Post by Vanderbilt Marchier on Dec 11, 2009 20:00:59 GMT -5
`will you feel anything at all
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is VANDERBILT MARCHIER the first to die?[/b]
"Singing on the shore, sea-girls wreathed in red and brown..till human voices wake us and we drown.
I do not think they will sing to me."
` if i kiss you where it's sore[/b][/size][/center]
, age 15
, rp experience 2 years
, how you found us Advertisements. Were you expecting me to say ‘Roleplay for Idiots’?
, contacts email-usagi_onthe_moon@yahoo.com.[/size][/ul]
`in a town where the ties are only blood
[/b][/size][/center], nicknames Van, Vandal (like the people, not the delinquent, look them up on Wikipedia sometime)
, age 17
, date of birth January 31st, 1992
, category Wanderer
, canon –blinks blankly- “I’m not fodder, you know.”
, face claim Jessica Stam[/size][/ul]
`and he told me that i'd done all right
[/b][/size][/center], weight –Pretends not to hear- Slim, built like a ballerina, so no more than 135lbs
, tattoos&piercings None while she was alive but now’s there’s this barcode on her shoulder, #189275, which is, to her, an ugly number, thank you very much!
, distinguishing features Her silvery hair, translucent skin, and neon blue eyes always attract attention from her muddy-haired peers- not necessarily jealousy, but fear. A faint scent of sea salt and metal waft from her, giving off an impression of cold fire, 'one with whom no intimacy is possible'.
, physical flaws She has a faint crescent-shaped scar on her lower abdomen and two tiny diangonal incisions on her collarbone, all of which she has no idea how they got there.
, personal style Typical apparel contains but is not limited to: jeans, oversized sweaters, layered necklaces, lace pieces, long flowing summer dresses, ballet flats, skirts, and silver jewelry. Her taste is eclectic at best, and just plain thrift store at most accurate, when her parent would prefer she shop at Ralph Lauren or Abercrombie (yech!)
, general descriptionSo you’ve found me at last. Vanderbilt has quite the wraith-like appearance and this death-thing suits her. Her alabaster skin, which was always pale to begin with, has the blue tint of nobility that was in life was never given to her, but now in death, unwanted. She was always more ghostly, more delicate, more gossamer, than anyone else, with her fine textured and white-blond waves bobbed at her shoulders and electric blue eyes, whose brows, darker than her silvery hair, lend her a solemn air. Her father used to call her his little ‘harlequin’, something she resented, to her heart-shaped face, cheeks dusted like snow, and sharp chin. Lashes too sparse and pale for her liking, eyebrows too dark, cupids bow mouth too pouty!; the only thing she likes about herself are her eyes, and in a world where men would much rather make eye contact with your bust, they haven’t helped her much, especially not here- what was she going to do? Blink sweetly at Death and tell him ‘better luck next time’? That was exactly her train of thought in life. Next stop, death.
Lately, her appearance has been damper than usual. When she awoke in the beyond, she found herself sopping wet, hair lank and tangled with seaweed. It is the reason why she does not ‘sleep’ anymore, if the dead can sleep anymore than they already are; she always wakes up soggy and fresh-drowned. This terrifies her most of all; she knows she is dead but all this mysterious water…she has yet to come to terms with.
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`ate a slice of wonderbread and went right back to bed
[/b][/size][/center], dislikes People, instructions, losing or being lost, orange soda, forgetting things (happens more and more often these days), peas, and watching sports
strengths Logic, puzzles, archery, arguments, staring contests (she has a weird habit of non-blinking), bobbing for apples,
, weaknesses Tact, dealing with children, reading (a perplexing case of dyslexia), betting, cupcakes
, goals To get to the higher sphere, as she calls it. This transitional stage is purgatory to her, literally.
, fears Drowning.
, secrets Hates everyone openly (but secretly wants a friend!)
, personality Vanderbilt, undiluted, has two different, but progressively aggressive, speeds. She has brooding and she has angry. One leads to the other. If you’re lucky, she’ll be in both moods at the same time and you won’t have to wait for her to heat up before the action begins. Death is truly a rebirth in itself. In life she had been soft, not necessarily nice but too lazy for meanness. Too passive to bludgeon her way in the ranks of the IT girls. Too reserved to Too much an enabler to sidetrack her own death. Why do we always become born-agains when it’s too late? In her last instants of remaining life, Van swore of any type of drug, renounced booze, and promised to be one of those mothers that piss off other people at the playground with their over protective bitchery. She sent up deals, business proposals, threats, and finally, pleas to the God she hoped had ignored all the times she cursed Him and listened just this once. God must’ve put her on hold because she found herself very much dead and very much pissed about it. In fact, she’s endlessly ranting about all the things she deserves, though it has yet to cross her mind that maybe she deserved this too. Awareness is not the same as acceptance. She is merely frustrated by this whole being dead thing and tends to take it out on others in the form of arguments, threats, and downright violence, though there is not much her small frame can do.
However, if this constant wrath was her only character trait, she’d be in the below by now. In fact, she’s overdue for a visit. Perhaps it’s her more redeeming features that are keeping her from moving on. Despite a severe lack of patience, she does not hold grudges and feels no need for revenge because anyone here has probably been punished somehow in life. Van used to be quite passive aggressive, especially towards outwardly powerful people, like her father, always doing little snide, petty things like spitting in the bourbon her mother put away every day before noon. In some ways, this little macabre experience has matured her, opened her eyes to sympathy. She’s not one to say much, preferring to stay out of action and observe the movements of others before carefully planning her fit into the scheme of things. When she does judge someone of good character, she may not try to make friends right away but she’s warming up to the idea. Give her time.
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`you are my sweetest downfall
[/b][/size][/center], residence before death Atlantic City, New Jersey
, cause of death Freak rollercoaster accident (it crashed and tumbled into the waves)
, father Marc Marchier (nee Sardinsky)
, mother Jenny Marchier (nee Burton)
, sibling(s) None
, pet(s) the family pug, Hemingway
, other family Boyfriend- Titus; unborn son, Gavin
, history Hers is a history of alibis, disillusionment, substitute lovers, and great pretenders. Not so much the story her life as the story of how others impacted her life. And what an impact it was, from the factors that formed her life before it was even formed, to the impact that ended her life before it was even finished. She never did anything actively, merely sat passively and watched the world unfurl through her electric blue eyes. The sphere of influence that shaped her as a person began, as we all do, with a man and with a woman.
Before he was Marc Marchier the father, he was Marcus Sardinsky the man, and men are weak in the presence of women. Particularly those of the French breed. And of the escort occupation, which is to say, he fell in love with the prostitute ‘Madame Marchier’, (real name Jean DuPont & earned her moniker from the marchier chocolates suitors/clients often brought her), who had progressed from mademoiselle to madam long before Marc was even shaving. She was no girl in whore’s clothing or vice-versa. She liked her cushy job as a little bird of the night. When she rejected his marriage proposal, Marc, who fancied himself as a gentleman, took on the last name for sophistication points. Because, you know, nothing’s classier than being named after a pimply call girl.
The road to genteel hood was not paved with caviar and champagne. He got a job in a butcher shop and rapidly grew too old for his twenty years. It turned him into a sour, impatient man who would later harass his only daughter constantly about leaving hair on the sink or leaving the toothpaste cap off the tube. A lesson in discipline, he said. Too much discipline for his damn breeches led to an internship at an interment office (bad joke, yes I know), also known as a funeral parlor. All the death and corpses of his old job apparently did not satisfy this man’s affinity for cold flesh. When the original owner died of a heart attack (he was asked to embalm a former president), Marc took over, used sleazy scare tactics to get people to buy bogus funeral insurance and got the riches he always thought he deserved.
Then he set about procuring the necessary status symbols of the upper class that never wanted him: trophy wife Jenny, selected for her similarity to the name but not the woman Jean (a brunette, as French whores tend to be); and a little princess to fill the house with the sound of little pattering feet and the smell of baby shit. All was not right in their suburban fortress- daddy hating the family for holding him back at work, mommy hating daddy for not being her old sweetheart (some man she can’t remember the name of, just a bank account, but oh! How she loved him!), daughter hating everything, period. The Marchiers had a habit of naming things names they could not live up to. Hence, Vanderbilt. She spent her entire childhood: a) plotting escapes from Suburbia; b) trying to make eye contact with her mother, who held her neck high enough to require a neck brace; and c) being called ‘Six Feet Underbilt’.
The next years of her adolescence read like a bad play plot, either that or a good indie film:[/i]
Mother doesn’t love daughter (too busy hiding in the mirror), Daddy doesn’t love daughter (too busy hiding behind work), Daughter doesn’t love Daughter (too busy hiding behind herself). Daughter follows Mother’s footsteps and fills the void with prescription meds, sarcasm, and thrill seeking. Daughter steals Lexus and runs Far Far Away like a fairytale princess, to the magically filthy Atlantic City. Daughter strikes up red-light/green-light
And here the script hits fast-forward. Incomplete sentences for the incomplete judgment of a lost little girl.
Boy operates rollercoaster. Girl is giddy. Velocity. A weird tingly feeling in her tummy. Doesn’t know that Death Jr.’s gonna kick her in the gut in just a few blurred moments. Boy gets angry. Boy loses control. Rollercoaster gallops like am unbroken horse. Velocity. Everything blurred together like watercolor. Machine groans like it’s in the death throes. Maybe it is dying. Girl doesn’t know. Confusion. Tenure. Elapsed time. And then.... All she feels, for she cannot hear it but senses it in the marrow of her bones, is a sensation of shattering black and lack of awareness. Combustion. A whoosh of realization. A striking match. Fireworks flare behind her closed eyelids. Synapses firing. Fetal dreams. Moment of clarity. Everything is illuminated. Gavin. Understanding comes trickling in, then trickles out. Sensation like her legs are asleep but its all over her skin. Furthermore. The tingly fades. A dying match. The feeling ebbs. Til it’s feel no more. Gavin. His name is Gavin. Not was. For how can someone who never was, never had been, ever be?
NARRATOR: “Yes. Young Vanderbilt, the pearl of her parents, perished. And if that isn’t enough P’s for ya, the seed embedded in her womb shriveled up as well. The accident sent the rollercoaster, precariously perched (again with the P’s) on the pier, cart-wheeling into the sea. A mug shot of the boy, Titus A. Morgana, appeared in the newspaper later on, with clippings circulating that he had been charged with involuntary manslaughter, due to negligence and being under the influence, though the infuriated father snarled and tried to press 1st degree murder. Double homicide, for a life is a life, no matter how fetal. There was no greater tale of woe on the Jersey shore, than this of Vanderbilt and her unborn.”
The play’s script draws to closing, ‘Cept it’s someone’s real life. The stage fades to black. The last scene is over. A new act is about to begin. Come in and take a seat. Show’s gonna start.
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` i loved you first
[/b][/size][/center], member title welcome.to.the.show
, certificate of authenticity We're here to tell you, "There's such a thing as ghosts."
, rp sample .
Ahems and points.Checks outs the history, peoples! I outdid myself and it was entirely accidental. Stick that in your rp sample.[/size][/ul]
Just to let you know, Maura made this template, not you. If you just happen to steal it, and be warned, that she will come to your house and devour your intestines.
The lesson learned for today? Stealing or claiming this to be yours is a serious NO NO.
Thank you!
[/size] The lesson learned for today? Stealing or claiming this to be yours is a serious NO NO.
Thank you!
