[hider=Rosalia Brancaccio][color=#2e2c2c].
.[/color]
[indent][indent][table][row][sup][h1][color=181818][b]▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅[/b][right][b]▅▅▅▅▅[/b][/right][/color][right][color=#A8516E]Rosalia Brancaccio[/color][color=181818]...[/color][/right][/h1][/sup][/row][row]
[cell][color=2e2c2c]....................................................[/color][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/82/ab/32/82ab329f61ac9285c66d1b1ec1f35429.jpg[/img]
[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[sub][color=#A8516E][b]D A U G H T E R[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=#A8516E][b]O F[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=#A8516E][b]Z E U S[/b][/color]
[color=807B84][sup]________________________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=#A8516E]22 	[color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] 	female 	[color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] 	bisexual[/color]
[color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________[/sup][/color]
[color=#A8516E][b]▹ hair color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  brunette[/color]
[color=#A8516E][b]▹ eye color  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  dark brown[/color]
[color=#A8516E][b]▹ height  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  5' 10"[/color]
[color=#A8516E][b]▹ build  [/b][/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=9b9b9b]  curvy, deceptively strong[/color]
[/sub][/center]
[/cell][cell][justify][sup][color=2e2c2c].[/color]
[color=#A8516E][b]A B I L I T I E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Atmokinesis[/b][/color] - [i]It always used to rain on May 19th. The joke, so it went, was that God wanted to rain on Rosalia’s parade. But usually, the rain would hold out until her little birthday parties had concluded. Most of her hopes around weather ultimately came true, as did her worries. Turns out, the weather really was responding to her all these years—her superstitions, her wishes, really did have an impact. Knowing what she knows now, Rosalia has made a commitment to picking and choosing the weather. It still takes a lot of mental effort, a lot of hoping, but it gets a bit easier to put her two cents in every day. Of course, what Rosalia would most love is to figure out localized, on-demand precipitation, and figure out how to pick specific targets for the rain, sleet, and hail.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Electrokinesis[/b][/color] - [i]To her disappointment, Rosalia’s current options for smiting are either to convince a thunderstorm to come around and give it a general area to unleash more lightning than usual, or electrify an aluminum tennis racket enough to use it as a bug zapper. At some point, she’ll manage to smite mosquitos without help and then work her way up to bigger things, but a burning mosquito is already better than a biting mosquito. And as it turns out, when she tries to electrify something, if her arm hair’s standing on end, she can give anyone touching her a nice shock too. Those fucking bugs will get what’s coming to them.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Peak Human Condition[/b][/color] - [i]Of all her abilities, Rosalia is most familiar with this. Since the day she was born, her good and bad days have been matters of circumstance and mood—never of condition. In a physical competition with a normal human, the only determining factor is whether or not Rosalia feels like crushing them. Her sight is 20/10, her hearing is perfect, and her balance is immaculate, and they have been for as long as she can remember. If she ever had the notion to push herself, to really work up a sweat—if she grew up in a world where self-control was not an intense expectation, her status as something more than human would have surely been undeniable. Of course, the occasional lapse, the occasional instance where she has not thought to pull her punches, has raised the question before. But who could have even fathomed that she held no mere human might within her? All of these years, and Rosalia could have swept every Olympic sport where there wasn’t another Olympian. Well, now she’ll at least enjoy her unshakeable health![/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Flight[/b][/color] - [i]Flight is probably the ability Rosalia is most unfamiliar with. Though she has pushed herself to practice levitating at will, benefiting greatly from her incredible physiology as she does so, much to her frustration, she remains deeply uncomfortable with the sensation of leaving the ground. She will generally only practice in private, and usually over a mattress or something else soft. Rosalia has not yet attempted to do more than floating in place.[/i]

[color=#A8516E][b]S T R E N G T H S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Chef[/b][/color] - [i]Having grown up in a restaurant, Rosalia is intimately familiar with the kitchen, understanding it for what it is: a job that must be done efficiently and effectively. Although she isn’t particularly adventurous, when she knows what she wants to do and has thought through how to do it, she will readily cook a spectacular meal, or, more to her preference, a feast. It may not seem it during the process, but Rosalia truly does enjoy cooking under the right circumstances, and takes pride in seeing others enjoy the fruits of her labour.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Disciplined[/b][/color] - [i]One of the greatest benefits of her strong-will and of the path she’s walked is that Rosalia is very familiar with biting down and doing things she really doesn’t want to do. If Rosalia is convinced something must be done, she will be sure to put in every effort to see it through, no matter how unpleasant she may find it. She is quick to rally, quick to rise to the occasion, and slow to break. She is no optimist, to be sure, nor does she imagine herself a passionate speaker, but she will readily lead by example with all the commitment of someone who would be marching on with or without everyone else. Outside of difficult circumstances, while she does loosen up to an extent, at the end of the day, Rosalia is goal-oriented and keen on seeing all go smoothly—those who impede this end being those who most readily attract her ire. Make no mistake, she can summon an opinion—often a rather mean one—quite easily. But despite this cantankerous inclination, the most important person for her to put in line, as far as Rosalia is concerned, is herself.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Thoughtful[/b][/color] - [i]Kindness is a choice. Rosalia knows this well. Every single day, she works hard to keep in mind that everyone, “God bless ‘em,” even the jackasses, are people too. As Rosalia understands it, she was born mean, and is waking up and choosing to do the “right fuckin’ thing.” It’d be so easy to just slap ‘im. It’d be so easy to dump ice water on her head. And they both need to be told to pick a struggle and either be ugly on the inside or the outside. But, damnit, it just isn’t right. It just isn’t right. Even as she remains often all too quick to let out a little snap, to want so badly to just quietly trip the latest dipshit strutting around like they even have the right to breathe, to let out every little flash of frustration that the world inspires, Rosalia faces this world she finds so deeply frustrating and works hard to present each effortlessly nasty impulse with an equal kindness. After all, there are probably other people out there who feel the same way as her, who find the world so easy to despise. And even for those who find it easy to wear kinder eyes for everything, doesn’t a little kindness, a little thoughtful gesture, even if it may be delivered with stony-faced, seemingly dispassionate presentation, make the world seem a bit more worth working for? It doesn’t feel good to be kind. It doesn’t come easily. But it’s the “right fuckin’ thing to do.”[/i]

[color=#A8516E][b]W E A K N E S S E S[/b][/color]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Perfectionist[/b][/color] - [i]Rosalia loathes failure, and is often quite hard on herself even when it comes to relatively minor underperformance. Her relationship with practice is adversarial. If she is not immediately good at something, she will either give up in frustration or double-down, practicing not as a way to improve, but as a stubborn dance of repeating the action far past purposeful attempts, often utterly refusing to step back and reevaluate until absolutely forced. When self-directed, her expectations are less so expectations and more so non-negotiable demands, assuaged only by success or a sufficiently bitter sting of failure. In spite of others, her harshest critic is most often herself. And while she acknowledges that others may allow themselves to fail, she ultimately has little respect for the fact that others may not have the same voice screaming in their heads to “Just figure it out!”, instead looking down on those deadbeats who refuse to force their potential.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Thunder and Lightning[/b][/color] - [i]Certainly, Rosalia holds true to the Olympian tradition of swift judgement and intense wrath. Where she differs, however, is that she is by no means fickle when it comes to choosing her lightning-rods. Like a storm, her rage has warning signs, no doubt, but is ultimately a maelstrom of factors that only she knows to account for. Little nudges—little judgements and perceived slights—accumulate, and she shows her clouds darken through little snaps and slights of her own, until the winds pick up. And as the winds of wrath pick up, for those who do not heed the rumbling of thunder in the distance—her attempts at making her opinions clear and firm—eventually she will lash out with little regard for her surroundings, striking the shortest path to the ground with blinding speed and intensity.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Unyielding[/b][/color] - [i]Though her stability is in some areas a virtue, it more often happens that Rosalia’s consistency is a vice. Rosalia is stubborn in every conceivable way. Never mind forgetting, she rarely makes it to forgiving, able to revive an old grudge with the same vivid malice as the day it took shape. She will gladly die on any number of hills, sometimes practically for sport. If she has decided she will not be convinced, she will gladly transform any debate from a battle of wits to a war of emotional attrition—a tradition of verbal combat she has long mastered. She knows what she likes, knows what she hates, and hates most of all when she doesn’t know how she feels about something. Others may dislike being caught off guard, but few can compare to Rosalia in their revulsion towards the unexpected. Rosalia would scarcely enjoy even a surprise party, so averse is she to the unexpected. For better and for worse, she is a rock.[/i]
[color=9b9b9b][b]Vices[/b][/color] - [i]Rosalia has long understood that a great many vices call strongly to her, in spite of her formidable will. In the past, she was careful, fearful as she was of the spectres of addiction and ill health. But she has grown cavalier in this respect, for now that she knows Zeus’ blood guards her welfare, ensuring even a diet of coke and cigarettes smoked in buildings lined with asbestos would offer her a long, healthy life, there is no incentive left but financial. And at this camp, why not embrace every chemical aid available? Drinks before bed and cigarettes all day seem all the more appealing when the consequences seem impossibly far away.[/i]

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[color=#A8516E][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/color]
[b]Industrious [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] Loyal [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] Judgemental [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] Passionate [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=807B84][b]|[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] Stalwart[/b]

[color=#A8516E][b]H I S T O R Y[/b][/color]
Rosalia Brancaccio has never known her father. Her mother has remained conspicuously intransigent on the question for many years, until now. Her mother had always wanted to be a mother. She had always wanted a daughter. Just not like this. For many years, she was the only child and only grandchild. But where others would have flourished in this role, Rosalia struggled. For so it is, that this cause for joy was stained by the circumstances surrounding her birth. Her mother, her aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and great grandparents know what she is: A bastard. An accident. A sign of lost potential to be salvaged. Even as her mother and grandmother have so long denied it, even as her grandfather remains conspicuously silent on the matter, it has, in retrospect, always been clear that this fact so entirely beyond her control would forever haunt her familial relationships. 

Rosalia Giovanna Brancaccio was born twenty-two years ago this May to Teresa Brancaccio. All those years ago, countless relatives crowded outside the delivery room at East Jefferson General Hospital and shook their heads even as they cooed over the baby. Even as she received her grandfather’s name for her middle name, the struggle had already begun. The struggle to be loved, to be accepted, and to be cherished as a valued member of the family. From a young age, Rosalia came to understand the salience of approval—both how fickle it was, and how desperately she craved it. And how she worked for it, in school, in her grandfather’s restaurant, and every single day. Every speck of it was a sweet ambrosia, a sign that she was not wholly unwanted, that she could yet convince her mother to love her unconditionally, that she could yet convince her family that she was worth truly loving. 

Until, that is, her mother finally married. At first, she had been excited. Her entire life, her mother had spoken wistfully of giving her daughter a “real father.” And at the delicate age of ten, Rosalia thought everything would be different. That this man her mother had found, who had treated her warmly as he and her mother dated, would be everything her mother promised. And he had children! At long last, she would have siblings, just as her mother and grandparents all have. Perhaps her mother could fix things, and she could be a part of that better world.

Alas, the truth was a bitter pill. It was not long after Mr. George moved in that he asserted his position with indifferent force. Her mother had married, in truth, a bullish man who had little patience for a child that was not his own. Not that he seemed to have a great deal of patience for his own children either. Whatever facets of Rosalia weren’t perfectly like her mother was a flaw—something that needed to be replaced. And she was always, always doing something wrong. For several years on, she redoubled her efforts, eagerly taking in the pressure to do more—to be just a little bit more—and yet it was never enough, it seemed. 
Another moment of hope appeared when her mother announced her new pregnancy. For a moment, as her mother’s new child took the spotlight, Rosalia experienced the kindness of being treated as an excited young girl eager to become an older sister. But when that child was born a baby girl, Rosalia received a new kick in the gut. Her younger sister, whom she had been so excited to see, was something of a do-over for her mother. And it wasn’t terribly subtle. Still, Rosalia cradled her baby sister—little Leah—with all of the love in the world. A good thing, too, for it was not long before Rosalia found herself her mother’s primary source of childcare, with the only thanks being an occasional Starbucks coffee. To her great pride, it was Rosalia who caught her younger sister’s first steps on camera. 

It occurred to Rosalia, even then, that she might ask to take the Wilson surname as her mother had, if only to feel like more of a part of the family. But as little Leah took her first steps, and as their mother prepared to bring another child into the world, the bitter truth of her situation finally began to sink in for Rosalia. She was, come what may, a vestigial appendage to a family that kept her on principle. And it only fit, then, that she kept her name as it was. At the same time, Rosalia had begged and begged her mother, stepfather, and grandfather to find some way to send her to Mount Carmel Academy, just as her own mother had gone. And who else but her great grandmother on high produced the tuition. While her grandfather, in the same breath as he congratulated her, insisted that it was a loan, not a gift. 

It should have stung more than it did. So many things should have stung more than they did. But instead, Rosalia found herself asking to work at the family restaurant to help pay them back. She attended school during the day, worked in the afternoon, and rocked her newborn baby brother to sleep while she studied. Rosalia knew she should have felt tired. She knew she should have wanted to give up. But instead of despair, she began to feel a scarier set of sensations. Bitterness. Resentment. Fury. At the end of the day, how could she allow it all to hurt? Was she not just clawing her way into a life with only the benefits of grudgingly-fulfilled familial obligations to back her? And was she not capable?

At first, when Rosalia looked in the mirror, she scarcely understood what she saw. As her adolescence carried on, though, the girl she saw in the mirror changed. No longer was she a little girl, longing to be loved. Rather, what looked back at her was a teenager who demanded results. A flickering of an adult who craved nothing more than for it not to all be in vain. And Rosalia, for her part, had to agree with that girl looking back at her. At some point—Rosalia herself can scarcely recall when it became ritual—she just started whispering “Fuck ‘em” into the mirror.

At thirteen, Rosalia had wanted a spectacular sweet sixteen with every person she’d ever known attending. At fourteen, she wanted a big sweet sixteen like some of her friends had already begun planning. At fifteen, the little teenage dream withered until it was just a party, then a get-together, then little at all. As sixteen approached, her mother offered to plan a little birthday party with family and a few friends. And Rosalia? Rosalia reached into her heart, and asked her mom to give her a gallon of Angelo Brocato’s Fior di Latte and to ensure not a single person bothered her while she ate the entire thing for dinner in front of the television. She got the gelato, but not the privacy. Her stepfather wanted to be congratulated for getting it for her. Her mother wanted pictures. And everyone wanted a bite. 

Should’ve seen that coming.

To rub salt in the wound, a few months later, Rosalia overheard her mother, stepfather, and grandparents talking. They were planning to make college funds for her half-siblings. While Rosalia didn’t get to keep her tips from working at the family restaurant. If she hadn’t made up her mind before, she made it up then. What was she even fighting for, anyway? Why not put her effort into more productive avenues? Why bother with all of this?

It wasn’t really stealing if they were [i]her[/i] tips anyway. And since nobody seemed to care that much, didn’t she owe it to herself to give herself what she deserved, since nobody else was going to? Rosalia decided, at that point, to make sure she was taken care of too, no matter what it demanded. She tallied up her tips on a bad day, then made every effort to make every day as good for tips as possible, and started diligently skimming off the new top. It wasn’t like pining for client approval was much more humiliating, but it [i]did[/i] actually pay, which was more than she could say before. Thus began the new normal. Again, a glimmer of hope came around, suggesting that she could yet figure things out.

But even she had a sense now that getting things on any viable track was always going to be an uphill battle. Between working harder still, school, and being supplemental childcare for her mother’s now three children, it felt like she’d closed her eyes. And whenever she opened them, she had a few less friends, a few less genuine connections, all for whatever cash tips she could skim off of the cash tips.

…

It was not the approach of college—a journey that she still could scarcely afford—that awoke her from this haze. No, it was a messenger from the divine. The first time, a messenger of Zeus beckoned her to come with him, to come to the Camp. She denied him that day, and though she was shaken, denied her very nature with it. Acting as if nothing had happened, she put her head back underwater and resolved to continue saving, attending the local university for its scant tuition rather than any of the loftier places to which she’d applied.

Even so, the truth was sinking in. She began to push herself physically, in certain ways. By the end of the year, she was jogging across the entire city at the crack of dawn to get to and from class every day. It was increasingly seeming as if the only real barrier to her was herself. Maybe it was. But whatever the case may have been, Rosalia kept on for that year. Then, again, a messenger came, inviting her to come. And again, she denied him, though her denial of her nature did not come as readily. It felt less disputable that she was not only human, but something else. And yet she could not bring herself to confront what it all might have meant. So again, she denied the call, and carried on, shaken, but resolute.

It was the third year, then—last year—that she denied the call for the third and final time. Perhaps she was a child of Zeus. Perhaps she had a duty, an obligation, to come to Camp Athens and take up that unfortunate fight laid at the feet of the demigods. And yet, did she not also have an obligation to see her [i]own[/i] will through? To complete that which she had striven for over the last several years? So again, Rosalia told the messenger no. But this time, she did not rebuke him. She only said “Not yet.”

This year, she has graduated. This year, she has, however grudgingly, accepted the truth of her parentage, and, having heard from the messenger that the ranks of the demigods at Camp Athens have thinned, has heeded the call. After all, has she ever before refused to grapple with her lot in life? And for this obligation, does it not have greater things at stake than others which she has so readily laboured under? No, this year, she has reached a stopping point with her [i]sacer[/i] affairs; now is the time to heed the affairs marked [i]religiōsus[/i], and see to her paternal [i]religiōnēs[/i].

[center][color=807B84][sup]__________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[center][color=#A8516E][b]hexcode[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]#A8516E[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=#A8516E][b]faceclaim[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]SinisterDarling[/color] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=#A8516E][b]creator[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=807B84]|[/color] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [color=9b9b9b]Enmuni[/color][/center][/sup][/justify][/cell]
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[hider=Rosalia’s Cabin][center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/0e/28/14/0e2814ccf29af676a9f28c841e52dc86.jpg[/img][img]https://cdn.apartmenttherapy.info/image/upload/f_auto,q_auto:eco,c_fill,g_center,w_730,h_730/project%20prism%2Fcolor%20search%20archive%2F24d54da9ceae15ed527a66aa63bbe5de41db9c05[/img][/center][/hider]