of her torso and the occasional blinking of her light eyes. Standing and staring. I have no mouth but I must scream.

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