poppy,
female eurasian; pale skin, brown hair, blue eyes
uncontrollable divinity.
played by georgia<3

sample:

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The sun slaps against the sand, washing it in sublime light. Today is temperate, mild; neither too hot nor too cold, with equal parts shade and sun for the world to take its preference. Where shingle melts into sand the waves lick greedily, for the tide is in and the sea has swallowed half the cove. The fresh, clear scent of open ocean rolls further inland, slapping the nostrils of the gulls that take flight and shriek in its favour. In the pools wedged cosily between barnacle-encrusted rocks the water is like liquid crystal, revealing the innumerable life usually concealed, from tiny shrimps to powerful crabs. Not so easily visible are the curious grooves and ridges embedded into the red rock cliffs, marred by time; the evidence of Darwin’s evolutionary theory. These marks, pushed on occasion to the surface to be spotted by the observant eye, are the memories of a million different types of life that existed thousands upon thousands of years ago.
This is the purity, the joy of nature; this is the definition of god’s gift.

Quick fingers scrabble sharply, locating appropriate sized furrows with logical ease. Here in the treetops, fingers are in their element: they can wrap around branches, poke into holes and slide over rough bark. Through green, green leaves there is a glimpse of cream-beige – a flash of copper – the rare, subtle twinkle of mellow blue-green. Nearer the Silver Cove the canopy thins, revealing the ceaseless stretch of sparkling sapphire crashing against the glorious golden-yellow sand. High above, the great beacon in the sky filters through the wind-ruffled leaves, dappling the ground with patches of silver sunlight. Closer, closer. Here the gaps between the trees are longer, so pausing to take a measure of the distance before leaping wildly is a firm necessity to avoid broken bones. Vines and strong branches are less, but palm trees – useless for jump to and from – litter the edge of the forest.

At the last tree before the sandy edge, a branch leans out tiredly over the beach’s beginning. A noiseless scamper across it, a quick judge for good measure and a soft, short drop brings the young-faced girl back down to earth.

She is small by average standards but tall according to her level: four foot high and wingless. A perfect blend of Hybridity, her oriental blue eyes sit in a heart-shaped Eurasian face, framed with copper-brown hair that falls just past her shoulders. Her hair is wild, zapped with electric liveliness; straight for the most part, it curls off in every direction imaginable at the ends and rolls in a wave past her ears (a sign of frequently being tucked behind them). Slim and willowy, with a well-proportioned body that curves in all the right places, the girl is dressed in camouflaged combat trousers and a black crop-top that reveals a pierced belly button.
Her face is charged with life; her body almost quivering to be let loose. From her tree-top drop she has landed in a crouch position with one hand on the ground behind her, the other resting on her knee, and a pregnant boy sitting on a rock in front of her.

Unexpected? Poppy’s definition of fun.

“Excuse me,” she begins calmly, in a steady, polite voice which is warm like the sun; “could you tell me; is this Shaman?”

With all the casualness of one who has strolled in to the beach instead of dropping out of the sky, Poppy stands and straightens, lightly brushing imaginary dust from her mottled trousers. She smiles at Draco as she does, presenting him with a generous portion of her attention while still drawing information in from her other senses about the world around her. It isn’t necessary to see the flash of blue kingfisher when she can hear the buzz from its wings, or watch the waves roll when she can feel their spray on her light skin. No, Draco has her eyes (deep blue and characterised by a sliver of lilac in the left one) which gaze gently into his pale face, completely ignoring his prominent stomach. It doesn’t matter to Poppy that Draco is, to coin Twinge’s phrase, ‘knocked up and alone’ – if anything, she doesn’t even appear to notice.

Warm sunlight on open skin feels good. The little level one fairy basks in it, almost purring with the comfort of the situation; she’s the type who lives for the moment.

She’s right to. A moment later there is a soft whine and a crack of noise, before the heavens open completely on the female teenager. Just her; Draco is bone dry. The rain lashes down in a confined metre-wide diameter from a dark grey cloud hovering just above her head. Poppy glances up at it briefly but otherwise seems unconcerned; at the very least, her posture and facial expression don’t change.

“Oh dear,” she muses casually; “This’ll put a damper on my day, eh?”