BLACK, narcissa virga

[narcissablack]

Nickname: Maria!
How You Found Us: Proboards Support.
You looked like a bunch of fun people, and I couldn't resist. :D
Contact Via: AIM: ilashhx , MSN: [e-mail]

[OOC: So, ughm. I did my app in first person. Most of it I already had saved in first person, and what I didn't just seemed to flow from me in first person. If this is a problem, sorry! I certainly do not roleplay in first person, if that's your concern.]

What can be found in a name:
Miss Narcissa Virga Black.
When the day I was born:
April 31st, 1960. Which means I’m very nearly sixteen, and nearly an adult.
The Angels screamed:
The honorable Cygnus Black and his wife, Druella Black of the Rosier ilk.
And Hell shut its doors:
Two elder sisters: The darling yet vile Bellatrix and the tender and weak minded Andromeda.
While creatures retreated:
Several aethonans and abraxas on the family estate, along with my own pure white kitten.
To depths unknown:
Pure-blooded, thank you very much.

I hide from them:
Above all I prefer my mother’s morning room at the Black family estate in the country side. The sun warms the room, dancing across the silk of the furniture and wallpaper. I’ve sat for two portraits in that very room and prefer it above all others in my familial home. At school I’m quite happy in the Slytherin common room or, if I seek a quite peace, a nook in the library hidden behind old, dusty historical tomes.

Be who they want to see:
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder how all people (even the blind and dumb) don’t find me utterly radiant. I mean, most do, but that’s also coupled up with compliments on my family, wealth, and whatever tall, dashing man is trying to court me this week (usually Lucius Malfoy, for I believe we’ve made our –mutual- intentions towards one another quite known) at my side. I know society, I know that it’s founded on the basis of climbing a social ladder through compliments, trickery, and looks. My hair, I would say, is my best feature. It’s a lustrous honey blonde, fading lightly during the summer months spent at picnics and social parties. It curls lightly unless pressed flat by some sort of handy charm work that my mother insists upon; messy anything will not do for a Black. My eyes are blue; they shine, they sparkle but there’s nothing really grand about them. They’re not a sea blue that lovers can get lost in, and nor are they the glass blue of icebergs. They’re simply blue.

My cheeks will forever cause me frustration, I’m sure. They’re childishly rounded, giving me that small pinch-able piece of flesh older relatives and taunting cousins seem to feel the need to grab. And it’s not for lack of weightloss or a healthy diet; it’s just the damnable bone structure. They’re always quite pale, as is the rest of my complexion. I find myself pinching my own cheeks hoping to give me an eager warmth or virginal flush. I’m short, but certainly not boyishly stocky (though, I do wish my, err, assets were more plentiful- if you understand my meaning). I have a few scars, mostly from Bella’s rough play while we were children, but the most visible is a jagged one on my thigh.

I prefer knee length dresses and robes- appropriate for a lady, but still young enough looking. My mother does not agree, and it’s one of the very few things I challenge her on. I am a modern pureblooded lady; I know what is passing the lines of propriety. Semi-revealing dresses are not what men are worrying over. I may wear shorter clothing, more playful wear if I wish. I am, however, above rolling my school skirts. There is a different between sweetly seductive and a common whore. My boys certainly haven’t said anything negative about my choice of garb (as far as I know). I prefer silk on my robes, as well as my sheets for that soft and swishy feeling over my skin. What can I say? I’m a woman of indulgences.

But that leaves no one:


To discover that inside:
[OOC: Ahh, this is my only section I do not have typed up in third person. Forgive the lack of cohesiveness because of this, I beg you. ♥]
Many believe Narcissa’s personality to be straightforward and simple, however it can be classified only as a product of her environment. She was raised in a luxurious and defined household. Most would claim she ‘became quickly adjusted to her wealth’, but there was no adjusting. She was raised not knowing that anything outside of her world existed.When she was old enough to handle it, her father and mother preached what would become the fundamental of her life from that point onward; if you were not pureblood, you were nothing but a blasphemous street urchin. The thought was preached and ingrained into the open mind of Narcissa Black, and stuck with her through most of her life.

However, though her childhood was strict and she was raised to follow certain procedures that were expected of her, she grew up to expect and receive the best of everything from clothing to friends. She respected and ‘loved’ her parents, and when they were sure she would never disrespect them or harm their social standing, they ‘loved’ her in return. When it was her father’s will to take an upstanding husband, she did (though it should be said she would have taken said husband if she hadn’t been asked in the first place). The patriarchal household had its other effects on Narcissa, creating a woman who was obedient to the male gender. Far less outgoing in either sense than both of her sisters, she clung first to her father’s household and rules and would eventually do the same to her husband

Narcissa is self absorbed, turning her head to only care for her sister and mind her father. Her breeding has gotten her far, her looks even farther. She is fully aware that she won her standing into today's society. However, she's changed from who she was before. child no longer, Narcissa feels a new, important chapter of her life approaching. She has a short temper, and most of those close to her will tell you to avoid her when she gets into one of her 'moods'. Her temper is even shorter with dealing with the kind of people she can’t stand. Rejection is also something that hurts her quite deeply; for she really has been denied so few times she doesn't know how to cope..

This soulless being:
I could give you a list a mile long of things I like and want, and I’d be pleased to do nothing but talk about what you can do to please me. I like soft materials, especially silk. There’s just something so very sensual and luxurious about silk. My family and my wealth and standing come next on this list; blood is thicker than wine; when your blood entitles you to everything you have now and will have you can’t help but be grateful. I like holding and attending parties, but more importantly, I like being the center of attention at these parties. Do you know what else is pretty smashing? Men. Especially one certain man; he’s got blonde hair and eyes like mercury. Yeap. Him. He’s my favorite thing, right after my own self. Being a proper lady I'm not too blatant about my adoration of the male figure; at least not around my closest alliances. But I'm allowed to appreciate it inwardly and with peers, am I not? I like warm weather and picnics. I enjoy shopping and dancing and the feeling of my hand in a stronger one’s hand.

Is just as lost:
Dislikes are just as easy to come by for me. I could, and will complain endlessly if something displeases me until it’s removed. I dislike any form of vulgarity; either in appearance, attitude, or speech. I’m a lady of proper breeding from an old, pure wizarding family; I don’t want to be witness to such disgusting animalistic behaviors. I don’t like participating in sports, but I do like watching them some of the time. I abhor flying, but it’s most just because of a completely grounded and real fear of it. You strap yourself to a broom and let it take you who knows how high into the sky! Did you ever think what could happen if you fell? No. I’d rather keep both of my feet firmly on the ground after what happened the last time someone forced me onto their broom. I hate not being the focus and being pampered, along with having no one or nothing to entertain me. I’m judgmental and look firmly down upon whores, blood traitors, half breeds, and mudbloods. I don’t think twice about people that believe they’re above me. And deep, deep down I dislike the idea of ever possibly not having the means to get what I want.. I hate girls who think they are women and I hate women who act like they are girls. I hate people who act above their station and breeding. I hate when women stare at what is mine, and I hate when he looks back.

As everyone else:
My most obvious strength would be my beauty. It astounds, distracts, lures, and works to my advantage in every single way possible. My father could never resist a small pout, so easily formed upon my lips. Other men, I’ve discovered, are even less immune. The swish of my hair, the subtle movement of my body against theirs’, and the brush of a hand against their flesh gets me whatever I want. And best of all, it leads men to think I’m dull-witted. Hah! You never, ever, ever trust a woman who uses her looks to get what she wants. There’s always quick wit and a rapier like tongue readying itself behind her barricade of white pearly teeth. I’m profoundly socially skilled, knowing just what to say and when to murmur it. That ties right into my vocabulary strength (though that does become strained the more flustered I become). On my side I also battle the world with a family fortune, connections, and alliances the Minister of Magic himself would die for. I’m a wonderful hostess, using all of the above skills to become proficient at party-throwing. Oh, and I have quite a hand at healing charms.

In a world that knows only hate:
Every rose has its thorns, and never let me hear you repeating mine. I strongly dislike any mention of my imperfections; one does not wish to align themselves with an imperfect mess, now do they? I have at terrible temper, let loose with almost minimal coaxing. Usually one of my sisters is involved, truth be told, or another girl who believes she is of my standing yet cannot be called even remotely a comrade or peer. I see red and lash out- though only verbally. A lady never raises her hand (nor tells when her man raises one to her). Despite believing myself thoroughly modern, I find myself clinging to traditional values- and roles of man. I cannot imagine a future where I would be responsible for myself- my father or my future husband must always guide me. I’ve gotten bitten quite nastily for this subservience. I’m terribly rotten at potions and transfiguration- embarrassingly so. I’m not at all motivated to push through school work, seeing no need for me to have it. I will marry, be wed, bear children, and then spend my days playing princess and hostess. I have little hold for alcohol. I’m a bit pretentious and more than a bit vain. But don’t I have good reason to be so?

And causes pain for the soulless like me:
Every night, after I tuck myself into my blankest and curl up against my silk-covered pillows I let myself breath- and then day dream as I fall asleep. And one, Lucius Malfoy, is always the male lead in these little fantasies. They’re always romances too- his hand on mine, his fingers holding mine, his hair brushing against my skin, and my mouth on his mouth. I’m a love sick school girl over him, but only when I’m alone in my bed. It wouldn’t be proper for a girl such as myself to be mooning over a man- not even the wonderful Malfoy.

My loyalties are not as sound as one might think, in the end. I align myself with the Dark Lord, with my family, and with my house because it’ll be beneficial to me. If my family did not give me the connections and money I wanted, I would run off and align myself with an adoptive one. My house offers a protection for when I lash out my tongue and its members are ones whose alliances are ones I crave (again, only for my own benefits. If I must align myself with the Dark Lord to emerge from the fighting washing over us soon enough without a scratch, I will do so.

They left me to die:
My mother’s side is not important. They’re the Rosiers, I suppose that would be the easiest way to begin. She has a brother, Stewart. His wife, Beatrice, is alright I suppose. Certainly not the worst hostess I’ve ever met, but I was awfully bored last time I was invite for tea. Their son, my cousin Evan, is in my year and house but we hardly talk.

On a bed of roses:
My father’s side is the Black family, the one that is my own. I identify with this family simply because it is tradition. My grandparents are old, well off, and reclusive. They prefer the warmth of beaches and sand than the cool English Countryside. Sometimes I see them on Holidays, mostly I do not. They did raise two wonderful men- my darling Father and his brother, Orion. Aunt Wallburga is alright, but she’s got even more of a temper than I. She’s quite the…bi-woman. Pardon me. Her two sons are quite different. Sirius is the constant ache in my head, while Reggie is adorable. He’s the youngest out of all the Blacks, and he’s still the only one younger than I.

Blood seeping through:
The Blacks have no secrets; we are perfect. The people that betrayed our blood are no longer a part of our family, which means they’re not a family secret.

The satin sheets of fame:
Wonderfully affluent.

What a bitter story of love:
My history? I suppose everyone needs to start their autobiography somewhere.

I was born on April 30th, 1960. I was my father’s last hope for a male heir; three daughters were enough to handle, thank you very much. I was the youngest, of course, and had the third lightest hair. My mother and father were both sure it would darken as I got older, to match the hue of both their own and my sisters’ locks. It never did. I was christened a few weeks afterwards, I’d been too frail to leave the nursery earlier than that. My first name, for the first time in generations, was not a constellation. Unlike the good, star-like names of Andromeda, Bellatrix, my father Orion, and both cousins born after me, I was given a name solely derived from a myth.

Narcissus believed himself to be such perfection he treated those around him like scum. The gods cursed him something fierce, and he became enthralled with his own reflection and perished gazing upon it. My father instructed that I should be name for someone that was clearly so self-righteous and self centered as I; I had dictated my own birth, being born two months too early and as frail as a baby bird, had I not? He still tells me I was already preening in infanthood. My second name was one my mother suggested. Perhaps she just wanted to give me any constellation name that would work; Merlin knew she wanted her girls to fit in with the Blacks- they’re a selective bunch who don’t even take too kindly to those who married in. Perhaps she had some foresight and saw the little lady I’d become. Maybe she liked the ring to it. No matter, they changed the male endings to something more suitable for me, a blonde daughter, and I was dubbed Narcissa Virga.

I spent most of my childhood in the nursery, like most other well bred children. It was a large room with three large bassinets, toddler-sized beds, porcelain dolls, stuffed unicorns and nifflers, caged birds that hummed different scales, child sized tables and chairs, child-safe tea sets, and any other thing someone could dream up for three girls and their boy cousins who were prone to visits. All of the girls stayed in the child paradise until they received their Hogwarts letter and then their own set of rooms. I wouldn’t deny it, she’d spent most of my childhood tailing after her sisters and pulling them into playing with her. Sometimes it ended violently, sometimes I got my way. When Bella left, Andi played with me more often. Perhaps she understood that I needed attention.

It must be said, before I go on, that I come from a pureblood house hold. I was raised with a firm set of beliefs that included our blood superiority. Dirty bloods, filthy bloods, half breeds, and mudbloods were below us and the scum of the wizarding world. However, being very much locked away as a child, I’d really just been parroting the ideals back without any firsthand experience with the lot. It was shocking to find, even on the ride to Hogwarts, that they were just a largely stupid lot. The mudblood girls wore pants and the like, they couldn’t comprehend any of even the most basic stories I’d been told in the nursery. A few didn’t even know what the houses were. I’d been following Andi, until that point, but quickly sought out Bella. Her group of friends was made up of those who’d been raised much like us, and with values like us.

I was sorted into Slytherin, the hat whispering something about the irony of my loyalty to blood purity. My classes came and went; some went well while others did not. It was an awkward period for me, I’ll admit it. That age, until a young woman starts to really mature, is an unhappy time. I wasn’t the social butterfly I was now; that took prompting from my eldest (and the only one I now treated as one) sister. As I grew older, landmarkingly around my fourth year Christmas holiday, I began noticing how easy it all was; to smile and be pleasing, to dress right and to impress. It wasn’t until I really started gaining that reputation for perfection that I realized just how some girls acted. I couldn't possibly let myself stoop to that level of debauchery to find a male. I was a lady. But I could notice men and let men notice me. I became available to dating and courting, letting men take me to Hogsmeade and write little love sonnets. I was the summer before my fifth year when I noticed him, and I’ve been determined to get him ever since. It’s making me test my boundaries in a way that’s almost exciting. And isn’t that what being a young woman is about, being exciting?

The summer was marvelous, Narcissa decided as she slipped deeper into her bedclothes. The sun peeked in through the curtains that had been opened by a fastidious little houseelf at promptly nine o’clock Am. All of the Black household houseelves were perfectionists; her tea tray was placed perfectly straight on her night stand, with the cup’s handle pointed to three o’clock. Every inch, from that cup to the perfectly organized vanity across the room, was in a specific order. In fact, the most untidy thing in the room was the blonde, herself. And that, as always, would be rectified before you left her rooms.

She would emerge, per norm, clad in some form of robes (today they were pale lilac with black embellishments and buttons, cut right at the knee. She was always the most stylish, she believed, of the Black sisters) and join the rest of the family having breakfast. Some days her father would be there, which made her day even better. Mother would make some sort of remark about her tardiness (“I’m not tardy, mother dearest, if you’re all still here waiting for me”) or Bella would, well, just be Bella. Two against two made the playing field much easier to navigate. Today, unfortunately, was not one of those days.

It had become easier, after sixteen years and 10 days, to drown out her mother with her own (far more important thoughts). She may have inherited the woman’s need to chatter and gossip, but her topics were always so dull. She hardly considered the Greengrasses replanting a garden to be worthy of her attentions. Now, if said Greengrass woman was caught having an affair in said gardens that would be a something to listen to. Not to emulate, something like that was too grotesque for Narcissa to deem worthy to do so, but to at least talk of. She hardly cared if their roses were pink or red; though it must be said, that whatever they’d picked, Narcissa could have picked better.

It wasn’t until her mother said that magical ‘S’ word that Narcissa lifted her head from her breakfast to listen. Shopping was one of her favorite past times; the thrill of purchasing something had both a calming effect and a joyous one for the blonde. It didn’t really matter what she purchased (though the more expensive, the more thrill) as long as she did it. However, the next words were hardly as appealing as Druella’s first.

“Mother! I’m sixteen, I hardly need a chaperone!” Sixteen and ten days, to be precise, but see if her mother cared.

Which is how she ended up following behind Bella, fingers twirling with the black ribbon in her hair. She hadn’t been allowed to go in any of her favorite stores; how was she supposed to hold her head high if she didn’t have another new cloak for the school year? How could her sister be so cruel as to deny Narcissa a chance to admire a pair of powder blue boots? It was a completely unfair situation, and it seemed to be worse as the day went on. She wanted nothing to do with Knockturn Alley as she was led down that way. Her nose wrinkled, her arms crossing to keep her body as small as possible. She did notwant to brush against some filthy wall and ruin her robes.

When they were stopped again, this time by a man peddling dragon scales illegally, Cissa let out a loud sigh. She repeated the action, pressing her jaw right up on Bella’s shoulder. “Bellllla?” She finally asked, her tone quickly turning towards a whine. “Can we please leave already? It’s positively filthy down here.” She said, casting an eye across the alley and its occupants. “Certainly you don’t have any use for the trash sold down here? Let’s go back up where it’s clean, bright, and doesn’t smell. I want to buy robes!” The last sentence was punctuated with a full lipped pout.

[peterr]