Post by diasong on Jan 5, 2012 19:28:16 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image:url(http://lh4.ggpht.com/-LWSqSNpIToc/TYZTxT60WjI/AAAAAAAAAUg/kX0kRj5ZB6k/BlackWood.jpg); width: 437px; padding-top: 30; padding-bottom: 30;] VIVIENNE VALERIE DE BETHENCOURT  GENERAL INFORMATION FULL NAME Vivienne Valérie de Béthencourt. NICKNAMES Vivienne, Vi to close friends or family. GENDER female. SEXUALITY bi-curious; essentially heterosexual, but can be swayed. AGE & DATE OF BIRTH seventeen years old. Born on the thirteenth of September, nineteen ninety four. GRADE senior. CLIQUE transfer. OCCUPATION student. FACE CLAIM Astrid Bergès-Frisbey. PERSONALITY STRONG. The first thing to know about Vivienne is that she has a very resilient, extremely adaptable personality. What you throw at her, she'll take; she's seen a lot, gone through a lot, and learned a lot over the course of her life, more than many people see and learn in an entire lifetime. It's made her extremely independent: if there's one thing that's lasted with her through her life, if there's one person she believes she can rely on, it's herself. She doesn't get very attached to people, and in social relations she starts off -- and doesn't usually get much past this stage -- very aloof, verging on cold. Vivienne truthfully doesn't give a damn about people, and what they think. Yet you cannot put her down as a rebel; she goes with the flow just as long as the flow suits her. She's not contradicting the mainstream just for the sake of it. Vivienne's also what you'd call "street-savvy". She gets herself into a lot of tough spots, and relies on her intelligence to get herself out of them, a choice that usually proves to pay off. A pragmatist, aggressive when it comes down to it, a rule of thumb with Vivienne is that she'll lay back because she doesn't care -- until she starts to, in which case she can be nothing short of ruthless. FREE. Or flighty -- however it is you see things. It's all you can expect from Vivienne. All her life, she's been a nomad, and the lifestyle is in her blood. You can take anything from her, and yet you can never tie her down. She's quick and resourceful, adapts to the situation like water shifts to fill its container, and yet is extremely proud when it comes down to it. She's happiest as mistress of herself, and isn't easily tempted by attention or power or company. A combative soul if necessary, she's a perfectionist: what she does commit to, she will see through until the end, and cannot stand a task badly done. Vivienne's auto-ambitious, which means she'll expect much of herself and little of others. Despite this, one thing she cannot stand in others is slowness or stupidity. DECEPTIVE. The fact that Vivienne doesn't give a damn makes her very free, and this, paired with a natural talent for acting, opens many roads to her, roads that are walled off to those who fear and respect convention -- not Vivienne. She could be described as amoral, limitless, going all the way to get what she wants, without regard for others. Very manipulative, but not in the "smiling-bitch-with-perfect-makeup" sense; she doesn't work with gossip, she digs deeper down to understand human mechanisms. She's naturally good with that: she's taught herself to have a good grasp on people, have an idea of whether or not they're lying, and is a good liar herself, both because she has nothing to stop her from doing it and because she's good with words. Vivienne can be charismatic, can be charming, and has a tongue that gleams silver, with a non-stop flow of caustic comments or general wit when laconic, aloof answers just don't cut it. She's cunning, but not because she enjoys being malicious, just because it's helpful, and why ever not, after all? DANGEROUS. This is something that's taken Vivienne a while to understand, a while to harness. She blatantly disregards rules, viewing them as friendly guidelines if anything, and even secretly takes pleasure in bucking some of them. Cliques? Conventions? Trends? Not what she's going to want to follow. Vivienne's very intrigued by the concept of fear, and she's learned to harness her own conveniently, and goes ahead and steals and vandalizes without remorse. While this dark and dangerous side of her can be a very sexy side, it's also one that gets her into varying degrees of trouble. What are consequences to her? Something she'll deal with when they come up. Vivienne's a gambler, after all, isn't she? And what's life more than a big game of Poker? HISTORY MOTHER Laure Emmanuelle de Béthencourt FATHER Etienne Armand de Béthencourt BROTHERS William Edouard de Béthencourt, Charles Constant de Béthencourt SISTERS - PETS the family owns a stud farm of Thoroughbreds in Normandy. Her personal mount is Paradise Lost. OTHER THE STORY You won't guess where little Vivienne is from unless you've got a very, very fine ear for accents -- and even then, until you know her name, chances are you'll mistake her for a born and bred American. She's anything but. Vivienne's father's job as CEO of an important bank has made the whole de Béthencourt family keep up a nomadic lifestyle. Paris, Milan, Frankfurt, London, New York, Singapore, Hong Kong -- she hasn't ever spent more than four years in a country, and only spent a week in the Parisian hospital she was born in before moving again. The constant moving could easily be a weakness, could easily make a weaker girl self-conscious and friendless. Not Vivienne -- she's managed to leech out only the good stuff. Culturally diverse, she's seen an incredible array of things throughout her life, and though she might not choose to show it, knows a surprising amount of things about the world and the people in it. Vivienne's generally low-profile unless there's a need for another type of behavior, in which case she'll quickly and deftly switch lanes. Vivienne has noble origins. Her father is a descendant of the original de Béthencourt family, one of the considerable number of noble families in France, complete with old-fashioned crest, or coat of arms, and motto. The consequences of this lineage, as with her father's high-placed financial position, has led Vivienne to appreciate living in the lap of luxury. She knows what's tasteful, masters and disregards etiquette, and generally displeases her mother, a conservative Frenchwoman who, Vivienne shrewdly suspects, did not just marry Etienne de Béthencourt for his love. The young girl has spent years being taught by reputed private-tutors, and has not had extensive experience with cliques and popularity. As a younger girl, she swallowed books whole, verging from trashy girl novels to heavier literature like Kafka, both of which she treated in similar ways. Vivienne has had her share of indulgences: as a compensation for rarely being around, her parents gave her whatever she wished for, assuming that expensive gifts were worth as much as a good dose of love. She got diamond earrings on her thirteenth birthday, lost them a week later. A Valentino dress straight off the catwalk. Archery lessons. Private dance classes with prestigious teachers. Horses. Paint and easels of the most expensive kind. As she got older, she began a collection of knives, and learned how to use them. Nevertheless, despite this upbringing, Vivienne has never been one to boast, though not out of modesty or humbleness, but because she sees no point in it. Information about her background comes out eventually, especially in schools like Kimball High, but one wouldn't suspect it if one saw Vivienne; she opts for comfortable, subtle clothing, classy and designer rather than slutty and designer. How did she end up in Portland, Oregon? It was simply another destination in the de Béthencourt's family life. Her father's job kept them constantly on the move, and before long they were packing and moving to yet another expansive house in an expansive country. Vivienne, given the choice, as she always had been throughout her live, opted to attend school, on a whim, rather than remain homeschooled, something she hadn't done in a while. BEHIND THE MASK ALIAS Atmosphere. AGE as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth. EXPERIENCE a few years in animal role-plays, particularly wolf, dog, and cat. FOUND US through an affiliate button -- on Insatiable, I believe. CODE WORD Picture Perfect. OTHER CHARACTERS - ROLEPLAY EXAMPLE The snow had melted in the forest and once again the water flowed thick in the river that swelled and hissed like some infuriated wild creature. The trees had shaken off their mantle of white and stood somewhat overbearingly along the river’s banks. A heavy scent of something – moss, newly flowing water, pine needles – hung heavily in the morning air. The horizon was a crisp line adorning the edges of one’s vision, marred only by the pines. Rocks skidded underfoot and the boulders that served as makeshift vantage points were slick with icy water. On one of those pale gray structures darkened by the ebb of water stood Korrdelia. Small amongst the tremendous surroundings, there was nevertheless an air of self importance, of quiet, not – yet – subdued smugness about her all too typical of a spoiled princess. Yet all similarities with such a delicate and renowned character ended there. Korrdelia’s downy fur stuck together in matted clumps of mud. The fur lining her stomach – the whole of her, in fact - dripped steadily onto the rocks, leaving a lazy trail of brown water that eventually made its way sluggishly down the rocks and was swallowed up by the rapids. She stood, alone, still but for the twitching of her ears and the frantic thrashing of her tail-tip, observing the river with a shrewdness so serious it appeared almost comical on a face so young, a face whose ears were slightly too big, whose muzzle still slightly too long, whose general proportions had not yet caught up with the stage the rest of her body seemed determined to reach. It was the very epitome of puphood. Korrdelia got steadily to her paws and indulged in a brief stretch, maw yawning open to reveal tiny incisors. As she shook herself a thousand droplets of brownish water sprayed in all directions – but Korrdelia was already making her way down the rocks with poise and purposefulness – a little princess dressed in rags. Whereas another pup might have been scared, or even intimidated of the immensity of the panorama, Korrdelia was not so in the least. This was her playing ground. Her territory. Was she not, after all, daughter of the famed Cyanide, of the feared Seraphim? She had every right. It was evident to Korrdelia that every wolf would die for the privilege of so much as frolicking with her, let alone this. She boasted her supposed birthrights to all; proud of her parents’ eminence, she regarded other packs and generally other pups with scorn, as they were not sons and daughters of Cyanide and Seraphim, and must thus obligatorily know less, poor things, and ranked significantly less in Korrdelia’s opinionated esteem. As to what the business her parents went about doing, what the true nature of the other packs were and to what Seraphim and Cyanide owed their reputation, Kor had no more idea than the rest of the pups in the pack. She had formed the notion that it was certainly something to do with some feat or other, some battle or other won by her father, some thing or other said by her mother. In her mind hovered the image of a Seraphim just as she knew him, lankier in build perhaps, unmarked by the years, standing above a myriad of adoring eyes. Eyes in which was mixed fear and a teeming respect. Kor regarded Seraphim with a kind of grudging deference herself, yet cared little of his comings and goings. Seraphim was possibly the only thing she feared and obeyed him wordlessly, if reluctantly. Cyanide, however, was an entirely different play. She approached the water gingerly, peering down into a crevasse in one of the rocks where water had amassed, safe from the merciless roaring of the rapids. Her face gazed back serenely at her. Long, thin muzzle, fur a assortment of hues – ochre, ivory, beige, slate grey, russet where it had been tinged by the mud she’d encountered earlier. It was an arresting face, of a pronounced bone structure, promising a certain degree of beauty in her future years. She pulled a grimace of distaste. Korrdelia had never appreciated her face – nothing of it seemed quite as dramatic as the black of her mother’s muzzle, nothing quite as fearsome as the sober, terrifying expression of her father’s gray face. Nothing, that is, but her eyes. The eyes were Cyanide’s, of a cold lime-gold tint, the color of the autumn moon. Korrdelia adored Cyanide, yet never would she admit to the fact. Desperately did she want to be as formidable and ruthless as her mother, who, to Kor’s eyes, silenced wolves with a glance. The yellow eyes narrowed into barely visible, twin lamplights. A paw snaked out from beneath her and slashed through the reflection, sending a wave of concentric ripples to distort her face. She wasn’t enough like Cyanide – and yet was too linked with her to be her own. It was always her, Cyanide’s daughter, or her, the pup of the two most powerful wolves in Thaerrin. Her mood darkening considerably, she waded carelessly into the water, determined to do something rash. Imprudence, she found, was the finest cure to anger, to that hot temper that flared beneath her eyelids, that prickled her skin like a thousand needles, like the water that bit into her legs. She didn’t care, it felt oddly satisfying – all the better if she caught a cold. That would show them. Yet the water chilled her so that even her sudden burst of ire subsided and she felt particularly puerile standing aimlessly in the very center of the rushing water. She cast her eyes about, pondering as to whether to continue the deteriorating adventure, or return home and face the wrath of some domineering wolf who did not see it fit for the daughter of Seraphim to go about sopping wet and leaving behind a trail of moisture and mud. Just as she was about to decide for the former option, she stumbled and the undertow seized her and pulled her under. She sank into the water with a small gasp as the air was knocked out of her. The water dragged, pulled, ripped, pushed, tore at her in every direction. Her mouth opened in desperation, lungs begging for the breath she needed, paws flailing desperately in a frenzied attempt to resurface. She broke through the crest of the water and for a split second she was in the air, gasping, about to let out her breath in a distressed scream when once again she was jerked down, lurching against the rocks that lined her path. It was chaos above and below – her strength was ebbing away from her like the bubbles as they fled from her mouth and sought the surface. Thoughts were shoved vehemently out of her mind as another fraught kick of adrenaline coursed through her. But a pup can only do so much and her vision was clouding with terrifying rapidity. The world silenced around her, a silence so heavy and so dense that it seemed to press around her, fill her mind. Jaws closed around her. Teeth sank agonizingly into her scruff. Something jerked her upwards, tearing her out of the water. She gulped in an immense breath of air as her muzzle broke through the surface. She was on the ground now, hazy vision refocusing, a looming black shape sharpening, defining itself into the face of Cyanide. Korrdelia’s body convulsed in a series of hacking coughs that expelled the water from her throat and she finally collapsed, utterly drenched and heaving and exhausted. Cyanide was saying something, Korrdelia could tell by the movement of her mouth. Korrdelia’s breath was still shallow and rasping, the cold of the early spring air burning in her lungs. The pain was immense – every part of her ached. Cyanide’s muzzle descended, hovering for a second above her fur before administering a few careful licks. "Mother?" Kor murmured, her voice coming out chafed like her pawpads after a long run. Cyanide’s eyes flickered briefly to her face and there was an emotion in them that Kor had difficulty registering. She was far too brash, far too impatient to deal with such frivolities as emotions, let alone taking the time to recognize them in others. It was difficult to know less about the ways and works of psychology and feeling than Kor did. "No," growled Cyanide, and in her voice was irony that even Kor could not miss. "It’s Wrath. What on earth compelled you to go into that river in the first place?" Kor’s face flushed with shame and she attempted to scrabble pathetically to her paws but was held down by a surprisingly gentle, yet firm, black forepaw. "I did not—" she began heatedly, and cut herself off mid sentence. "Okay, maybe I did, so what?" Cyanide regarded her with what seemed to Kor to be an expression of almost amused disdain, which seemed paradoxical. "Stop being ridiculous. You would have drowned if I had not been here, apparently you don't grasp that concept." Her words were clean, diction immaculate. Kor wondered, idly, whether her mother was actually worrying for her wellbeing rather than the fact that her reputation would be tarnished if her daughter perished. The thought, she felt, should provoke some strong feeling of shame and sadness within her, she decided, yet nothing of the sort occurred. In fact, on the contrary, her respect for her mother's level headedness grew. She cast her chartreuse yellow eyes downwards in a gesture of genuine timidity. "I'm sorry, mother." "Sorry." Korrdelia didn't have to look into her mother's face to know that her expression was pulled into some sort of sneer. "Sorry won't save you next time." Korrdelia knew that it would be taken as a motion of impudence, yet the temptation to look up was, as it never failed to be with Korrdelia, too great to withstand and she found herself hazarding a glance into her mother's face. "You're far too foolish for your own good, Korrdelia," her mother noted, the strident edge of her tone softening somewhat. "I'll never be able to make a leader out of you unless this idiocy subsides. Understood?" Korrdelia hesitated, feeling another surge of guilt wash through her, quickly replaced by bristling anger, a cornered cat whose fur stood on end. With what she considered a supreme – and for that matter admirable – effort on her part, she pushed it down and nodded with as much meek demureness as she could muster ( which was unfortunately insufficient to convince her mother of her sincerity, as she heard Cyanide sigh resignedly ) and got to her paws, glancing about to avoid eye contact. The last thing she wanted was to displease her mother more than she had already. They lapsed into silence as Cyanide led the way ( inevitably, home to the Thaerrin camp ) that Korrdelia strived to keep. It was a difficult task as the young wolf was teeming with questions. The landscape changed subtly around them, veering from the misty crags in the distance and rock strewn terrain that was typical of western Diare into the trademark woody grounds that Thaerrin wolves guarded with ferocity. Cyanide's tread was quick and decided, and though Kor was already a rather long-limbed pup, she had to trot to keep up. Cyanide never looked back, but never once did Kor doubt that she knew exactly where her daughter was. Kor's impressive pride waged war with her equally enormous curiosity, and the latter ended up triumphing as one of the many questions she'd strived to keep penned up overflowed. "Mother?" she blurted, before she could help herself. Indeed, it was less that she feared her mother's reaction but more the fact that she would hate to humiliate herself, or to give a unscrupulous image of herself, that had kept her silent for so long. Her mother grunted to signal that she'd heard, and this spurred Kor on. "How did you know I was going to the glistening creek to play?" For a few alarming seconds her mother did not answer and Kor braced herself for the worse. But once again Cyanide proved unpredictable and indeed unpredicted. Her tone, when she finally answered, held a mirth that sounded like she had tried to suppress it. "Because you left alone, thoughtless girl. You appreciate your solitude. You think that you hide your emotions from me? You think wrong, Kor. You jealously guard the secret of the glistening creek from the other pups, because it's yours, is it not?" She did not turn around as she said this, but the undertone in her voice incited reassurance in Kor. As they padded, pawsteps muffled by the wood's viridian carpeting, sunlight dappling her opulent pelt like blight speckling an oak leaf, she felt a relieved smile curl at the corners of her lips. Perhaps one day Kor would come to understand – yet at the moment her youth blinded her like morning sun in her eyes – that the reason, the explanation as to how Cyanide was so sure of what lay in the meandering yet oddly naïve labyrinth of her daughter's mind was because her own had been very much the same. |
