Post by Gwyneviere Pendragon on Jan 13, 2011 21:56:49 GMT -5
Gwyneviere Medea Ashira Grace Byndi Pendragon was at the Drakborough City Hall on a mission. Never mind that she only wound up here by chance after she became lost in the uneven streets of the lone town, but she had a job to do. What was this job?
Finding a husband, of course. Like any respectable eighteen-year-old would aim for anything else. Pfft.
Her red stilettos click-clacked into the ornamented establishment as though she had any right to be there. She tidied up her black-brown bangs and twirled a finger around a lock of her healthy, glimmering hair, letting it settle over her shoulder like a model as her amber eyes gracefully took in the structure.
She already knew her makeup was perfect--otherwise, she wouldn't have even stepped out in public. Girls who didn't even wear eyeliner and blush--or, god forbid, not even the barest amount of mascara--certainly couldn't seduce a man unless they had other appealing areas. A whore, for instance, was cheap and good in bed. Or wealth. Money was always alluring. Or even great intelligence or status.
So what if Gwyneviere's grades weren't nearly as good as Morgana's? She was hot, tall with curves in the right places, unlike her lanky twin, and she had prestige.
And, naturally, her social skills were unfathomably above par.
Spotting a waiting area, her glimmering lips stretched into a smile, and she cat-walked on over as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Somehow, she managed to avoid slipping on the wet floor in a way only a practiced stiletto-heeled dame could.
Sitting down in one of the dark leather chairs, she calmly exhaled and leaned back, crossing her bare slender ankles as she straightened out her skirts.
The tall witch supposed she'd take a break [from getting lost] and merely ponder her next move. Assuming Prince Charming didn't come along, perhaps she could apply as a secretary or...?
Oh, why did life have to be so difficult?
Finding a husband, of course. Like any respectable eighteen-year-old would aim for anything else. Pfft.
Her red stilettos click-clacked into the ornamented establishment as though she had any right to be there. She tidied up her black-brown bangs and twirled a finger around a lock of her healthy, glimmering hair, letting it settle over her shoulder like a model as her amber eyes gracefully took in the structure.
She already knew her makeup was perfect--otherwise, she wouldn't have even stepped out in public. Girls who didn't even wear eyeliner and blush--or, god forbid, not even the barest amount of mascara--certainly couldn't seduce a man unless they had other appealing areas. A whore, for instance, was cheap and good in bed. Or wealth. Money was always alluring. Or even great intelligence or status.
So what if Gwyneviere's grades weren't nearly as good as Morgana's? She was hot, tall with curves in the right places, unlike her lanky twin, and she had prestige.
And, naturally, her social skills were unfathomably above par.
Spotting a waiting area, her glimmering lips stretched into a smile, and she cat-walked on over as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Somehow, she managed to avoid slipping on the wet floor in a way only a practiced stiletto-heeled dame could.
Sitting down in one of the dark leather chairs, she calmly exhaled and leaned back, crossing her bare slender ankles as she straightened out her skirts.
The tall witch supposed she'd take a break [from getting lost] and merely ponder her next move. Assuming Prince Charming didn't come along, perhaps she could apply as a secretary or...?
Oh, why did life have to be so difficult?