About You, the Writer:
Your Nickname: Sissy
Have you read and do you agree to the Code of Conduct?: Yuppers
How did you find us and decide to write with us? Followed the breadcrumbs
If you have written other characters here, list them all: AA Shepherd, Izadora Franti, Leda Roarke

Full Character Name: Freya Jansdotter
Character Birthday & Age: July 31, 1993
City & Country of Birth: Smolen, Sweden (raised in County Cork, Ireland)
Pureblood, Halfblood or Muggleborn: Halfblood
House & Year: Gryffindor, 5th

Wand: Freya’s wand is birch, 10 1/4 inches.  The grip is deep red-leather-wrapped, with sinew bindings wrapped, not laced.  The shaft is supple, un-tinted, nearly-white birch, spiral shaft decorated (burnt)with small, dark images of wolves in various postures of innocent frolicking. The wolf-figures race upwards toward the tip of the wand, following a stylized vine.  The vine is adapted from the natural coloration/vein of the wood, rather than an addition.

Physical Description: 5’10 tall and willowy in the extreme—weighing a paltry 115 pounds.  Had she a bit more breadth of body, she would resemble a gangling (but pretty) boy.  Her hands and feet are over-large for her thin frame, like a puppy’s, though fairly petite for her height.  Though her hands are broad when her fingers are splayed, the thickness of her palms is so thin that folded, her hands are narrower than her wrists.  Her fingers are long and slender.  Her feet are the opposite: extremely narrow and long, with short toes.

Due to her excessive height and the extreme narrowness of her torso, she is given the illusion of being flat-chested, though she’s properly endowed for her proportions.  In fact, in her school uniform, she barely seems to have curves at all although if dressed up properly, she can look quite feminine.  That is, if she bothered to dress up properly.  Given the opportunity to dress as she pleases, she normally wears comfortable, Muggle clothing (not stylish, however): spandex/cotton leggings and over-sized tunic sweaters whose sleeves are even longer than her abnormally lengthy arms, the cuffs hiding half her hands, the bottom hanging nearly to her pointy knees.  To finish her preferred ensemble, she wears Doctor Martin’s boots constantly (with her uniform or in “street clothes”).  They are black, classic Docs, worn and comfortable by now, the steel toes dented in places, the uppers soft and supple.  The boots are her most prized possession and she oils and polishes them regularly.  They no longer possess a high, glossy sheen, but she cares for them like a pet.

She keeps her light-blond hair short, in a pixie-bob, simply because she dislikes bothering with it.  It is long enough to tuck behind her ears, but too short for a ponytail.  The style accentuates her long, slender, graceful neck but sometimes gives her the illusion of pointy ears.

She is extremely light-complected but a sallow hint of olive causes her to fall short of the Peaches and Cream ideal.  Instead, it lends a slightly grayish hue to her skin, especially when she hasn’t enjoyed the sun for a few weeks and had no hint of other colors in her cheeks.

Her eyes are grey-green (she disparagingly refers to them as “split-pea soup,” which adds even more to the hint of olive in her complexion.  She’s often wished for full-olive or full-white because the in-between makes her feel mousey.

Though long, thin and angular as the rest of her, her face is her best feature.  Her grey-green eyes are almond-shaped, set wide in her face and framed with dark lashes. A long, thin nose might look cruel; topping her a wide mouth and sensual lips, instead it looks refined.  Her dark eyebrows are finely arched, adding to her beauty and refinement. 

She speaks in a thin monotone, which she despises.  She would give anything for a fluid, graceful tenor: instead, she’s stuck with a barely-inflected alto, halfway to being a soprano.  In contrast, her singing voice is quite beautiful, technically flawless—though mainly lacking in the warmth and feeling necessary to move an audience… unless she herself is moved by the song. 

If she ever fills out, she might resemble an artist’s vision of an angel.  At this age, however, she rather resembles Mr. Spock’s lovechild…

Personality Description: Deep down, Freya is caring, supportive, generous and nurturing.  Very, very deep down.

On the exterior, she’s rough-edged, gruff, stand-offish-- when she speaks at all.  She’s been teased unmercifully for her height by boys, therefore she refuses to find them even remotely interesting in a romantic manner, however she will put up with them as acquaintances (the ones who don’t tease her) easier than girls, whom she finds irritating at best and spiteful at worst.

Her favorite sport is running (which she wins nearly every race), she loves Quidditch (though she doesn’t play), exploring and pranks (aka "revenge").

She is not normally friendly or open—only a select few people see her sweet side.  She would be a desperately loyal friend, if anyone managed to pierce her armor, but acts as if she’d rather most people would shrivel up and die.  Her fear of being made fun of makes it difficult to make friends but rather than simply be a shy wall-flower, Freya actively pushes people away.  She considers it much better to be alone than to open up to another human being and possibly be hurt.  She’s been the butt of jokes too many times when she was younger, where girls especially pretended to be her friend, only to use the association to humiliate her in public.  She stopped bothering with girls long ago.

She can be rude, sarcastic, unfeeling and gruff—especially when rebuffing overtures of friendship.  Because of her monotone voice and her aloof attitude, many of her peers see her as being stuck-up.  It is all an act, however: her main weakness is loneliness, which she pushes down and displays anger and suspicion instead.

Freya dislikes standing out from the crowd, and she typically withdraws to the furthest corner of a room, or sits at the front of the class where she is not surrounded by giggling peers passing notes where the teacher is less likely to see it.  Watching others so easy in friendship makes her angry.

Though she enjoys exploring, she typically ranges alone.  Racing her only pursuit which requires interaction.  When not actively engaged in one of those two hobbies, she typically has her nose buried in a book: not only do books give her an escape into fantasy, they also give her an escape from the possibility of having to look or talk to another human being.

She prefers works of fiction, and can become so absorbed in a good book that she neglects her studies.  She can often be found sitting in class with a non-textual book on her desk… but after being made an example of in front of the class, she generally finishes the coursework before opening a book to read.  The best (worst?) discipline a professor can punish her with is to speak loudly of her offense in front of her peers, drawing all eyes (and imagined snickers) to her.

She’s a fair artist, and likes to doodle.  Her doodles are usually very detailed, because she tends to focus extremely on whatever she’s doing, if it’s something she is interested in doing.

History:Freya is the daughter of Jan Friedson and Patricia Woodbridge.  Though a Muggle, Jan was bitten by a Werewolf in his youth and spent some time in the Frolich Institute of Wizarding Medicine, in Smolen, Sweden.  Her mother—native of Aire—was serving her internship as healer in Venoms and Toxicology.  It was love at first sight.

Shortly after his release from Frolich’s, Jan married Patricia and it wasn’t long before Freya’s brother, Frieder was born.  Three years later, Freya joined him in the family’s small, two-bedroom house in Smolen.  Though both possessing of great height and sparse build, Frieder resembled their mother—copper-red hair, milky-white complexion, round blue eyes and freckles.  Freya took after her father.

Freya’s father was given to fits of temper and black moods, which Tricia dealt with smoothly.  She made excuses—Lycanthropy caused depression, especially directly following a full moon.  The truth was, Jan had been thrust into a world he knew nothing about.  Not a creative or well-educated man to begin with, he regressed stubbornly, closed his mind little by little after the initial amour, and eventually came to hate magic, blaming it as the source of his affliction.

By the age of three, Freya was a sullen child, given to creeping off alone—her mother ignored this development, only relieved that she was such an easy and undemanding child.  It didn’t occur to her that her husband’s moods were having an ill-effect on her children.  She refused to think badly of him and was still as desperately in love with him as she had been when they’d met—and he exploited this devotion regularly, forcing her to take his side against the children, even when he was too stern and his expectations were unrealistic.  In Jan’s eyes, children should be seen and not heard.

Baby Freya quickly learned to be unseen and unheard.  Even when she was in the room, she didn’t exist.

At the age of four, disaster struck the family when Jan escaped his monthly confinement at Frolich’s, doing battle with another Werewolf similarly confined.  It wasn’t his fault: the intern on duty was new, untutored, and the senior Healer had failed to check her Wards to see that they conformed to the necessary guidelines.  Jan escaped, attacked another Werewolf, was fought off and gravely injured.  Though the staff was quick to restrain him, tending to his wounds, once the transformation wore off and he was returned to frail humanity, it was obvious that he’d lost too much blood: he died within the hour.

The hospital admitted negligence—what else could they do?—and paid reparation to both families.

Perhaps Patricia was privately relieved when her husband’s dour presence no longer hovered sullenly over her family.  If so, she showed none of it, grieving fiercely for his loss until finally her mother came for her, packed her and the children up and moved them back to Ireland.

Jan’s children were relieved and the lack of his influence on them was immediately apparent once taken in hand by their grandmother (though they’d been suitably subdued while cared for by their grieving mother).  Both children developed a spark of adventure in their eyes and a quickness of step previously lacking.  Frieder grew like a weed—even faster than his baby sister, and by age 11 was as tall as a grown man.  Girls pined for him.  He excelled in Muggle basketball.  Freya idolized him… but as older sibling, he’d learned more from their father than Freya.  He was cruel—shoved Freya away, teased her unmercifully and generally made her feel small and unwanted.

The excessive height common to their father’s family worded against Freya, even as it was an advantage for her brother.  She spent her first five years in Muggle schools, tortured daily by girls and boys alike.  “They’re jealous,” her grandmother reassured her sagely, when the girls taunted her and made her cry.  “You’re beautiful.”  “They have a crush on you,” she comforted Freya when the boys pulled her pigtails, pushed her down, or spit bubblegum in her hair.  “Little boys are always mean to girls they like.”

She wanted to believe her grandmother, but… it was small consolation, to imagine these motivation were behind such unkind behavior: it still hurt.  She still cried herself to sleep, many nights, wishing for just one friend…

Then she received her Hogwarts letter.  Though she knew her mother and grandmother were Witches, its arrival was completely unexpected: her brother was a Squib.  She’d grown up with no expectations, convinced that their father’s genes meant that neither she nor her brother possessed magic.  Perhaps so she wouldn’t be disappointed, her mother didn’t disabuse her of the notion.  Her grandmother smiled knowingly: she’d had higher expectations of her granddaughter.

It was Freya’s dream—leave behind the bullies, the taunting laughter, the children who knew her too well to be interested in her as a person.  Move away to some exotic place where no one knows your name, remake yourself into whatever you wish…

The blob of Droobles in her hair on the Hogwarts Express ruined her hopes.  She wasn’t sure if it was the nasty, sniping little brunette girl or the popular-looking, athletic blond boy who’d done it.  She didn’t care.  Her expression of wonder and excitement shut down and she stared out the windows, unseeing, brooding, for the remainder of the trip.

It was some consolation to her, when the boy was sorted Hufflepuff (she’d heard Hufflepuffs were losers) and it came as no surprise after hearing the talk of Slytherin that the girl sorted to that house.  What surprised her was her own sorting: Gryffindor.  She didn’t consider herself particularly brave.  She had no loyalties (she had no friends).  She felt like a misfit from the beginning.  But the Sorting Hat knew… Once won, her loyalty would be unwavering, her love true and without reservation.  When fighting for a cause, her bravery was unparalleled: she despised bullies and would champion an “underdog” whether she knew them or not.

She did fairly well at Hogwarts: she was bright and learned quickly, though she spent very little time on her studies and most of her time on personal, solitary pursuits.  She typically pulled “E” on coursework.  Her best subject turned out to be Charms, though she had an affinity for growing things and did quite well in Herbology.  She was very careful not to excel in any subject, because she knew teachers tended to draw attention to the better students with praise.  She preferred to go unacknowledged, passing on that honor.

Privately, she was better at magic than she let on and that pleased her, but she still had no friends…

How Do You Fit Into Your House?:  Pretty much a misfit, even for a Gryffindor.  Freya exists on the fringes, not quite having the nerve to assert herself in any way, not quite wanting badly enough to join any group or clique.  When littler kids are tortured or teased by upperclassmen, she will step in.  This surprised everyone, the first time she did it, but they grew used to it.  Most of them avoid taunting Firsties in front of her, now.  Especially since she’s known to assist in revenge.

She can be counted on to mastermind revenge-pranks.  Some of the Firsties look up to her for this.  Even some of the upper-classmen—if they conquer their aversion to her manners—come to her from time to time to review plots, because she can quickly see where those that will fail are inadequate, and advise a better course of action.  Sometimes, she will go so far as to suggest a prank, though rarely with her older peers.

If she fits in anywhere, it will be with the Freaks.  She might find SAWS interesting enough to conquer her aversion to making friends.



Writing Sample:

Freya kicked at a clod of dirt, inwardly seething.  Natalia Jones had called her “The Broom” again and honestly, she’d rather kick Natalia’s pouty little face than the clod.  She restrained herself.  She always restrained herself.

The sun was high and warm, for March.  She knew she should be preparing for exams, but instead she was searching for a quiet nook.  She found herself near the Hospital Hut, bordering on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.  She knew it was forbidden… that’s why she was here, of course: less likely to be disturbed.

She wasn’t daft—she didn’t intend to explore the forest alone.  Or at least, not today.  But she knew an overgrowth of thicket—not really in the forest proper—and unerringly homed in on it.  She’d been here many times before.  With a flick of her wand, red-brown brier snaked apart to allow entrance.  It required scrambling on hands and knees, but Freya wasn’t afraid of a little dirt: she scrambled.

When she closed the screening brier again, she leaned back against the wooden plank she’d carted in last term.  Her cloak provided enough protection against its splintery roughness and the springy brier barely moved under the sparing weight.  With a gust, she released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“All right, Freya?” a high voice piped from outside, causing her to jump. 

Awwwwww… now I’m gonna have to find a new place.  “Go away, Verbena!” she growled.

”Not until you tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.  Go.  AWAY!”  Nasty little snot-nosed Firstie, always in her business, looking for gossip to bring back to her little freaks and giggle at Freya behind her back.

Silence.

Freya waited, holding her breath again, ears straining to catch the footfalls as her Housemate ran away.  The seconds ticked by…

“Natalia’s a tart, Freya.  You know that.”

Freya froze, her only movement to grind her teeth.  Go away.  She willed the girl to go, to leave her alone, she didn’t want sympathy.  She didn’t need sympathy.  She needed revenge.  Calling her a broom was the last straw: she’d put up with Natalia’s snide remarks all term, just because Jacob had talked to her in the corridor.  It wasn’t as if he was asking her for a date—he only wanted to know if he could borrow her Potions notes, and Freya wasn’t an avid note-taker.  She’d been embarrassed to let him see the scrawls and doodles patched in between a word here and there and a page number to look up later.

Freya remained motionless, refusing to answer.  Eventually, Verbena sighed a went away.

Freya closed her eyes and hugged her knees, drawing them in tight to her chest.  She rested her cheek on her knee, shaking, until she realized the knee was wet.  I’m crying because I’m mad, she thought, sniffing loudly and rubbing the tears roughly from her eyes.  Verbena’s a sneak and a gossip and now I have to find a new nest… She’ll tell everyone where she found me.  How long was she following me?  Suspicion and paranoia made her anger flare hotter.  Sneak.

She struck the hard-packed ground with a fist, furious that she continued to cry.  It hurt… So she did it again…





Sum up your character in one paragraph: Sullen, quiet, angry, isolated and very, very lonely.  She wants love, but can't accept it.  She’s angry at the world for not noticing that she’s worthwhile and human, all the while she pushes the world away or does her best not to be seen at all.  She’s an oxymoron.