icecoldfrost: (everybody wants to rule the world)
Emma was packing.

Well, no, that was a lie. Emma had attempted to pack. Emma had her suitcases open on the bed in her room and stuff flung everywhere. There was a trail of things she'd dropped all over the hallway, from where she'd rescued them from Jack's room or the room they shared, or the kitchen, or-- but she just didn't understand how so many of her things from New York had ended up here, or how much she'd had here in the first place, or how she was supposed to get it all to fit back into two suitcases. No matter what she did, she couldn't make it fit, and it was driving her up the wall.

Which meant it was time for a break, before she started making lists and color-coding things, or ended up just donating everything but her favorites and going shopping to distract her from her own brain. Emma had grabbed her sword and headed out to the front yard, taking up a stance amongst the other residents of their address. Footwork drills without knocking anyone over, and then attacks to see how many she could 'kill' before they reappeared the next day.

It was rather soothing, actually, the way the damn things kept coming back. No matter how the residents of 33 Apocalpyse Avenue changed, the zombie gnomes stayed the same.

[OOC: Open house, open post!]
icecoldfrost: (high society girl)
Emma had been going non-stop for the past two days, and had already dragged herself out of bed and started making pancakes before noon. On a Saturday.

Why? Because it was NYFW. And she and Candy had tickets and wonderful seats and there were parties and Alon Livné was at 1:30 today and he had made her swear up and down that she wouldn't miss it. God, she loved New York. They had been out far too late last night - or this morning, depending if you'd bothered to check a clock - and now they were going to be out ridiculously late again. It was a great week to be young, female, and pretty in New York.

"Get up, you lazy buttface," she hollered, tossing a plastic cup across the room to where Candy was passed out on the bed. "I cooked, it's not on fire, and we need to get ready."

Emma Grace Frost, ladies and gentlemen. The epitome of refinement and beauty. Or something.

[OOC: NFB, open to calls or texts. It is kinda mandatory that I post Emma (and Jessica Stam) during Fashion Week.]
icecoldfrost: (coffee addict)
"Miss Frost! Mr. Shaw needs those projections before lunch, and then he wants you to be on the trading floor the rest of the time today," Johann - another intern but from NYU - blurted out as he skidded into the office all the Shaw Industries interns shared. "He says you're his lucky penny, and he wants to see another fifty grand before close."

Emma wasn't headblind or stupid )

[OOC: Open for calls or texts!]
icecoldfrost: (I can kill you with my mind)
Classes were done for the day, and while normally Emma would be doing some stupid group team-building project with the other students in her human development class, she was skipping whatever stupid feel-good heart-to-heart nonsense the teacher had come up with this week. With an excuse! ...kinda! Candy was coming over once she was finished with work tonight so they could practice for summer internship interviews. Which meant Emma was putting away her groceries and prepping to make an utterly ridiculously large amount of tacos.

Look, she and Candy were growing girls. And they were not going to give in to the self-hate of the American media and body-image magazines. Because tacos. They were not just necessary to live, but to deal with the stupidity of the human race and their male counterparts who were jostling for the same jobs and complaining about how it was 'unfair' that the girls had the 'advantage' of being female.

No, Emma hadn't been experimenting to see if she'd suddenly developed psychokinesis last week in class, why did you ask? Really. Setting someone on fire with her brain, while potentially therapeutic, wasn't actually helpful.

Yet.

[OOC: Open for calls, texts, you know the drill.]
icecoldfrost: (long hard night)
Emma Frost was bored, desperately needed a study break, and had beat all the levels of Angry Birds on her phone.

No, let's back that up and tell the truth: Emma Frost was lonely, drunk - she'd stolen a bottle of 151 from the store since she couldn't afford to buy it - and bored. She'd finished her homework for the week, and her readings, and there weren't any grad students doing experiments going on at the psych labs to watch.

...what? You had your entertainments, and Emma had hers. And she didn't have a television.

Which was why she was currently drunk-calling/texting people while cutting out the articles from the various society pages about the Thankful Virtues event. Especially the ones that mentioned her.

[OOC: Open post! If you think she called or texted you, she did.]
icecoldfrost: (devil in a red dress)
The sun had barely begun to set when the house on Apocalypse Avenue lit-up like a small supernova. Each of the zombie lawn gnomes each had their own little candle in a cup, and the walk up to the house was strewn with fairy lights between the trees.

In the backyard, you would find wine, mead, fresh fruit, sparklers, and pretty much anything else required for your midsummer solstice party. There was more food in the kitchen, of course, and rather than the traditional bonfire, the residents had rigged their own burning sun in the center of the backyard.

Merry meet and welcome on the longest day!

[Open! If you think you got an invitation, you did! Townies, students, alumni, teachers...all welcome. Up ridiculously early for maximum SP.]

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Emma Grace Frost

September 2016

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