Pandora walked into the room, surveying it like a queen.  Tall and willowy, 5'7" of pure energy, brilliant emerald eyes glittering with mischief, her tangled blonde hair dyed with steaks of red, and pinks and looking like someone had tossed a handful of glitter over her.  black leather mini, thigh high boots with a 3 inch heel, and a sliver sequioned shirt, two buttons barely holding it closed, revealing her belly button piercing.  Her tongue and nose were also pierced, and there were rows of studs, rings, and glittering stones lining her ears.<br/><br/>She was 21, and on top of the world, knowing that she was the hottest thing to ever play an A minor chord through a Marshall amp.  To say she had an ego might be an understatement.  Blunt to the point of rudeness at times and full of impatience, she could be a hard pill to swallow.  Still, she had talent, there was no denying that.  And usually, given the chance, she could be a loyal and caring friend... but the music came first.  Screw her boyfriend, she'd eventually forgive you, but fuck up the show?  Don't even think about it.<br/><br/>Her real name was Alexandria Noble, but she'd long ago shed it.  Now she was simply Pandora, a force to be reckoned with.  She wrote, of course.  Not words, just music.  She let her guitars do the talking for her.  A Cherry Red Strat or a Black and Silver Les Paul, run through an array of pedals and and into her Marshalls, usually at full volume.<br/><br/>Living the rock and roll life style, she was no stranger to booze, sex, and pills, but never during performance.  That was time to be pure, to revel in the power and beauty of sound.  Afterwards, perhaps, in an attempt to prolong the feeling of ecstacy, but never before.<br/><br/>She'd grown up in NYC, daughter of third generation greek immigrants, her father the owner of a deli.  That wasn't for her... ever since she'd picked up a guitar at the age of 5, she'd known what her destiny was to be... rock goddess.  Now, she was on the road to acheiving that dream...<br/><br/>