BEHIND THE MASK.
Sarah Maxwell is 16 years old.
She has been role playing for 6 years.
You can reach her at breakxmyxcrown@aim.com.
You found us through Logan, my BFF. LOL..
Her favorite Harry Potter installment is Chamber of Secrets
and Logan's favorite is if only I knew.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,
WE PRESENT TO YOU;EILEEN PRINCE-SNAPEGRETA GARBO
The Basics.Full Name: Eileen Abbot Prince-Snape
Nicknames: Mrs. Prince is as informal as it gets
Gender: Female
Birthday: September 3, 1939
Age: 40
Year Graduated: The proud year of 1957
House: Slytherin
Occupation: Domesticator
Allegiance: Death Eater supporter
Blood: Pure
Wand: 10 inches, ebony, dragon scale core
In the Mirror.Hair: Rusty blonde, closer to brown, styled for the occasion, although usually her preference is that of a sleek ponytail.
Eyes: A dull, dark chocolate that lazily fall on whatever her attention is drawn to.
Height: 5'7, a perfect average
Body Type/Weight: Razor-sharp curves, strengthened by hard labor but weakened with age.
Appearance: The hardest times came upon the children of the Depression Era, and Eileen was the living creature that represented that idea best. She took great pride in her appearance: a plain, modest body that she was granted. Only through meticulous care and constant attention towards herself did she manage to secure a grip on what some optimists may call “beauty”.
Whether she was staying inside, fussing over young Severus or out in the market, picking through ointments for her next pet project, Eileen was dressed to the nines (perhaps in preparation for another depression that would strike in a day, without warning, leaving just her and the Katrina Srigley designer clothes on her back). Though not one for dressing elaborately, her clothes were, of course, always neat and pressed. Anything that required less maintenance than dry-cleaning was a waste of her finely-earned money. Thus, Eileen’s typical dress ware was that of a below-the-knee-length skirt, black or another neutral color, and a white dress shirt, with an attempt at style pertaining to the wide lapels of her collar. When the weather was harsh, however, her shoulders were covered with a dark, knitted sweater and heavy coats, nothing magical. She rarely approved of dressing in the so-called “witch robes” because of the hassle involved of removing and adding them whenever she passed from one world to the next, as was very often. Similarly, Eileen was a lady of casualty that reflected into her “dressy clothes”. The only difference being a strand of small, delicate pearls laced around her freckled neck and an extra inch to her heels.
Her hair and make-up, however, was her compensation for the apathy involving her attire. Through a laborious routine, Eileen would iron out her hair and tie it back in an immaculate bun to the back of her head, without a single strand unaccounted for. Supposedly, only the Hebrew god knew how many hairs were on Eileen’s head, but she scoffed at that, because quite frankly, so did she. About a cup of gel a day was used to mat down her rich, russet hair that encircled her equally dark- though not half as rich- eyes. Those were usually placed underneath two impossibly thin eyebrows (which she had begun to tame after graduation) of a lighter color and thick (albeit short) eyelashes, painted black. After brushing her hands with a boar-bristle brush to eliminate the hair gel, with emphasis of removing dirt from her nails (one may add her disgust for nail polish, which she found absolutely repulsive), the woman would add a thick layer of charcoal- or, “eyeliner”- above her lash line. A touch of pink rouge to her porcelain white, gaunt cheeks, a generous coat of ruby lipstick (which she also found repulsive, but necessary), and she was finished with the usually two-hour long process.
The only thing she could not change, try as she might, was the body structure that she so desperately fought. With a rigorous exercise routine and excruiating diet, Eileen could not alter the stiff, rugged shape of hard-earned muscles and tender skin that came with age and labor. For her age, it was ideal physical condition. For her, it was a sign of hunger. That was, of course, part of the remnants from the Depression… and who was she to shake the mark of history? A mark which came in a scar somewhere between her forehead and the back of her skull.
Digging Deeper.Likes:- cleanliness
- discipline
- smoking... a lot
- muggle alcochol
- relaxing in the local pubs
- Anglo-Saxon literature
- neutral colors
- obedience
- gossip
- dabbling in potions
- organic produce of the magical type
- Remembrandt
- hair gel and tweezers
Dislikes: - dirt, grime
- French literature (or attempts at literature)
- mudbloods
- loud, obnoxious noises
- Gryffindors
- childish games
- motion pictures
- Italians
- gum
- humidity
Strengths: - compulsion
- reign over the household
- steady hands
- her work ethic
- loyalty
Weaknesses:- compusion
- strong temper; abusive tendencies
- arrogance; vanity
- intolerance
- her husband
Quirks/Habits: - steady routine every morning, whether she is going out or not
- slow to respond when in conversation; much like she is carefully planning out what she intends to say
- willing to adapt to temporarily please others
- tends to relieve her stress on psychologically damaging Severus
Goals: - to have a rock-steady foundation of a home
- to repair the relationship with her husband to at least a tolerable level
- to produce her image of the "perfect child" from the /filth/ that is Severus
Overall Personality: A famous wizard once said, “Insanity always comes masked underneath a veil of genius.” Though it was hardly arguable to call Eileen a genius, per se, it was relatively easy to find the “hidden” insanity. She was in denial over her insanity; the purest kind of distorted views that controlled her day-to-day life. Indeed, she had the slightest sense of her condition given her frequent crying jags (though never in public- think of the scandal!) and obsession with two things: a perfect child, a perfect household.
Eileen herself was perfect, a perfect wax doll. So still could she be, for example, sitting in a Victorian chair behind her desk, illuminated by a Bermuda Triangle of light that reflected off the only sign of movement, her ivory chest. Every other part of her porcelain body would be still, even down to her languid fingers, frozen on (normally) a letter to the editor, while her mind was sifting through swears and hexes to find a more appropriate way to regard the news.
That was typical Eileen, always one to want everyone to follow her, starting with her opinions. Perhaps it was a matter of control- no, it had to be. The woman had a radical notion (nay,
insane) that if everything were under her control, such prophesies of abandonment within her own household would have never happened. If only she could claw together the remnants of a scattered household… only then could she ever be truly happy…
That was why she experimented in potions. With a steady hand, she was able to create whatever she desired, with few obstacles few and far between. There was a feeling of power in that. Soon enough, Eileen developed the level of a mistress of potions, though no one knew her ability save Severus.
/Severus/. Her perfect little angel! Until his father left them. Then she couldn’t stand the ghostly sight of her son. She would sneer at him when he crossed her path in the grand mansion that was their home (though an ungodly, unkempt structure that was due to fall down any day). Often, she may even remind him in a low hiss, “You look just like your father”, though he was her spitting image. Her disdain towards her son occasionally turned into abusive remarks and the occasional slap across the cheek. Rarely was it more. In fact, she only struck her child repetitively a few years ago when she caught him trying to form a friendship with the muggle girl on the other side of town. “That redheaded mudblood is below you, Severus. You will not disgrace the name of this household!” she shrieked, grazing his cheeks and skull with violent, forceful blows, only to end with Severus running to the door and out, and Eileen made her way back to the bathroom to tweeze her eyebrows and gel down her hair.
Why focus on cosmetics when she was facing yet another strike against a nuclear home? Aside from the control urge, her mask of insanity was ripping at her lashes.
Prodding the Soul.Patronus: I wouldn't have the slightest clue. My house elf would be of more use than a silly spell, if danger were to ever threaten me (although I do dare the source).
Boggart: I have no Boggart. No... No Boggart at all...
Dementor: All at once, it seemed to happen in a flash. Somewhere between the golf club subscriptions and boats to the house falling in disrepair, Tobias left a humid morning. For the first time in my adult life, I sat down on the stairs, and cried.
Euphoria: Severus, despite what he is now, used to be the most adorable baby. At the most perfect moment in my life, I cradled Sevvy to my cheek, and Tobias put his hand on my shoulder. We all smiled, even the baby, and I swear we were the best family to ever cross the threshold of the wizarding and mudblood world.
Infatuation: (control)
Amount of Change in Pocket at the Present Moment: Any respectable witch deposits her gold at Gringot's and only takes the exact amount of what she needs that trip. Between stores is another trip.
Memory Lane.Father: Wyatt Yale Prince
Mother: Ingrid Winifred Windahl-Prince
Siblings' Names: I have no siblings, thank Merlin.
Blood: Pure
Social Class: (Before her marriage, she was of the upper elite. After her divorce, however, she deteriorated into the lower class)
Nationality: English on her father's side, Swedish on her mother's
Birth Place: Gleinstown, England
History:Expectations and the perfection to stem from them was the drive behind Eileen’s living. From the time she was eight years old, a mirror image of Severus in a late Victorian dress, Eileen was forced to endure having a demented hairstylist place her silky hair on a block of wood and using a muggle iron to burn it to crisps, then rolling it to the taste of the latest flavor of the month. Her skin was rubbed rugged with a plastic bristle brush to remove any blemishes from her face. She was her mother’s “darling”, the one she used to impress friends and acquaintances of the upper-class alike when entertaining. All Eileen was expected- nay, /supposed/- to do was reply any questions with “Yes, ma’am”, “no, sir”, and “I am eight years old”.
Her time at Hogwarts was no different. However, her innocence was robbed from her, and in its path was a trail of hatred towards the few muggle-borns she knew, fed and nurtured by her “friends”, her fellow Slytherins- her only family since her father had died in unnatural circumstances and her mother had died of a broken heart. Her family became her schoolmates, and they were all-too willing to create an opinionated monster from the difficult-to-explain child that was Eileen. It was only until she met Severus’ father that her opinions changed… temporarily.
While Tobias and she were courting, Eileen gladly paid for whatever expenses her depression-stricken charmer could not. Financial excursions began small: a dinner date, money for gasoline. Over time, they evolved into renting out whole moving picture shows, automobiles, university banquets, yachts. In a period of three years, two hundred and thirty-eight parties in her inherited mansion, one marriage, one birth of a very expensive child, all the money from Eileen’s parents’ estate was gone, and so was Tobias.
She stayed in the mansion as often as she could, remaining trapped in her works of apothecary magic and occasionally playing Gobstones with herself. Her only withdrawal from the game was her champion status, which she regarded with shame, and the scarring marks of her defeats. Merlin forbid anyone see that; even Severus could not see her face being distorted.
Only in the years since the Death Eaters took their thrones had Eileen began to walk freely amongst the public of intimidated muggle-borns, her former and newly-found enemies. So proud was she to be with the winning team that she dedicated the little money she collected from Severus’ employment wages to buying the Death Eaters drinks when she could and contributing to Voldemort’s housing. The proudest she had ever been of Severus was when the older Death Eaters would describe their excitement over the future membership of the boy. The first time she heard that, Eileen’s eyes grew slick with controlled, invisible tears.
Strictly by self-control did she remain appearing unaffected, and with a smirk, she quietly agreed, “Yes. Yes, I expect that will be perfect for him.”
TAKING A FINAL BOWLasting Impression.Your Final Words: I'm shto delekit.
Role play Sample: See Lon. See Lon run.
See Lon running through the throng of black hats, gray beards, and ankle-length dresses.
See Don. See Don chase.
See Don chasing Lon through the smoke and smog of Chicago, just minutes before the gas streetlights flicker on.
See John. See John panting.
See John panting from a frantic sprint with Lon and Don, carrying a silky, black top hat (a rare find when compared to the usual spoils of greasy yellow caps) which came, presumably, from the one of the heads of bald men chasing John chasing Don chasing Lon. The men are unhappy, for without a top hat, a man is indecent.
And now, hours later, Lon is the decided keeper of the hat. He waits until morning then eagerly waits at the doors of the local pawn shop, where he sells the hat for two dollars. Proudly, Lon shows his mom, Connie, the money. Connie shows Ronnie, Lonny’s poppy. Ronnie and Connie, daddy and mommy, give Lonny three more dollars. Lonny is now charged with the duty of investing his money into a savings account. For now, Ronnie must go to work at the factory and must walk. Taxi cabs cost one dollar.
See Lon’s money See Lon’s money grow.
See Lon’s money stop growing. He must put more money in his account to collect interest.
See Lon. See Lon steal.
See Lon steal from the gang’s lootpile to invest in his savings account. His friends are confused.
“Who is taking our money?” ask his friends.
“Who is taking the money?” asks Lon.
Soon, all the money is gone. Unable to trust each other, the friends disband. All find new friends and new adventures- all but Lon. Lon has found a job, and he now has no time for friends.
“One day,” prophesize and resolve Connie and Ronnie while shaking their heads knowingly, “our little Lonny will be rich and live forever comfortably.”
One day is this day. “Lonnie” is no longer. “Lon” is no longer. See that man in the silky top hat and posh clothing? That is Mister Roper, an infallible stock broker. “One day,” prophesizes and resolves Mister Roper (the infallible stock broker) while shaking his head knowingly, “I will have enough money to retire rich and live forever comfortably.”
He grimaces in disgust as he passes a decrepit old man on the sidewalk, a disgrace to the image of God. But Mister Roper (an infallible stock broker!) would have just assume taken the old man’s money as if it were a Persian rug. Money is money, he muses to himself as he often did. Money is money, whether from beggars or queens.
See Mister Roper. See Mister Roper strutting.
See Mister Roper stop strutting to stoop over and snatch a fallen penny, the only penny charitably thrown into the old man’s greasy, yellow cap. With a yellow-toothed smile, Mister Roper, an infallible stock broker, winks to Don and squeezes his newly-found treasure in his lotion-soft hand. After basking in the glow of a penny earned, Mister Roper slips the penny into his pocket, next to a nickel with which to buy the morning press.
See Mister Roper. See Mister Roper smile.
See Mister Roper smile, unaffected by the widespread panic around him. Maybe, he muses to himself as he often did, with all these people running around, they will fall and scrape their knees. Don’t I have stock in a bandage company? And with that, Mister Roper buys a newspaper with his nickel, taking out the penny with it to show off the dusty copper. Today, however, there is no section of the newspaper dedicated to foreign affairs, nor the latest dry-cleaning method, nor the news about the Yankees working the Great Bambino to his bone. Rather, there Is one sheet of paper, and it is with few words that cause such a great impact.
See Lon. See Lon dead.
See Lon dead on the ground, sprawled out with curious tears in his eyes. Most of his life, Lon has been surrounded with pretty things. He prophesized and resolved (while nodding his head knowingly) to live like an Egyptian king, marinating in gold treasures when he meets Death. Maybe I shall buy Death a nice watch and stay on Earth a few more years, mused Mister Roper (the infallible stock broker) as he often did. But Lon is not as he had hoped. Rather, Lon is crippled on the ground, a 1929 newspaper in one hand, a penny in his left. And three little boys have just stolen his black hat.
See Lon. See Lon run.
See Lon run from his sins.
PRINCE-SNAPE, eileen, 40--neutral
