Title: JOHANNES, evelynne iris daliria-
Iris Daliria-Johannes - August 12, 2007 08:11 PM (GMT)
__++hello. my name is…
name/nickname:: Alek
age:: 18
experience:: About seven years
other characters here:: None
__++you can call me…
&&__basic information
full name:: Evelynne Iris Daliria-Johannes (pro. Jo-hann-ayes)
nickname(s):: Evie, but she's recently started going by her middle name.
birthdate:: June 2nd
age:: 86 years old
ethnicity:: French
orientation:: Heterosexual
species:: Werweolf
belongs to:: Vorace Pack
title:: Just a member
[size=1]&&__physical description
height:: 5'11"
weight:: 145lbs.
eye color:: Hazel, something similar to the color of coffee with too much creamer. When she's feeling a bit more animalistic, if you will, flecks of amber become more prominent in the brown, causing them to brighten considerably.
hair color:: Dark red, also her favorite color.
body type:: Sleek, with lean muscle
distinguishing marks:: Her hair, really, along with a few thin scars that cross mostly her arms and one that is undeniably a bullet that pierced her left shoulder.
dress style:: Honestly, she loves anything red. Her typical outfit is a dark red get-up, complete with a leather coat and lace-up boots that reach a few inches below her knees. Straps of red leather are often wrapped around her torso -over an undershirt, of course- to offer a bit more protection, though there really is little to do against a sharp set of claws or teeth. Iris also has a bit of a softspot for corsets, but they reduce flexibility so she has to hold back.
portrayal:: Famke Janssen
picture::
&&__personality test
likes::
general description:: In a nutshell, becoming a lycan has done very little to alter the very feminine Evelynne Iris. She takes after her mother to an almost painful likeness, and the two could probably take notes, had the elder woman not passed on decades ago. Overall friendly and a bit too trusting for her species, she's initially like a puppy; she'll trot up, curious, and often get her fingers burned, after which she'll tear off into retreat with her tail between her legs, waiting for assurance or apology. When that doesn't come she'll get over it quickly enough, but don't expect her to come running back. The only way you'll get a second chance is if you make one hell of an apology or if you intrigued her enough to begin with.
Despite being changed for a good fifty years now, Iris has clung to facets of her previous life. Shopping, for example, and gossip still consume much of her free time, and she tends to go make friends with mortals if only to have someone to go with her. The friendships don't last, obviously, because she doesn't want to risk their well-being. Because of this, she lives in a sort of oblivion of non-existance as far as humans are concerned; none of those women are friends with Evelynne or Iris, nor do they know that she drinks red wine on her birthdays or that she was once married or that she's a werewolf. They each know different parts of her, and with all of those parts floating around it's only a matter of time before the massive web of lies comes crashing in on itself. Hopefully she's out of it by then.
&&__battle royale
artillary:: Evelynne hasn't touched a gun in her entire life.
swordsmanship:: She can only use a knife for cooking.
martial arts:: This is Evelynne's strong point. Once she knew she had the chance to live for a very long time, she decided to enroll in several defense classes, recently stepping into the world of offense. Extremely flexible, she's capable of getting out of most situations easily enough, and it's alarming how quickly she can scale a tree or ladder to get away.
combat:: This is her newest area of interest, but all she has going for her so far are a set of ten long fingernails and the resolve to use them to... blind her opponent? Something like that.
&&__family history
father’s name:: Josef Daliria deceased
mother’s name:: Martine Daliria (nee Dupont)
sibling’s name:: --
general history:: [about fifteen bullets worth of information. You’re summing it up.]
&&__proving your worth
role-playing sample:: She was stricken by how quiet her world could be. Sure, it was nighttime, and that alone could promise a certain air of forboding to those who dared to break the unspoken rules of darkness, but some nights she was truely shocked by how well the world seemed to stick to those ancient rules. This night seemed to fill every imaginably cliche that she could think of; a light coating of fog was creeping toward them from the lake, and despite scientific explanations of this it was much more fun to simply assume that it was there because it was creating a mood. As already stated, it was quiet, the only sounds made by the breeze and her own pulse within her ears. The steady, comfortable drumming was a solace to her though she wasn't upset - it just made her feel like somebody was there with her without the trouble of someone actually being there, talking and disrupting her thought trains.
Well... okay, maybe it wouldn't have been that bad. It probably would have, but there was always that off-chance that a person with a shred of intelligence would come by and know that she just wanted to stand there and bask in it all. No greetings, no exchanges of 'Im fine's and all that nonsense. Just some silent musings - what was wrong with that, anyway? Why did this war have to be starting, this constant crackle of tension throughout the year that even had the professors nervous, particularly those who now had to suffer beneath expanded class sizes in classrooms with limits... Aurora Sinistra was one of those with the limits, but luckily for her Astronomy wasn't a very popular subject, and it wasn't a requirement. Thus, she had this extra time. Class had ended only an hour or so before she was drawn back to the balcony to watch the earth as it slumbered.
Thin arms were rather unimportantly resting at her sides, the graceful fingers at the ends of her hands just hanging there, curled naturally and not twitching - it was undeniably the only time her hands were still, seeing as how she was infamous for her wild gesticulations when she was speaking. Her shoulders, usually tense, were relaxed, somewhat slumped, though not to indicate any sadness... she was just calm. In tune with the world. Relaxed. This wasn't much a feat for her, actually, since it took a great deal to get a reaction out of this level-headed woman. Brown eyes, just barely flecked with amber here and there, were focused and yet glassy, as though Aurora had managed to slip to that all-too-familiar place outside of focus. Indeed, she had.
Things were happening at Hogwarts. She hadn't expected them, but in times like this uncertain things could only be expected. Still... the Ministry really hadn't needed to get involved, had they? Of course they had. Nosey bastards had to always be involved - ...
It would work out for the better. Aurora was certain of it. He was back again, years after she had come to terms with never seeing him and cleaning up after his strange ways had offended or shocked somebody. Walking on her toes had become so natural that when he left her to finally step by herself with some semblance of regularity... well, she hadn't handled it well. Back then she had been flamingly reactive. The simplest gesture - the brush of fingers against her lower back to guide her through a door or a few choice words - could have her out of her mind for days, but likewise, she was an absolute inconsolable mess at weddings and funerals alike. Deeply emotional, Professor Sinistra had been your typical teenage female, adoring everything feminine and night-related.
He was out of her system, dammit, and now he was back. Of course they would send him, the brilliant Auror. They would send him because he was the best he had and everyone knew it, especially her. Oh, she had always known that he'd be the best at whatever he did, so long as he got to carry through with his oddness (an oddness that was no longer odd to her, mind you) without bother. Ministry regulations had been rough for him to adjust to, but the fact that he hadn't come begging for her to help him find his feet meant that he was okay.
The problem was, she didn't know if she was okay with that.
Breath had been passing her lips and nose silently, but eventually she exhaled noisily, drawing in a deep breath to spare herself the yawn that would undoubtedly creep up on her now that she had deprived her brain of proper oxygen for so long. Squirming a bit to loosen her joints, she flexed those long fingers at her sides, and her bare feet began to move, carrying her cloaked frame to the railing. The hands rose, curling around the familiar wood, feeling the smoothness of the oils and lotions of thousands of hands that had worn the wood down over the centuries of Hogwarts' existance. Her lips began to curve, defying gravity as they rose into a content, soft smile. It was simple things that got a reaction from her now, not the big shows.
Her throat vibrated, lips pressing together, breath becoming focused, and now the sound of some unknown melody was drifting around her. She was making it up, as she so tended to do, but the tune was undeniably lazy, often becoming a single, long note that she just hummed to hear herself hum. On the handrail, her fingers had begun to twitch, and in minutes they were drumming slowly, and then her hips were swaying just slightly, carrying most of her frame with their movement as she continued to hum and swing back and forth and she wished that he was there with her, ... but then she didn't. She didn't need complications, she needed distractions.
He could be a distraction.
No. She didn't need that.
The conflict proved to be enough to ruin the song. It died inside her head, and she slowed, stopped, and finally was just standing there again, lips parted as her eyes opened, lazy and tired all of a sudden as she stared at the blurry line of trees against the mountains behind him. Dips and grooves, and now a chill rocketed up her spine and into her arms, causing her to actually jump a bit and raise her hands from their spot on the railing to rub at her forearms.
The truth was that she missed him, and that she was excited that he was back. The truth was that she was dying to see him, to feel how she had so many years ago and the way she felt every Christmas when they would meet up for dinner with Irma Pince. The truth was that she had loved him for her almost twenty years, and a part of her always had and always would, but the war wasn't about truths. Alastor Moody wasn't here for truths, he was here for the lies. Lies that were ripping apart their world and making feelings the last to matter, no matter how strong they still could be.
Now she was uncomfortable, and she turned away, the bottoms of her feet gliding over familiar flooring as she made her way away from the balcony, back to the open door that would lead her into her classroom. Her arms were folded, hair hanging over her shoulder in its loose braid, strands of hair sticking out of it - the point was that it was under control and not in her face, though the look was not one of her best or most popular. She was clearly not planning on anybody seeing her, her cloak unbuttoned over a simple pair of pajamas that were a bit too comfortable looking for a teacher to be wearing. Aurora Sinistra wasn't some boring professor, though - she really, really tried to set herself apart from them.
member title:: fire.fly;;withouta{light}
name/nickname:: Alek
age:: 18
experience:: About seven years
other characters here:: None
__++you can call me…
&&__basic information
full name:: Evelynne Iris Daliria-Johannes (pro. Jo-hann-ayes)
nickname(s):: Evie, but she's recently started going by her middle name.
birthdate:: June 2nd
age:: 86 years old
ethnicity:: French
orientation:: Heterosexual
species:: Werweolf
belongs to:: Vorace Pack
title:: Just a member
[size=1]&&__physical description
height:: 5'11"
weight:: 145lbs.
eye color:: Hazel, something similar to the color of coffee with too much creamer. When she's feeling a bit more animalistic, if you will, flecks of amber become more prominent in the brown, causing them to brighten considerably.
hair color:: Dark red, also her favorite color.
body type:: Sleek, with lean muscle
distinguishing marks:: Her hair, really, along with a few thin scars that cross mostly her arms and one that is undeniably a bullet that pierced her left shoulder.
dress style:: Honestly, she loves anything red. Her typical outfit is a dark red get-up, complete with a leather coat and lace-up boots that reach a few inches below her knees. Straps of red leather are often wrapped around her torso -over an undershirt, of course- to offer a bit more protection, though there really is little to do against a sharp set of claws or teeth. Iris also has a bit of a softspot for corsets, but they reduce flexibility so she has to hold back.
portrayal:: Famke Janssen
picture::
&&__personality test
likes::
- . humming to herself
. dark red
. leather, specifically her leather trenchcoat
. dressing up
. boots
. wandering around, particularly after dark
. cooking
. French cuisine
. stability
. listening to classical piano
. red wine on her birthday - it's a bit of a tradition
. kittens, though they don't seem to like her much anymore
. the sound that heels make on cement and tile
. shopping
. socializing
. men, especially when they pay attention to her
- . talking about her future
. white wine
. roses
. men who wear too much cologne
. lazy people
. reality
. horses
. snakes
. Vampires - by default
. the Courroucé pack
. most humans, because of jealousy
. her birthdays
. transforming
. overly baggy clothing
- . humming - Having a deep-rooted love for music, Iris is constantly making noise. Most of the time it's humming, often her own little tune that doesn't make any sense to even herself - she does, however, know plenty of annoying songs that'll be stuck in the nearest person's head for the rest of the day.
. answering her own questions - This is a quirk that she notices before others do. Often, she'll ask a question, only to stop, smile, and answer it to herself, only to realize this and lose the time it would have taken the other person to answer in a bout of laughter.
. cracking her knuckles - Her fingers are very long, and because of this she feels the need to crack them frequently. Some people hate the noise, some hate how often she does it, but she can't count how many dirty looks she's gotten for the habit.
. gesticulating - Perhaps her biggest bad habit and the most humorous one, Evelynne is notorious for her wild hand movements while she talks. The more emotion she speaks with the more rapidly her hands get moving, and sometimes she'll catch herself flailing about and become reduced to fits of laughter. She thinks it's hilarious.
. gossip - Okay, she's female, no matter what species she is. While she's mellowed out a great deal, she can't resist a quick chat. Iris knows better than to believe anything she hears, it's just great to feel that rush of adrenaline from the spreading of a secret. As a human she had plenty of gossip to fight, so she feels she's earned it.
general description:: In a nutshell, becoming a lycan has done very little to alter the very feminine Evelynne Iris. She takes after her mother to an almost painful likeness, and the two could probably take notes, had the elder woman not passed on decades ago. Overall friendly and a bit too trusting for her species, she's initially like a puppy; she'll trot up, curious, and often get her fingers burned, after which she'll tear off into retreat with her tail between her legs, waiting for assurance or apology. When that doesn't come she'll get over it quickly enough, but don't expect her to come running back. The only way you'll get a second chance is if you make one hell of an apology or if you intrigued her enough to begin with.
Despite being changed for a good fifty years now, Iris has clung to facets of her previous life. Shopping, for example, and gossip still consume much of her free time, and she tends to go make friends with mortals if only to have someone to go with her. The friendships don't last, obviously, because she doesn't want to risk their well-being. Because of this, she lives in a sort of oblivion of non-existance as far as humans are concerned; none of those women are friends with Evelynne or Iris, nor do they know that she drinks red wine on her birthdays or that she was once married or that she's a werewolf. They each know different parts of her, and with all of those parts floating around it's only a matter of time before the massive web of lies comes crashing in on itself. Hopefully she's out of it by then.
&&__battle royale
artillary:: Evelynne hasn't touched a gun in her entire life.
swordsmanship:: She can only use a knife for cooking.
martial arts:: This is Evelynne's strong point. Once she knew she had the chance to live for a very long time, she decided to enroll in several defense classes, recently stepping into the world of offense. Extremely flexible, she's capable of getting out of most situations easily enough, and it's alarming how quickly she can scale a tree or ladder to get away.
combat:: This is her newest area of interest, but all she has going for her so far are a set of ten long fingernails and the resolve to use them to... blind her opponent? Something like that.
&&__family history
father’s name:: Josef Daliria deceased
mother’s name:: Martine Daliria (nee Dupont)
sibling’s name:: --
general history:: [about fifteen bullets worth of information. You’re summing it up.]
- . As a child, Evelynne - who often went by Evie back then - was notorious for getting into her mother's make up. She had a particular love for the bright red lipsticks, and actually fractured her ankle when she stumbled in a pair of heeled boots and fell down the stairs of their front porch. Momma's girl to the very core, she was allowed to wear the make-up, though the heels had to wait until she was older and could safely fit into them. This didn't take her long, as she proved to be a very tall young lady, even at the age of five.
. Her pre-teen years were spent learning to cook, her first passion. French cuisine is easily tucked away under her belt and she never really had the impulse to further her studies once she mastered it. While she has no little piece of paper saying she can aptly make it, anyone who even comes within a foot of one of her dishes knows that she did some serious studying.
. In her late teens she watched her parents decline from their high social positions - it did little to harm their checkbook, though, and because of this she was left a massive inheritance when they gave up half of their estate to move out of France. They settled in Italy with a friend of Martine's, checking in with their daughter every holiday to be sure that she was doing well with their money.
. By her early twenties she had worked in several kitchens in Paris and made a name for herself, though it was cooking for her friends and neighbors that she really enjoyed. The fame was magnificent, yes, but compliments seemed so much more sincere when she knew the person delivering it.
. At age twenty-five she was hired at her last restaurant, where she became deeply infatuated with the owner. He was an older man, but held a certain rugged appeal that she latched on to. To the shock of everyone who had worked with the lovely young woman, they married mere months after meeting, and there was no denying the obvious attraction between the two of them when they were together. It was when they were apart that people were concerned - Iris was always smiling, of course, but he would often become quiet and brooding, where he had used to be so jovial.
. On the night of her twenty-ninth birthday, he came home and attacked. While nothing like what one would expect, it still came as a surprise to her. She'd been making dinner and he was to be home from work any minute. He caught her offguard, a silver handgun slammed between her shoulder blades. Begging him to explain, he began to yell at her for lying to him - for not telling him what she really was. The cast-iron skillet she'd been using proved to knock him unconscious long enough for her to get away.
. The next several years were spent in hiding as she tried to get to Italy and her parents, but it seemed as though she had become a monster overnight. Her transformations were painful, yes, but she believed that it was because of the fresh memories of her husband's gun in her back, not because she was sprouting hair and gaining several feet in height.
. When she did find her parents they explained it to her, telling her that they had left because the others had started to get suspicious of them. They wanted Iris to have a chance at normalcy, so they left her behind, knowing that when the time came for her to change she would come right to them so they could take care of her. For a while, she was willing to live with them, but she soon became consumed with a desire to go back to France and tell her husband what she had learned.
. Having refused to lose track of her age, the thirty-year-old made her way back to Paris and went directly to the old restaraunt. The windows were stained pink, lights flickering inside. Her second home had been transformed into a bar. For women, more specifically. It did not deterr her from finding her husband, though, and for the next four months she scoured Paris for him. Finally locating him at a new location, she approached him immediately.
. They tried to make it work, struggling with it as he continued to age and she did not appear to. He finally died of heart failure when he was about sixty - she was only 45, and still a teenager by lycan standards. After burying him and grieving for two years, she finally decided it would be worthwhile to find her own kind and spend the rest of her days with them.
. As luck would have it, her parents were members of the Vorace pack. She was inducted once it was proven that she was their blood, but was given nothing to do since she was still so young. Her parents tried fervently to get her a position that could secure her, but she was preoccupied. Following a suggestion from an old friend, she dappled in self-defense classes for several years, setting it as a goal to live as long as she possibly could.
. Her parents ran off when the power switched; they were old and old-fashioned, and they didn't like change. Bowing out gracefully, they simply went back to Italy, finally dying off when Iris was about 65 years old. It took her a great deal of time to cope with that, feeling abandoned by them at first. Through her rough physical training, though, she was able to vent properly, and has long-since left the grieving stage of her life.
&&__proving your worth
role-playing sample:: She was stricken by how quiet her world could be. Sure, it was nighttime, and that alone could promise a certain air of forboding to those who dared to break the unspoken rules of darkness, but some nights she was truely shocked by how well the world seemed to stick to those ancient rules. This night seemed to fill every imaginably cliche that she could think of; a light coating of fog was creeping toward them from the lake, and despite scientific explanations of this it was much more fun to simply assume that it was there because it was creating a mood. As already stated, it was quiet, the only sounds made by the breeze and her own pulse within her ears. The steady, comfortable drumming was a solace to her though she wasn't upset - it just made her feel like somebody was there with her without the trouble of someone actually being there, talking and disrupting her thought trains.
Well... okay, maybe it wouldn't have been that bad. It probably would have, but there was always that off-chance that a person with a shred of intelligence would come by and know that she just wanted to stand there and bask in it all. No greetings, no exchanges of 'Im fine's and all that nonsense. Just some silent musings - what was wrong with that, anyway? Why did this war have to be starting, this constant crackle of tension throughout the year that even had the professors nervous, particularly those who now had to suffer beneath expanded class sizes in classrooms with limits... Aurora Sinistra was one of those with the limits, but luckily for her Astronomy wasn't a very popular subject, and it wasn't a requirement. Thus, she had this extra time. Class had ended only an hour or so before she was drawn back to the balcony to watch the earth as it slumbered.
Thin arms were rather unimportantly resting at her sides, the graceful fingers at the ends of her hands just hanging there, curled naturally and not twitching - it was undeniably the only time her hands were still, seeing as how she was infamous for her wild gesticulations when she was speaking. Her shoulders, usually tense, were relaxed, somewhat slumped, though not to indicate any sadness... she was just calm. In tune with the world. Relaxed. This wasn't much a feat for her, actually, since it took a great deal to get a reaction out of this level-headed woman. Brown eyes, just barely flecked with amber here and there, were focused and yet glassy, as though Aurora had managed to slip to that all-too-familiar place outside of focus. Indeed, she had.
Things were happening at Hogwarts. She hadn't expected them, but in times like this uncertain things could only be expected. Still... the Ministry really hadn't needed to get involved, had they? Of course they had. Nosey bastards had to always be involved - ...
It would work out for the better. Aurora was certain of it. He was back again, years after she had come to terms with never seeing him and cleaning up after his strange ways had offended or shocked somebody. Walking on her toes had become so natural that when he left her to finally step by herself with some semblance of regularity... well, she hadn't handled it well. Back then she had been flamingly reactive. The simplest gesture - the brush of fingers against her lower back to guide her through a door or a few choice words - could have her out of her mind for days, but likewise, she was an absolute inconsolable mess at weddings and funerals alike. Deeply emotional, Professor Sinistra had been your typical teenage female, adoring everything feminine and night-related.
He was out of her system, dammit, and now he was back. Of course they would send him, the brilliant Auror. They would send him because he was the best he had and everyone knew it, especially her. Oh, she had always known that he'd be the best at whatever he did, so long as he got to carry through with his oddness (an oddness that was no longer odd to her, mind you) without bother. Ministry regulations had been rough for him to adjust to, but the fact that he hadn't come begging for her to help him find his feet meant that he was okay.
The problem was, she didn't know if she was okay with that.
Breath had been passing her lips and nose silently, but eventually she exhaled noisily, drawing in a deep breath to spare herself the yawn that would undoubtedly creep up on her now that she had deprived her brain of proper oxygen for so long. Squirming a bit to loosen her joints, she flexed those long fingers at her sides, and her bare feet began to move, carrying her cloaked frame to the railing. The hands rose, curling around the familiar wood, feeling the smoothness of the oils and lotions of thousands of hands that had worn the wood down over the centuries of Hogwarts' existance. Her lips began to curve, defying gravity as they rose into a content, soft smile. It was simple things that got a reaction from her now, not the big shows.
Her throat vibrated, lips pressing together, breath becoming focused, and now the sound of some unknown melody was drifting around her. She was making it up, as she so tended to do, but the tune was undeniably lazy, often becoming a single, long note that she just hummed to hear herself hum. On the handrail, her fingers had begun to twitch, and in minutes they were drumming slowly, and then her hips were swaying just slightly, carrying most of her frame with their movement as she continued to hum and swing back and forth and she wished that he was there with her, ... but then she didn't. She didn't need complications, she needed distractions.
He could be a distraction.
No. She didn't need that.
The conflict proved to be enough to ruin the song. It died inside her head, and she slowed, stopped, and finally was just standing there again, lips parted as her eyes opened, lazy and tired all of a sudden as she stared at the blurry line of trees against the mountains behind him. Dips and grooves, and now a chill rocketed up her spine and into her arms, causing her to actually jump a bit and raise her hands from their spot on the railing to rub at her forearms.
The truth was that she missed him, and that she was excited that he was back. The truth was that she was dying to see him, to feel how she had so many years ago and the way she felt every Christmas when they would meet up for dinner with Irma Pince. The truth was that she had loved him for her almost twenty years, and a part of her always had and always would, but the war wasn't about truths. Alastor Moody wasn't here for truths, he was here for the lies. Lies that were ripping apart their world and making feelings the last to matter, no matter how strong they still could be.
Now she was uncomfortable, and she turned away, the bottoms of her feet gliding over familiar flooring as she made her way away from the balcony, back to the open door that would lead her into her classroom. Her arms were folded, hair hanging over her shoulder in its loose braid, strands of hair sticking out of it - the point was that it was under control and not in her face, though the look was not one of her best or most popular. She was clearly not planning on anybody seeing her, her cloak unbuttoned over a simple pair of pajamas that were a bit too comfortable looking for a teacher to be wearing. Aurora Sinistra wasn't some boring professor, though - she really, really tried to set herself apart from them.
member title:: fire.fly;;withouta{light}
Troy Bradley White - August 13, 2007 12:56 AM (GMT)
It's an excellent profile. I skimmed the history just a little just so you know, but what I saw I liked.
Your profile has been [...]
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Welcome to the site.
I hope you enjoy your stay.
Your profile has been [...]
APPROVED
Welcome to the site.
I hope you enjoy your stay.