Sofiya Mihailova. Dec 11, 2007 3:44:00 GMT -5
Post by Sofiya Mihailova on Dec 11, 2007 3:44:00 GMT -5
Name: Let’s just stick with Sofiya for now.
Age: Somewhere between seventeen and twenty.
How'd you find us?: An affiliation. I liked the idea.
Full Name:Sofiya Ekaterina Mihailova
Age: Sixteen—turning Seventeen shortly.
Year/Dorm: A sixth year of the Gryphon Dorm.
Wand: 10 inches, Willow. Core contains the hair of a Veela. An unpredictable, yet powerful wand.
Favorite Subject: A tie between Transfiguration and Charms.
Standing somewhere in the rough vicinity of five feet, three inches, Sofiya isn’t exactly what one would call tall or imposing. In fact, for being of Russian lineage, the young woman is quite short. Not a stranger to the task of having to tilt her head upwards to meet the eyes of others, Sofiya has learned to accept her…shortcoming. In fact, she often uses her small stature to her advantage—if given the chance.
Physically resembling her mother—almost to the point that it’s quite odd, and almost scary, Sofiya possess the nice, yet some what normal combination of brown hair and bright, blue eyes. Though she hates the chore that her hair often makes itself, the brown locks sprouting from the top of her head cascade nicely down the sides, framing her face in soft, appealing waves that come to rest upon her shoulders.
Her mouth is small, yet surprisingly expressive and full. Such a mouth is far more accustomed to smiling, as opposed to frowning.
The bones of her face, as well as her body, are of a light, yet refined quality. Pronounced clearly beneath her pale skin, they are the greatest and most revealing traits of her Russian heritage.
Sofiya is positively enchanted by muggle clothing. The variety of styles and color are so enticing and so unlike the cumbersome and unfashionable robes that she is forced to wear. Like any other Russian girl, she attracted by the ever-changing western styles, and often she will be seen wearing an assortment of outfits beneath her robes.
Sofiya is a young woman—more specifically, she is a teenager. A myriad of emotions and thoughts, she has a tendency to quickly undergo changes of temperament and opinion.
Generally seen as a thoughtful, quiet girl, many mistake her for an introvert. Perhaps not as outgoing as some of her peers, the young girl is still hardly what one could call withdrawn—the years of a lack of playmates has just simply taught her patience.
Finding that most good things tend to come to those who wait, she is a watcher, and a wallflower. In the public eye, she waits for good fortune to fall in her lap, and still believes that true friendships are bourn of circumstance and fate—not effort.
Still, for the life of her, she cannot quell the curiosity that dwells within her small frame. Often, she can be seen wandering the hallways and grounds, quite alone, and almost always on some sort of unplanned quest for answers or things of interest.
Sofiya abhors tightly enclosed spaces; The mere thought of small, dark, and confined spaces is enough to tie her stomach into knots. Perhaps, this is why the young girl loves flying, so.
- Magic: Coming from a magical family, one would have fully expected a girl like Sofiya Mihailova to become almost desensitized and unimpressed by the miracles and sheer defiance of the laws of science that surrounded her. This is not so. Entranced by each and every spell she witnesses, the girl is like an impressionable, open book. There is not quicker way to impress her, or begin a conversation than to perform for her, a complex charm of bit of transfiguration.
- Literature: the fondest memories of home, were of her grandfather’s personal study. As a child, she would desire nothing better than to randomly pluck a book from the shelf, curl up in one of the room’s many large chairs, and read until her eyes became exhausted and useless.
- Music: Music is the unbiased expression of feeling, and this is why Sofiya loves it so. She is not told how she should live or what she should think when listening to the songs she loves—only to feel.
- Fruit: Sofiya loves fruit. Each evening, as the students pile into the expansive chamber that serves as their dining hall, the young girl will pile loads upon loads of the stuff onto her plate. Living in Russia has taught the young woman to value to taste of something that one finds so hard to come by in such places.
- Cats: Dogs will blindly love anyone or anything that feeds them and scratches them in their favorite places. Sofiya finds cats to be far more human (but not enough to hate them for it) than any other animal—one has to do simply more than feed them to earn their respect and affections. Sofyia, herself, owns a strange little grey and black thing which she fondly named Mika. She is one of the few beings that the young girl finds tolerable.
- Flying: There is a freedom in the skies. Only the fundamental laws of gravity rule those who hang suspended hundreds of feet off of the ground. Sofiya finds it invigorating.
- Formal Events: The falseness and pomposity of such things disgust her. All things are a show and gilded illusion, and she finds the people who enjoy them to be petty and weak.
- Small children: The mere prospect of motherhood is a horribly repulsive idea, in her humble opinion. Sticky fingers, running noses, all those questions and dependency—she doesn’t want it. She’ll never want it. Simply gazing upon a child reminds her of all the things she despises about them. Needless to say, Sofiya was an only child—and she liked it that way.
- Salmon: The salty, dirty taste of the fish repulses her. It does not matter what style it is prepared in, or what portion of the creature is used, she simply will not eat it.
- Herbology: Never truly possessing a green thumb, Sofiya was more than thrilled to find that such courses were not of great importance to the curriculum of Durmstrang. Many plants were spared the touch of her clumsy hands, and were able to continue their peaceful, verdant existence.
When finding herself in a conversation that she’d rather not be in, Sofiya’s nervous ticks kick in, full blast. Her hands will dart about, rather than hang uselessly at her side. Scratching the back of her head, playing with her wand, fidgeting with the rings upon her fingers or the jewelry around her neck—it does not matter, as long as her hands are simply moving.
- Intelligent: a highly capable and intelligent girl, Sofiya takes pride in knowing that she is counted among the clever members of the Gryphon Dorm. She considers her quick thinking and shrewd judgment to be some of her most prominent assets.
- Somewhat assertive: Though the girl is quiet and demure by nature, she can only be pushed so far. When frustrated, the slight Gryphon has a very large and very…colorful vocabulary. Swearing like a man twenty years her senior, her sharp tongue more than makes up for her diminutive size.
- Likeable: Knowing how to work the masses is knowing how to work the world. Once Sofiya finds reason to turn on the charm, many find themselves at ease in her relaxing company.
- A photographic memory: Sofiya has always had a love for detail and description that many others find tedious. Very little escapes her large, observant eyes. What she finds noteworthy is impeccably recorded and stored within the vaults of her mind for later use.
- A linguist: With a diplomatic mother, and a bored and doting grandfather, Sofiya has been exposed to languages other than her native Russian tongue all her life. Her basic knowledge of multiple languages is vast—though she is not as fluent as she would like to be.
- Naive: Young and impressionable, Sofiya isn’t too hard to deceive. Innocent expressions and earnest eyes are easy to fake and her trusting nature is just as easy to exploit.
- Mild Anemia: Outwardly, the young girl appears healthy, vibrant, and strong—and for the most part, she is just that. However, like many in her family, Sofiya suffers from a mild case of hereditary anemia. Without proper magical and medicinal treatment, the young girl will continuously bleed, if cut deep enough.
- Unrealistic: Whether it be with her opinions of the world, or her thoughts of romance, one can tell the girl is not yet cut out of the real world. The young girl has yet to fully understand the true meanings of compromise and sacrifice—though eventually, like all, she will learn them in due time.
- Easily bored: after only surprisingly short periods of time, things begin to lose their excitement. If there is one thing that Sofiya hates above all else, it is boredom. When finding herself with nothing to do, she will immediately attempt to find something to occupy herself. Usually such things to end in some bizarre accident and disregard of the rules. It isn’t her fault though—she didn’t mean to do it!
Mishal Mihailova —Mother. A frail but lovely woman, Mishal loves her daughter greatly. Thought Sofiya detests the smothering weight of her mother’s affections—like any daughter would—she loves her mother dearly.
Dmitri Mihailov —Grandfather. Having never known her father, her wise, if not eccentric grandfather has more than made up for that lacking father figure. The foundation and strength of their odd little family, the silver-haired man was Sofiya’s mentor throughout most of her childhood. There is no one else in the world that she loves more.
A slate-colored cat with irregular patches of white upon all four feet. Sofiya isn’t quite sure what sort of cat Mika truly is. Her grandfather likes to insist that the feline is a Chartreux, ad rather than argue or attempt to guess, she simply agrees.
While Dmitri Mihailov may have been an impressively strong and competent wizard, his pride and joy—his daughter Mishal was little more than a squib. Perhaps that was why he was so shocked and angry when the young woman returned home to him, six moths pregnant, and without the father. His beloved daughter had twice shamed him.
Yet, though their bond was never as strong as it was in days of old, he could not force himself to carry the prejudices of a long life into that of his granddaughter’s. The night of birth, he promised the two a home beneath his roof for as long as they so desired. The relief and gratitude painted across Mishal’s tired face was nothing short of beautiful.
They named her Sofiya—and prayed that her name would guide her to a path far better than her mother’s.
The years passed quickly, as they often do, and the infant child blossomed and grew into a lovely little girl. Years of the companionship of none, save her mother and grandfather, and instilled within the young woman an impressive independent streak. She was never the child that ran to her mother once she had fallen down. She was never the girl who begged for presents and playmates. Content to engage herself in her own adventures and to create her own worlds of fantasy and wonder, she was not embittered by the lack of company.
Her family discovered her talents for the magic and mystical the day that she turned six.
Dmitri had long ago given up on the hopes that his granddaughter might share in his talents and skills. Just looking upon her, she already so resembled her mother, that the man couldn’t help but anticipate the same level of skill. He, as it turned out, was quite wrong.
Haven been given a set of gorgeous dolls for a birthday treat, young Sofiya could not comprehend their fragility and worthy. Toting the porcelain-faced dolls about like they were no more important than her rag babies, finding that the faces easily shattered came as quite a shock to her. She had broken her beloved present in a matter of hours.
Round face streak with childish tears, she ran to her grandfather’s study and shamefacedly told him her tale of woe. Rising from his chair, he followed her to the foyer, wand withdrawn, ready to mend the broken, shattered pieces. One could only imagine his surprise as he watched as time seemed to rewind itself. Painted pieces of porcelain began to slide across the floor, leaping onto the shattered visage of the doll. Magically, the fragments melded themselves together, and in moments the pretty like face was immaculate and whole.
Turning, he gazed with amazed amusement at his little granddaughter. The dark-haired cherub had been staring with ferocious intensity at her doll, and the face that she had somehow been able to will it whole again didn’t seem to surprise her in the least. It had felt right. Old Dmitri was thrilled.
Taken form the site—Omerta Miami.
My character, Alleluia Reid.
Pasquale’s little Italian bistro was infamous for its colorful, if not questionable customers. However, the quaint little pizza place had never housed the likes of Alleluia Reid and her companions.
Wedged into a large, circular booth, the small group was eye-catching, to say in the least. Looking like creatures from some strange, inner city carnival, they were dressed in the most outrageous of fashions—ranging from what appeared to be a mesh, plastic garbage bag and decorative ribbons covered in paint, to some strange leather outfit with more clasps and buckles than material—they were an accumulated eyesore.
“I love pizza! I love everything!” A young woman—a fragile-looking thing with violently violet hair--shrieked from her seated position. Wriggling around between her companions, she slipped beneath the table. Crawling on all fours like some childish hellion; she made her way out onto the main floor. Standing up, she reached into her purse, grabbing fistfuls of confetti. Leaping about, she tossed the brightly colored paper into the air, showering her companions, as well as several other customers with the festive, neon-colored scraps.
Many of the other customers had begun to become increasingly annoyed, and even slightly frightened by the bizarre act unfolding before them. However, the colorful and abrasive characters were in a world of their own ketamine creation, and they hardly noticed or cared about their attentive audience. Hands and eyes rose to the ceiling, as they gazed in wonder at the falling party favors and laughed outrageously. Though the paper now coated everything—including their food and drinks, the crowd could’ve cared less. It was a party!
Seated at the end of the expansive booth was perhaps the most underdressed of the motley crew. However, with Swan feathers tied into her blonde-white hair and a large, glitter and sequined spiral stretching from her temple to the prominent bones of her left cheek, she was anything but what one could consider normal. Blue eyes wide, and pupils so large and dilated that they devoured the color of her irises; she had the distant and oblivious smile of one who was dreaming something pleasant. Absently, her companion—a lithe African American man dressed as a flamboyant bumblebee—fed her raw pieces of lettuce with his fingers. Cooing gently, he doted on her, playing with her looping, spiraling curls.
“Allie-baby, your hair—it’s to die for! Don’t you dare touch it, no matter what Mauricia says!” Turning, he glared at the purple-haired pixie that was still prancing about the room. Leaning closer to his swan, he continued his conversation, now softened by a conspiratorial tone. “Everyone knows she wants your hair. Remember when she tried to go white? What a disaster. Don’t let her sabotage you, angel-girl.”
Turning to him, Alleluia only responded with a heartbreakingly sweet smile. Plucking one of the large leaves from her salad, she placed it into his open mouth.
“Eat up, Bobby Bumblebee!” She murmured in her sing-song voice.
Chewing the bit of greenery, he giggled. Petting her hair, he bent down and reached for his sequined purse.
“Hallelujah, Alleluia’s taken too much of her medicine, silly thing!” He announced to the rest of the group. Leaning forward, they all gazed upon her, applauded once more, and found the situation extremely funny. The life of excess and decadence was glamorous—hallucinogens were fabulous.
Thrusting a handful of coins into her hands, Bobby fondly shooed her from the booth.
“Go find us some tunes, girl! We need music!”
Something that resembled a child’s lacey nightgown was all that the young woman had to protect her from the elements. Hem falling a good two inches above her knees, it hardly even did that. With bare feet, the hazy-eyed young woman padded across the filthy floor, making her way towards the large jukebox located in the front of the building.
These group outings were always so fun, she blissfully thought. Every meal was a feast—when they remembered to eat.