Post by Molly Howe on Feb 18, 2008 18:28:57 GMT -5
{General Information}
Name: Mary Esther Howe
Nicknames: Molly
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Association: Royal Military
Occupation: --
Rank: --
{Appearance Information}
Complexion: Caucasion, fair and pale
Height: 5'4"
Weight: 125 lbs.
Hair: Dark brown, wavy, mid-back length
Eye: Blue
Picture:
Celebrity Face: Alexis Bledel
{Personal Information}
Personality: Molly is much like rotting honey. It is an impossible thing, but quite imaginable. Her initial sweetness is only an illusion and reveals very little of her true nature. To acquantaines she is at worst, distant and at best, amiable. Mary gains the advantage if only she can conjure a suficient first impression. She knows that if she is sweet enough, or at least neither disagreeable or agreeable, she will gain a friend. Her looks enough seem to do the rest. Her comeliness speak for itself, if falsely.
Molly's true colors shine most especially when she is pushed to the extreme on an emotional scale, when she is very angry or very sad. She becomes cruel and mean spirited. But it is not only under these circumstances that she is mean, it simmers beneath the surface of her smiling facade.
Very few people truly understand Molly and those few are usually able to remind her of her place and calm her down when she is about to burst with rage. To her friends she is adamantly loyal and loves deeply despite any nasty things she says or does to them.
It may be a wonder that Mary is able to keep friends, but deep, deep down there are traces of compassion and tenderness if only one takes the time to find it. As for casual friends, her angry outbursts are usually forgotten within the minute because her false sweetness always returnss without fail.
Likes: Parties, dogs, music, poetry, gossip, tea, men, confrontations
Hobbies: Poetry writing, playing the piano
Hates: Soft people, ugliness, being teased, being analyzed
Fears: Staying the same forever, Fire
Strengths: Loyalty, determination, dexterity, persuasion
Weaknesses: Pride, stubborness, jealousy
{History Information}
Birthday: February 23, 1756
Birthplace: Nottingham, England
Family: Father-William Howe (44), Mother-Nora Howe (41), Brother- William Howe (22)
Background: Mary Howe was born in the English borough of Nottingham, where her father served as a member of parliament shortly after her birth. However, at the time of her birth Lieutenant Howe was in America helping the colonists in the Seven Years' War. Her mother was alone in their small manor which employed a handful of servants with a new baby and a two year old son, named for his father.
As Molly grew up she was educated in the suitable ways of young women. She learned to read and write, to sew and do needlework, to sing and play music, and just a little history and geography. She didn't see her father all together too often, but she is quite close to him, much more so than to her mother. When Molly was 16 she moved to the colonies to stay with her father in Boston.
Until recently the Howes felt little pressure from the other colonists because William Howe's position in the British army. In fact, the Howes were generally sympathetic to the colonists' plight and opposed the Coercive Acts of 1774 imposed by Parliament after the Boston Tea Party. However, in 1775 the whole Howe family moved to Boston when William was called to duty in America. Now, Molly has to put up a loyal facade to England, when on the inside she's quite confused, but she doesn't let just anybody know that. After all there is no place for the daughter of the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army to side with the Americans.
{Other Information}
Important Things: Alcott her Cocker Spaniel, Lacy her English Setter, and Maverick her Greyhound, a large compact mirror from India from her father
Anything Else: --
Sample RP Post:
Imogene thought vaguely as she stepped onto the dreary beach sand that the scene was rather dismal. Everything was grey. The water was a bland grey, the sky was an even blander grey, and the sand was an even blander grey than the bland grey water and blander grey sky. The few people that were there were bundled in warm clothes and they looked like wandering bears in the clammy atmosphere, the air was unfavorable, and the cold was bone chilling. The place would have been rather nondescriptant if it didn't have such a gloomy presence looming nearby. A Brazilian beach might be fun and warm, summer or winter, but a Manhattan beach was only barely warm in the summer and much less fun and warm in the winter.
Imogene clutched at the neck of her hounds-tooth peacoat, preventing the chill air from stealing the heat from her body. Her grey (as bland as the blandest grey sand) scarf snaked around her neck contributing a little more warmth. Imogene thought she could see her breath, but it was so insubstantial she wasn't sure if she was only imagining it. She tucked her bare hands into her pockets, her fingers brushing the big plastic buttons of her double breasted coat. Even they were cold.
Despite the bitter weather and murky landscape Imogene felt a sense of peace here on the solemn beach. It is a lonely pinnacle of self strength. That was what she had concluded last year at around the same time of the season when the beach was equally cold and desolate as today, she had borrowed the coupled words, lonely pinnacle, from an Ayn Rand novel. She liked Rand's books, they made a person really think about life. It was the sort of thinking she thrived on, and it was the sort of thinking she always went back to when she visited the beach on a day like this. She thought about herself; about who she had become and how she got there. She thought about destiny; about the truth of predestination. Imogene could get lost in her own head and in fact that was precisely why she came to the beach. Sometimes, although she wouldn't admit it to herself, her life just got to stressful, especially her father, the beach was her sanctuary.
Imogene was currently thinking about time. She was contemplating the Buddhist method of thinking of time in a round way. She tried to imagine that time did not exist, that it was just an illusion and everything was part of the whole, that everything was one. She was having difficulty trying to grasp the concept in her head, logically. And she had just decided that it was not a concept that a person understood logically, but intuitively when she stopped. Her red patent leather flats looked pathetically cheerful atop the depressing sand, like a bright red balloon stuck in a leafless tree.
Imogene had just passed a girl, sitting on the ground. Imogen could only see the girl from the back and it almost looked as if she was staring off at the horizon, past the water. But something else about the girl had caught Imogene's eye. There was an aura about the girl, a familiar aura. Imogene's curiosity was activated. Her red patent leather covered feet slowly made there way toward the girl, and as Imogene approached she saw that the girl had pencil to paper. Imogene's soft treads were made virtually silent by the forgiving sand and it would have been possible for the girl not to have heard Imogene, depending on how focused she was.
When Imogene was a step from the girl she was able to peer over her head and look at the sketch. The thought that she was being rather rude hadn't quite crossed Imogene's mind up to this point. She had only to glance at the paper quickly to realize why the girl's aura had caught her eye. She was designing clothes. It was the aura that her mother used to exude when she was designing.
Imogene clutched at the neck of her hounds-tooth peacoat, preventing the chill air from stealing the heat from her body. Her grey (as bland as the blandest grey sand) scarf snaked around her neck contributing a little more warmth. Imogene thought she could see her breath, but it was so insubstantial she wasn't sure if she was only imagining it. She tucked her bare hands into her pockets, her fingers brushing the big plastic buttons of her double breasted coat. Even they were cold.
Despite the bitter weather and murky landscape Imogene felt a sense of peace here on the solemn beach. It is a lonely pinnacle of self strength. That was what she had concluded last year at around the same time of the season when the beach was equally cold and desolate as today, she had borrowed the coupled words, lonely pinnacle, from an Ayn Rand novel. She liked Rand's books, they made a person really think about life. It was the sort of thinking she thrived on, and it was the sort of thinking she always went back to when she visited the beach on a day like this. She thought about herself; about who she had become and how she got there. She thought about destiny; about the truth of predestination. Imogene could get lost in her own head and in fact that was precisely why she came to the beach. Sometimes, although she wouldn't admit it to herself, her life just got to stressful, especially her father, the beach was her sanctuary.
Imogene was currently thinking about time. She was contemplating the Buddhist method of thinking of time in a round way. She tried to imagine that time did not exist, that it was just an illusion and everything was part of the whole, that everything was one. She was having difficulty trying to grasp the concept in her head, logically. And she had just decided that it was not a concept that a person understood logically, but intuitively when she stopped. Her red patent leather flats looked pathetically cheerful atop the depressing sand, like a bright red balloon stuck in a leafless tree.
Imogene had just passed a girl, sitting on the ground. Imogen could only see the girl from the back and it almost looked as if she was staring off at the horizon, past the water. But something else about the girl had caught Imogene's eye. There was an aura about the girl, a familiar aura. Imogene's curiosity was activated. Her red patent leather covered feet slowly made there way toward the girl, and as Imogene approached she saw that the girl had pencil to paper. Imogene's soft treads were made virtually silent by the forgiving sand and it would have been possible for the girl not to have heard Imogene, depending on how focused she was.
When Imogene was a step from the girl she was able to peer over her head and look at the sketch. The thought that she was being rather rude hadn't quite crossed Imogene's mind up to this point. She had only to glance at the paper quickly to realize why the girl's aura had caught her eye. She was designing clothes. It was the aura that her mother used to exude when she was designing.
{Your Information}
Name/Alias: Aly
Age: 17
Other Characters: James "Jamie" Wilcox
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