While the room may have felt slightly suffocating, it wasn't due to the sheer number of people. No, it was from the mixture of mannerisms and personalities. The Lord Captain clung to titles and courtesies just as any other, but in a blunt manner that almost ruined his conventional manners. And poor Lady Munn, in all of her awkward clumsy ways, had the private affairs of her heart exposed to all. However, Nora found herself more perplexed with Josephine's attitude--she received the insult to her character as a compliment. She could not help but imagine her sister-in-law would act similarly. Fannie had left a foul taste in Nora's mouth; she could scarcely understand why her favorite brother had fallen in love with her.
There was another perplexity, however. Nora recognized the name of Peter Keystone. There had been talk about him, one of the most successful mathematicians produced by St. John's. He graduated early, and during her courses at Girton College, his name had been mentioned on a few occasions by the faculty. And here he was, a Captain of all things! The prospect was befuddling, though Nora felt it best not to press and pry into matters that did not concern her. She had the troublesome brand on her finger to worry herself with.
"Yes, let's begin, if that suits you, Lady Munn," Nora answered with a small smile, opening up her small notepad, and holding her pencil. "I cannot guarantee that I will be able to understand the formulas properly...If I may, you may wish to consult the Lord Captain on these calculations as well...I understand he is quite the formidable mathematician, a legend of sorts, and may very well prove a better asset than I, having only been awarded a certificate." Of course, if Nora had been a boy, she would have attained the degree. Only her sex held her back from that far more prominent qualification, as it was denied to her on the basis of gender, and not mathematical ability.
"Might I see the inscriptions in question, Lady Munn?"
Name: Alice Barbara Kean Aliases: Mrs. Barbara Eileen McDonough, Barbara Eileen Kean Age: 36 Birthday: Ethnicity: Birth Place: New York, New York Location: Mid-Hudson Psychiatric Institute, New York Gender: Major/Minor: Place N/A if character did not attend college Occupation: Asylum Inmate Languages: Max 2 (either fluent or learning)
Sexuality: Relationship Status: Widow Personality: Minimal 2 paragraphs Habits: Minimal 2 Hobbies: At least 1 Fears: 3 real fears that make your character unhinged - Other than Infection And Death - These will be checked and characters will be penalized if not following them. These are not things they can overcome.
Likes: 6 minimal
Dislikes: 6 minimal
Cards On The Table
Pre Outbreak Skills: Max 5 - History must reflect these knowledge's
Post Outbreak Skills: Max 7 - Each Type of Gun Counts as 1 skill, Machete and Sword each are separate. History must reflect learning these skills.
Current Supplies: All things listed separately. For example - clothing cannot be listed as clothing - coat, shirt, shoes, shocks, underwear, etc - all count as one item each for extras - you are allowed one set that will consist of a shirt, shoes, socks, pants and overcoat to count as what you are currently wearing. Each full clip counts as one, each box of ammo must have listed how many bullets in each. (Keep it reasonable. I will keep these things very limited - no debating.) Max 12, including current clothing, so you may add 11 more.
Current Clothing - Describe in detail
History
Your First Walker Encounter: Minimal 1 well developed paragraph
History Before Outbreak: Alice, born as Barbara Eileen Kean, was born to wealth and refinement. She knew which fork to use and how to speak with dignitaries, but not what the love of a parent should be. Emotionally distant from her parents, Alice internalized and repressed her emotional issues as the children of so many other socialites did in New York. Without feelings, her life became manageable, but emptier as well.
She graduated from Columbia with a degree in Psychology, though Alice never put it to use. Instead, she married rich and traded in life in academia for life as nothing more than a trophy wife. Her husband owned one of the most extensive art galleries in the city and made his fortune from it, as well as meeting dozens of mistresses. Alice turned a blind eye to them at first, repressing the emotions as she had been taught in childhood--her father had routinely cheated on her mother, after all.
But it didn't last. One day, Alice put on her wedding dress, and used a sawed off shotgun to murder her husband, reciting their wedding vows as she did so. When the police arrived, she offered no resistance, and they charged her with murder in the first degree. Her lawyers had Alice plead insanity, and she was admitted by court order to the Mid-Hudson Psychiatric Institute. However, before the transfer, Alice put in for the legal name change, becoming Alice Barbara Kean.
.....
History Since Outbreak: Minimal 4 paragraphs on how your character has survived up until this point.
Extras
Character Quote: "I'm not crazy. I'm free." Theme Song:Control - Halsey How Many Walkers Have You Killed: How Many People Have You Killed: Why: Anything Else:
*By submitting this CS in its completion I am stating I have read all the rules for this Rp and am agreeing to follow them to the fullest with respect and courtesy.
As Trisha sized her up, Tuesday frowned. Before she had gone down the horrible path that brought her where she was today, she never would have outwardly portrayed her displeasure. It felt disgusting, though, like she was a piece of meat. Some of the girls--and guards--in prison had done the same. And sure, her first kingpin had as well...But she never quite grew comfortable with it. For a brief moment, Chloe wondered if she called up Marc, and asked for his help to get her life back together, if it'd be possible.
Could she still be a surgeon? She had always brushed it off, convinced she had thrown away her future with that first arrest. There was no point in trying after that, no point in things getting better. Her life had ended--so why not just fuck it, and get the bad times over with? Why not throw herself into more and more shit, until something does her the mercy to end her life? And in that same moment, Tuesday practically wished she had been among the dead of Grimm High.
"Extremely," Tuesday said bluntly, in reply to Trisha's comment. But as the prospect of her helping out with the drop? Sure, Ronnie was her friend, but she wasn't stupid. Big drops meant big risks. The pay could be fantastic, but the prison sentence, if caught, usually increased exponentially. She was already doing a bunch of stupid shit, with her smuggling drugs into prisons.
"Better be decent pay then, if I'm freelancing for you," Tuesday interjected. A mere sampling fee wasn't enough for this occasion. She needed something to make it worth her time.
Cecily Ashworth
Location: Near Queensguard Private Airfield
Cecily nodded. They had as many useful samples as they could hope to get, considering the current circumstances. But she doubted there would be any left, if they came back at another time. Queensguard, whatever they were up to, meant business. And she was almost certain Proserpine, the woman who shot at her, was on their payroll. The more she learned about this, the more horrid it became. In the back of her mind, she made a quiet decision. She'd send in her resignation, for real this time. Enough was enough.
"I'm good," Cecily replied, taking a bit of a deep breath as Caesar motioned for them to go. She knew that it was complicated, that they'd have to wait until the guards were in proper alignment, and that their window of time narrowed more and more with each second. But she also felt herself nearing death, walking closer to her final resting place. Was there life after death? She wasn't sure, but she hoped desperately that there was. Justice couldn't be where it ended.
Her heart dropped slightly as Caesar said those words. But at the same time, her resolve strengthened. In a few short minutes, Cecily felt that they would know what had truly happened to Alicia Gonzalez--perhaps the same thing that had happened to everyone else in this town who knew more than they were supposed to. Danica Graves had something to do with this as well--Proserpine's hands were drenched with blood, likely Danica's as well.
Jack wasn't too certain what Bazhooli and Tatiana were saying. It was hard for him to be able to learn Russian while fighting for his life, so his skills were subpar at best. He understood pretty much the words Tatiana had taught him, the pet names and such they exchanged on a daily basis. However, Bazhooli did him the great mercy of using English, releasing him from having to help with the show that night. As his mind flickered back to his brief fantasy, he couldn't help but think it was still a very good idea for him not to join in with the festivities.
"Looking bettah than evah," Jack complimented, watching as Tatiana filled the room with music, and more importantly, with her grace. Her beauty was awe inspiring, and he watched, his eyebrows raising slightly as he caught Tatiana's idea. It would be an interesting combination between the pair, and Jack continued to watch his love as she danced.
Putting his hands together, he gave a huge clap to Tatiana already, whistling at bit at her each and every move. It might have been slightly obnoxious of him, but he practically couldn't help himself. She looked amazing, with the light in her eyes as she danced around the room.
Édouard Riviere
Location: The Infirmary (Franklin)
"Si," Édouard insisted. He meant everything he had ever said--except for the things he hadn't meant. It was a bit of a complicated process, a practice in hypocrisy, but it all worked out for him. She pulled his hands away from the bloody stump, pressing a rag into them. Raising an eyebrow at her, Édouard was tempted to throw the rag in her face--he couldn't be bought! He wouldn't suffer her womanly wiles! He was a Rivere! He was descended from the great Dorian Riviere, the man who returned from the dead! (Though, really, it turned out he wasn't dead in the first place...it was a minor detail).
And as if confirming his suspicions, a piece of man meat entered the infirmary. Édouard rolled his eyes, seeing the latest slave to Sana's charms. The man put an arm around her, the pair of them speaking in English, and Édouard wanted to gag. He glanced down at Ray, throwing him a look of exasperation, as if Ray too found Sana to be a repulsive sexual creature. And of course, the helpless sap kissed her on the cheek, and the pair of them left the room, a horrifying and gruesome sight.
"Quoi? Elle est comtesse?" Édouard asked, his face filled with disbelief. He then let out a little laugh. He had heard about the countess from time to time, mostly just her name. He never had seen a photograph of her face. His sister, Alisanne, had explained that the countess was a coward, hiding from her enemies. It was nothing a Riviere would ever do--aside from the great Dorian, who essentially, did exactly that...Again, another minor detail.
"Je la plains," he muttered with a bit of a laugh, shaking his head as he wiped the blood off of his fingers. It was too neat as well, too neat and tidy. The more information he learned, the less he believed. He had already decided she was a temptress--nothing more, nothing less.
To think otherwise was pure folly.
Si = Yes Strongly, used to contradict a negative statement Quoi? Elle est comtesse? = What? She's a countess? Je la plains = I pity her.
Tryke Lockley
Location: the Woods
Astrid and Bridgette. Bridgette and Astrid? She wasn't sure which one rolled off the tongue better, but with the names and the horses, Tryke smelled some flavor of fangirl. They could have been really into the old school Thor comics, maybe they fancied themselves to be Vikings out of time, she wasn't certain. But having grown up going from convention to convention, she felt the two of them wouldn't be out of place there. They were out of time, out of their natural context.
"I'm more of a set you on fire type of girl," Tryke joked, her tone fairly even and steady. Her baseball bat was reserved with smashing walkers to pieces, scattering their grey matter across the ground. But her homemade flamethrower, a glorified lighter and an aerosol can? That was for people. It tended to frighten them, and if they still didn't get it, she'd pretend there was a bomb inside of her bag. That had tended to do the trick, with the few run-ins she had had over the last three years.
Walking her bike to the road, as the horsewomen and the man started off, Tryke followed them. She didn't wear a helmet--if she died from a motorcycle crash, she considered that to be a victory within itself. With her bandana keeping most of her hair down, she still felt the slight tickle of the wind as she rode. And while Tryke realized she hadn't introduced herself, she wasn't too troubled about it.
People tended not to believe you when you said your name was Tryke Lockley. And it wasn't like her full name was any better. Still, playing ambulance? Had she stumbled upon some lost dregs of civilization? Had the apocalypse ended and been replaced with a Viking reenactment, complete with motorcycles? What the hell was going on anymore? For all she knew, she'd run into some asshat with a robotic arm at this point.