Post by Charlotte Davies on Nov 25, 2007 21:05:06 GMT -5
: O U T . O F . C H A R A C T E R ;;
Name: Nicole
Age: Sixteen
Other Characters:
Where Did You Find Emery University? Gossip Girl
{ I N . C H A R A C T E R }
Character Name: Charlotte Abigail Davies
Age: Twenty
Orientation: Straight
Birthplace: Long Island, New York
GPA: 4.1
Clique: Individual?
Major && Minor: Musical Theatre && English
What year are you entering: Junior
Appearance:
Pale skin and curly, nearly black hair, are Charlotte's trademarks. Her wild curls, often turning into an unmanageable mess frame her heart-shaped, lily white face, that ends in a little pointed chin. Her lips are pale, as are her eyes, brown and wide, but oft appearing hazel. Color springs to her cheeks when ever she's excited or embarassed, or has spent to long out in the sun.
She's on the shorter end of the spectrum, reaching just above five foot two. She's of a medium build, always unsatisfied with her thighs, and too well endowed in the chest for a girl of her stature.
Personality:
Passionate;; Contrary to her appearance of frailness, with her lily white skin and small frame, Charlotte is a girl on a mission. She has a passion for everything and puts her heart and soul into anything she does. She's an adventure seeker, a daredevil, willing to do anything for a bit of adrenaline. She dances, she sings, she runs, she jumps, all with a fire in her heart for whatever she's doing. You can see it in her green eyes, even her tense body language as she's just about to dive in head first.
Stubborn;; Lotte does not like to waver from her opinions. And she will never admit to having been wrong. She won't give in. She'll argue you until there's nuclear war. A personality trait straight from her father, who never gives in either.
Precise;; Anal retentive to the moon and back, Char can be quite the most annoying thing when something is out of order or not running smoothly. You can virtually eat off the floor of her room; it's so tidy. As such a precise person, she's apt to be controlling, a trait that most take to, the chance to follow someone morally stronger than they are, makes popular in her own way, yet disliked by some.
Theatrical;; A lover of all things theatre, Charlotte has been an actress since the age of six, her first appearance was as Molly in Annie. Growing up in New York, the Davies payed plenty of visits to Broadway to see the latest in musicals and dramas. Lotte grew a strong taste for them all, especially musicals, and theatre has long been her dream career. Her love led her to learn to play piano, dance, as well as sing, in a lovely Soprano tone. She often finds herself yearning for the dreamy life of a musician or an artist.
Loyal;; Loyal to a fault, such a trait can sometimes stand in her way. She'll stand by her friends and family no matter what, even if her loyalty is blinding her to her thoughts. She'd like to think she is not one to be taken for a ride, but she is more naive that she realizes.
Sarcastic;; She's not mean, rather sharp-witted, but her blunt tongue can drive away some prospective friends. She seems to think that anyone who can't take her tongue wouldn't be worthy to be her friend. She's almost asking for someone to prove her wrong.
Insecure;; Sure her actions state otherwise, but lest we forget that Charlotte is a young adult, we have to look behind her outside self, and into her private moments spent in her dormitory, absorbed in books. As an actress, Charlotte has created this life for herself, it's based in fact, but the simple fact is that although she does truly yearn for adventure and passion, she can't seem to grasp relating to other people, and she idolizes those who are able to maintain friendships and relationships.
Naive;; Charlotte, unfortunately, is the kind to be taken for a ride and taken advantage of, even if her attitude may suggest otherwise.
History:
Charlotte was born and raised just a twenty minute Long Island Railroad ride from New York City. Her father, a just off the boat Englishman, her mother an Italian-American. Mark Davies was a psychiatrist when he arrived, Maria an accountant. Both seemed to share a love of theatre, having met at one of the preview performances of Les Miserables on Broadway. The rest was history. Charlotte was born a few years later, followed closely by her brother, Scott.
Independent from the start and a lover of theatre, at the age of fifteen, her parents allowed her to take the daily commute into the city to attend a school of performing arts. She began auditioning for Broadway shows at the age of sixteen, although she has yet to land one.
Upon graduation, her father, suddenly a staunch supporter of the English school system, insisted she be sent off to university in Great Britain. She was eager to attend Juilliard, she settled instead on Emery University in a small town outside of London. Her decided majors were musical theatre, of course, and on insistence from her parents to have something to fall back on, English, a subject she rather liked anyways.
Nervously, she set out, on her first transatlantic flight, on her first visit to London. She hasn't looked back since.
Sample RP:
Mid-afternoon though it was, Marcello was still cowering beneath the warm light blue comforter that lay over his curtained, four-poster bed. Two in the afternoon it may be, but he was still asleep, his alarm clock having rung hours ago, his dorm-mates having abandoned him to go about their days. Thankfully, the morning was an off one for Marcello, so it didn't much matter that when he rolled out of bed at ten after two, still wearing nothing but his red plaid pajama bottoms, he went directly to the case that was perched on an armchair and extracted his violin.
Made of fine spruce, the violin was polished from top to bottom, the strings kept tightened and neat, the bow, too, polished, the hairs kept in perfect order with the use of rosin. The chin piece was covered in a piece of felt, Marcello having learned the hard way that hours of practice could leave a pain in your chin and a crick in your neck that would only worsen if you then spent some time bent over a keyboard.
C'est la vie, he thought as he picked it up, he laid it on the window seat as he dug through his case, pushing aside crumpled music and busted strings. Ah, here it is, he extracted the bit of rosin he kept for just such moments as these. He ran it down the hairs of the bow that were starting to look a bit ragged. "Much better," he said, thinking aloud. He slam-dunked the rosin back into the case and tapped the tap so it shut with a clatter. Delicately, he reached for the violin that was laying on the light blue cushioned bench. His right hand clutching the bow, his left, the violin, he settled himself onto the little love seat that occupied the nook were the window was.
The Cossu dormitory reserved for seventeen-year-old boys was at the very top of one of the towers that branched off the Cossu common room, standing up as if by magic. From his paneled window, Marcello could see just about every bit of the grounds, from the lake, where a murky something stirred below the surface, to the forest, where it was rumored unicorns and centaurs pranced about. To the very edge of his peripheral vision on the left, he could just make out the grand entrance, where a steady line of students made their way in and own on such a beautiful afternoon.
The glass he pressed his face to was cool and outside a gentle breeze rifled the trees. He'd go out there later, he decided. Marcello was strangely resistant to the cold, probably had something to do with his seventeen years of English winters, were it grew quite a bit colder than in this southern French province.
He leaned back against the wall, simultaneously lifting his violin near his shoulder and tucking it comfortably under his chin. Brown eyes remained focused outside, on the blue sky, the colorful foliage, even as he lifted his right arm to bow. He plucked with his left hand, sliding swiftly to creat a vibrato. Slid the bow along the strings, starting on a slow mournful tune that augmented his thoughtful trance. He could waste hours this way. In fact, he did. An hour and a half, to be precise, so that he was woken from his reverie by the four o'clock chiming of the clock tower. He jerked as it donged, the resounding note throwing off his sense of pitch, but he continued to play, before realizing that his mind had automatically counted the four dongs. Four dongs!
He jumped up, feeling suddenly as though his meaningful music-making had been a waste of time. Jerking the lid of his case back open, he pushed the violin inside and securely closed the clasps. He grabbed yesterday's jeans, a raggy pair with scattered tears. His plaid pants were promptly kicked off, the jeans pulled on and his feet slid into a pair of old navy flip flops. Still shirtless, he plopped down on the bed, where's the fire? What was he going to do anyway. He thought back to his earlier musings. He'd go outside, that was it, there had to be some pretty girl on the grounds he could talk to. He strode to his dresser, pulled open the uppermost drawer and extracted a black t-shirt, the name 'the Beatles' printed across the front. At last he had something covering his nicely built chest.
Marcello practically galloped out of the room, now eager to do a bit of exploring and introducing. He couldn't stop his grin as he rushed past a few first years, sending their homework flying.
He slowed to a trot as he rounded the corner that put him at the top of the staircase that led into the entrance hall. He took the steps two at a time. His flip-flops clattered as he walked and the noise echoed in the hall. The front doors were propped open and he pulled the right one open just far enough for him to hustle through.
The minute he stepped outside, his bear arms broke out in goosebumps. So much for it not being cold. At least, a few minutes into his walk, they had subsided, and Marcello felt quite comfortable. He set his sights for the Forest, where students gathered regularly for a bit of fun. Two colorful forms stood out against the oaks, from what he could see, and he headed for them, eager to make a few new friends.
Two girls, one in the tree, he realized as he grew closer, were chatting. The darker-haired one leapt deftly from the tree, so graceful that Marcello felt it deserved a bit of applause. But he refrained, instead jamming his hands into his jean pockets. A few yards from them he plastered on a smile, "Hello there, ladies."
Custom Tag: None.
Color: Crimson
Food: Chocolate
Shape: Star
Place: Central Park [the Ramble], London's Theatre District.
Subject: Drama//Music && Math
Other Information: None, right now.
