(I'm submitting this one early, because it's a little more complex than 'punch you, you go down', and it might take some discussion)
Name: Thomas Frederick More, Viscount More
Age: 19
Height: 5'7
Weight: 140
Power: Tommy is a generic elemental blaster--the interesting bit is WHICH element it is is based on the seasons--which power he uses is effected by the equinoxes and solstices, with earth being a spring power, fire being a summer power, wind being an autumn power, and water being a winter power. So, taking fire as an example, the day after the vernal equinox, he'd have a very very light amount of fire--maybe able to create a candle sized flame on a finger. The level of power would grow and grow, until he's at maximum potential on the summer solstace, at which point they would start fading out again until the autumnal equinox, when they'd be gone entirely.
With earth powers, he'd be able to cause tremors and raise or lower sections of earth. Fire allows him to, well, shoot or snuff fire. Wind gives him flight and gusts of wind. Water controls and freezes/boils.
Heart is NOT a power.
Personality: Tommy's father is the Earl of Mornington. His grandmother was Princess Antonia of Douro. His great-grandfather was Prince Friedrich of Prussia. His great-great-grandfather was Wilhelm, the German crown prince. His great-great-great grand father was Emperor Wilhelm II. His great-great-great-great grandmother was Victoria, Princess Royal. His great-great-great-great-great grandmother was Queen Victoria. This places him 345th in line for the British throne.
Not that, you know, he'd ever mention that. I mean, maybe in passing. Maybe. You know how it is, it just sometimes comes up in conversation. I mean, he's better than you, but he won't hold that against you; he's better than everyone. It's just his lot in life. I mean, it is what it is, really, no biggy. You know, we've all got our places in life, and some of us are just higher than others--no sense crying over spilt milk. Really!
Tommy is cocky--I'm sorry, I mean Tommy is sure of himself, and, being from old money, is less concerned with, say a job, as he is with just learning various skills, which is how he's diverted himself through his childhood. He plays the violin. He's quite good at polo and cricket. He is absolutely hopeless in the kitchen or with the domestics. He considers himself, and is training to be, a sort of Renaissance man. He writes abysmal poetry. He sounds suspiciously like Hugh Grant.