It’s too early for surrender, Too late for a prayer, We can’t go to Hell if we’re already there.
Twenty-Six || Half-Blood || Blackgate Academy Alumna || Sycamore, Eleven and Three Quarters Inches, Kelpie Heartstring, Springy || Auror
Born and raised in the Sixth Borough, April spent her childhood exploring city streets both magical and mundane, her younger twin close on her heels. The only daughters of Gideon Kaufman, a respected wandmaker, and Miriam Kaufman, a Mediwitch, April and May had a happy, albeit modest, childhood.
Of the two, April was the leader, through sheer force of personality. May was quiet, but clever, and her sweet nature and quick wit got the pair out of trouble as often as April’s impulses got them into it. Disagreeing on almost every interest, from Quodpot team to colour, they were nevertheless extremely close.
Placed into different units at Blackgate, April and May grew in their own directions. Where May was clever and charming, April’s shit eating grin and penchant for black eyes did little to win her professor’s affections. Despite her behavioral issues, April earned top marks in dueling and transfiguration.
After a brief stint attempting to apprentice under her father (and his extremely polite request that she find something else to do), April was tapped as a Patrol Officer for AB-DENS. She spent five years as a beat cop; checking on parolees, enforcing ordinances, and doing a lot of bitchwork. The bitchwork, and her familiarity with the Sixth Borough and its residents, eventually got her picked up as an Auror Select and pushed through training.
April got the sense that it was something of a joke; luckily, she was used to being underestimated. Despite being perpetually late, incapable of ass kissing, and something of a hot mess, she was good—especially at finding people trying not to be found. She earned the promotion (and the fancy leather jacket!) and a reputation for getting results—even if her methods are…unconventional.
The eldest product of Theodore Forsythe and his newest concupiscent conquest's latest affair, most would agree Priscilla was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Born in one of the frosty north's most extravagant estates to a father as indifferent as he was affluent and a mother who had opted for a more “hands-off” approach to parenting (except for mooching off benefits, of course), Priscilla spent much of her early childhood learning the intricacies of internecine warfare. Passive-aggressive notes, “accidental” misplacement of vital funds, and deploying threats of dismemberment with cheerful grace were the norm. It gave Priscilla a perverse sort of appreciation for the fine art of war - or at least, revealed to her that it was fully possible to operate on a level of treachery yet unbreached by human influence.
Because Priscilla was the eldest, the vast majority of her childhood was regulated rather strictly. Her father needed to ensure he could pass down the family company - empire, more aptly - to a suitable heir or heiress, and as such, he couldn't risk his daughter growing up a flighty, irresponsible hellion. "You're a Forsythe," he used to say, "you're a cut above the rest, so you must exemplify that in all you do." Personal style, attitude, posture - even the people with whom she associated were delegated by her father. Because Mr. Forsythe's arrogance was staggering, this meant friends were a precious, rare commodity.
Her fondest memories of living at home consisted of her bedroom mirror. A tall, surprisingly plain ornament; the only piece of furniture she owned that wasn't garishly ostentatious. As a young child, when the crushing weight of solitude was too much to bear, she'd hunt around in her father's room, scavenge a tube of his latest fling's lipstick, and draw a sloppy, kind of lopsided caricature on the mirror's surface.
It was someone to talk to, at least.
She often used to wonder if there were monsters hiding in her closet, and if they were, maybe they were lonely. Maybe they wanted a friend, but were too scared to talk, so they remained hidden, just out of reach.
She wasn't entirely certain what prompted her to forsake her father's wishes and become an Auror--perhaps some latent consideration for the welfare of others she's yet to comprehend? Eager to placate his favorite--and, statistically speaking, only--bargaining chip, he did what every entrepreneur/aspiring politician is wont to do: he pulled the right strings, bribed the right commissioners, and spouted a multitude of empty platitudes he had no intentions of keeping. As such, Priscilla's one of the youngest recruits joining the force, and it's clear she's entirely out of her element.
(Theodore figures it's only a matter of time before she realizes the error of her ways and come crawling shamefully back; he's more than willing to indulge her latest "silly, frivolous whim". He believes he knows best--if there's one thing he does well, it's managing his property.)
Meticulous | “If you can’t do it right the first time, don’t bother doing it at all.”
Possibly stemming from some latent control issues she’s never really had to address, Priscilla rarely ever tackles a situation without a thorough, comprehensive plan in mind. Even her contingency plans have contingency plans tailored for them, and in the rare, once-in-a-blue-moon event she can put a plan to action due to your mistakes, you’d better believe she’ll rain a number of unpleasant hells down upon you later.
Irascible | “Wha - how dare you! I’ll have you know I’m no such thing, you moron!”
Were one looking for a truly apt way to describe Priscilla Forsythe, especially to the sweet, naive little lamb who hasn’t yet faced her wrath, one might liken her to a broken faucet. On one hand, her scathing wit and truly incendiary temper will, if triggered too long and by the wrong person, roast you to ashes. On the other, she’ll probably still destroy you. It takes very little to set her off, and, unfortunately, she’s a grudge-bearer. A minor misdemeanor may as well be a felony, in her book, because she’ll punish you all the same. She’s brutally unforgiving.
Stubborn | "Concession is for the weak."
The art of persuasion is a delicate one, but unfortunately, Priscilla's been fencing since long before she ever picked up a sword. Once she’s set her mind to something, she’ll rarely sway her opinion or concede the point. Be it a duel, a debate, or a deathmatch, once she’s committed, she won’t ever relent. She’s absolutely determined to establish herself as strong and unyielding, and this dogged desperation may very well get her killed.
Prideful & Ambitious | "Me, wrong? How cute."
She’s got an ego taller than she is, and her arrogance may very well surpass the heavens. Her fatal flaw is hubris, and anything she considers even a faint slight on her integrity will be met with cruelty and contempt. She'll turn vying for the top into a blood sport.
Blunt | "You're not dumb, you just...haven't realized tact is shown, not told."
She’s not one for sugarcoating matters, albeit not out of malicious intent - she’s honestly oblivious to her own bluntness. Having Priscilla around is like having a hammer you can throw with impunity at delicate situations.
Lonely |“You’re not here to make friends. You’re a Forsythe, aren’t you? So start acting like it.”
A solitary childhood left Priscilla unsure as to the nuances of proper socialization. “Rich people friends” aren’t the same as true friends - you meet your affluent allies at company-sponsored galas, bond over parental expectations, facilitate each other’s substance abuses, and do as much as you can to show off how filthily wealthy you are. Under no circumstances do you willingly spend time together sober. The Forsythe heiress’s position isn’t as desirable as one might think. Her world is staggeringly luxurious, thoughtlessly wasteful, and soul-crushingly lonely. It’s a good thing Priscilla’s vice is adrenaline.
Protective | "You're the one person in this entire world that matters, okay? Don't you dare forget that!"
In tandem with the above, in the rare event Priscilla does forge a meaningful bond with someone, she'll fight like a demon to ensure they're constantly happy, safe, and want for nothing. Perhaps she's a little bit excessive, yes, but she either loves in excess or not at all. Again with the comparison to the broken faucet. Perhaps it's her selfish, greedy nature that causes this urge to defend - perhaps she thinks if she can be the perfect companion, her friends/romantic partners won't want to leave her for anyone else. Perhaps it's just sad, pitiful desperation - she's so desperate for positive attention, so starved for affection, that she'll give as much as she can possibly afford to keep that love coming.
Clever, Intelligent, & Diligent | "There's not a force in this universe that I can't outsmart."
She’s clever, considering her upbringing, and can read people with relative ease. Her overactive imagination contributes to her ability to almost “predict” certain outcomes - the only successful result of her father’s conditioning, or yet another coping mechanism?
Because of her status as the technical sole heiress to the Forsythe name, and because her father has drilled into her the importance of ambition, she’s naturally driven, and entirely willing to work for what she wants - if the situation calls for it. If hard labor will produce the intended outcome faster than a monetary bribe, then that’s the course of action she’ll choose, and vice versa.
Because she’s capable of distancing herself from her problems, treating them as purely intellectual exercises, she works extraordinarily well under pressure. She can disable the parts of her brain (typically those governing emotional attachment) that aren’t helping and dissect the problem logically without fear of hindrances such as the heart’s judgment slowing her down.
It’s not a coping mechanism one should envy, no matter how useful it might be.
Her cold, distant, mannerisms and concerted efforts toward maintaining the illusion of detachment can freeze you where you stand. (Toward those with whom she’s managed to establish a vague approximation of a friendship, she can and usually will dial it down, turning from scathing to fondly exasperated.) She rejects others to spare herself the pain of rejection.
However, despite her eagerness to resort to status and funds to get what she wants, Priscilla is surprisingly reticent in terms of talking about about her family, because daddy issues, daddy issues, daddy issues. If it’s not something you could glean from her family’s company website (her father does love those eccentric Muggles and their inventions), it’s not something she’s willing to disclose. Attempts to push the matter will usually garner a frosty glare and the silent treatment.
She’s cursed with ‘resting bitch face’ syndrome, meaning her default expression is a somewhat disdainful scowl.
Conceited & Spoiled| "Princess? No, no, you're sorely mistaken. It's Your Majesty, actually."
She’s used to a certain degree of comfort and refinery as far as amenities and lifestyle goes; dragging her along camping and presenting her with a few hastily-butchered trees to serve as makeshift chairs would earn a priceless look of disgust. She also has absolutely no idea how people without limitless funding live - trying to explain to her concepts such as “frugality” and “not dropping thousands of galleons on jackets alone in one sitting” and “Priscilla, no, we know you have more money than god and could buy out this entire store, please stop brandishing your credit card like a club, sweet merciful lord” is, unfortunately, futile. She’s also never had actual fast food - most of the chefs at home can replicate a healthier alternative with relative ease.
Vain enough to maintain her appearance almost meticulously. She’s downright pedantic about her eye makeup, and suggesting she go a day without brushing or styling her hair is akin to slapping her across the face.
Trenchant, Dramatic, & Snarky | “Blushing? I’m not blushing! You’re looking at the results of a traumatic injury, because these idiots’ve finally broken my brain!”
On rare occasions, she can be incisively funny, especially when she’s trying to call someone out on their bullshit or launch into a hilariously pissy rant. Tragedy is Priscilla happening to you, comedy is Priscilla happening to someone else. She’s also willing to argue with absolutely anyone about absolutely anything. She has a certain flair for the dramatic, meaning her comments are always entertaining.
Insecure & Easily Flustered | "I - I do not care! I, I don't know what you're talking about!"
Further imbalancing the unstable collection of minefields that can generously be called a personality, most of Priscilla's frustrations and irate outbursts result from internalization of her own shortcomings. The only reason she’s so skilled at pointing out others’ flaws is because she’s had loads of practice picking out her own. However, she refuses to let these flaws govern her entirely, and she’s entirely willing to work hard to overcome them.
While more than happy to congratulate herself - some of her exploits during her freshman year in high school earned her the nickname, “God Complex” - Priscilla has no idea what to make of an honest compliment. She tends to flounder and stutter and lapse into disjointed, flustered mumbling. It’s precious, and should be reserved for dire situations only. Along that vein, she’s extremely susceptible to cajolery and her friends’ wheedling; she has a hard time resisting pouting and pleading.
Because she’s obscenely pale, the poor girl blushes extremely noticeably. Be it the gradually darkening red flush of anger to the light pink sheen of embarrassment, her cheeks are typically as colorful as her insults.
