Post by christine on Feb 14, 2011 20:06:52 GMT -7
CHAZ TYRONE CONTE
" If you wish to be a success in the world, promise everything, deliver nothing. "
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I AM BEYOND GOD
[/font]I AM HUMAN
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Full Name: Chaz Tyrone Conte.
Nickname(s): He's always preferred "Napoleon" to "Chaz", but rarely goes by the former for obvious reasons.
Gender: Male.
Age: Sixteen.
Birthdate: July 14th, 1994.
Sexuality: Heterosexual.
Reincarnate: Yes.
I am: Napoleon Bonaparte.
Played By: Jeremy Sumpter.
Grade: Sophomore.
Boarding: No.
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OUR SHINING FUTURE
[/font]IN REVOLT
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Height: 5'4".
Weight: 145 pounds.
Eye Color: Blue.
Hair Color: Dirty blonde.
Build: Average, lightly muscular.
Scars: Nothing significant.
Piercings/Tattoos: None.
Personal Style:
Chaz is extremely fashionably aware and has a flair for extravagancy. When it comes to apparel, Chaz is not only selective over what he wears but is similarly critical of other peoples' clothing as well. He judges others that dress like slobs, particularly those that wear sweatpants or flip-flops. Chaz is typically very formally dressed. He wears bright and pompous colors - particularly reds and blues - and always long pants. He'll occasionally wear jeans, but majority of the time will opt for black or dark dress pants. Up top, he has a large assortment of collared button-down shirts. Often he'll wear them plain, but will usually wear a vest on top of them. Very rarely will he wear a simple shirt and when he does, it's just one solid color. In the winter seasons he wears trench coats, and will swap his black dress shoes for black boots.
As a few side notes, Chazz loves hats. He is the sort of person that has to try on every hat in the store. He also enjoys gloves, though only gets away with wearing them on special occasions. He is a big fan of his satin pajamas, though would never dream of wearing those out in public. And finally, Chaz wears a ton of cologne. Not the revolting Axe stuff, but the real expensive men's cologne. The smell is so pungent that when walking through a crowded hallway, he can probably be smelled before he can be seen.
Appearance: Chaz is five foot four, on the shorter side for his age. Partially because of his memory of his past life, partially because of the Napoleonic height jokes he's discovered on the internet, and partially because he is below-average on the height scale, Chaz is indeed very sensitive about his height. That aside, he's somewhat muscular but has a limber body. Most of his height is made up in his torso, and he has narrow shoulders and large hands and feet. His complexion is naturally fair and burns easily, incurring his habit of skin peeling.
His hair is shaggy and slight wavy, at the moment falling just over his ears. Usually it's a very dirty blonde color, though bleaches lighter during the summer sunny seasons. His face itself is square and his chin has a sharp point. His brows are bushy and bent slightly over his small light blue eyes. He has a few light freckles along his nose and rosy cheeks though overall his skin is clear. His lips are a natural pale pink and his smile is large, creating two prominent wrinkles outlining his cheeks when he grins.
HOPE AND HORROR
[/font]MIXED IN BLOOD[/size][/center]
Likes: Long baths, bright colors, French cuisine, gardening, cologne, horseback riding, classical music, fine wines, hearing about himself, black coffee, writing, people that agree with him, real and Airsoft and BB guns, pastries, discussing politics, pineapple, jigsaw puzzles, boating, people that speak Italian, satin clothing, sunrises and sunsets, flirting, debates, the lovely country of France, history class, carbonated water, board games, scented candles, fireworks.
Dislikes: Speaking English, mockery, Mexican food, pinks and purples, facial piercings, bubble gum, being wrong, band-aids, romantic comedies, asparagus, extreme heat, sleeping in, tea, long lines, chores in general, being hugged, crowds, bees and other insects, most sodas, cooking, spicy foods, overly-religious people, video games, crying, the United States, driving, animated television shows, cough drops, sleet, having to follow someone else's lead.
Dreams: Moving to France, gaining a position of high political power, becoming famous enough to be mentioned in history books again.
Fears: Dying again, anything feline, failure, being alone, having anyone find out that he's a reincarnate and then having to explain precisely why he thinks he use to be Napoleon Bonaparte.
Habits/Hobbies: He always has to be doing something with his hands: he uses them erratically when he's talking and shoves them in his pockets when he's not. He eats finger food with a fork - i.e. pizza, hamburgers, french fries. He's violent when he's upset, to himself and whoever is around him. And only sleeps for about four or five hours each night.
Secret(s): Considering his first wife slept with everyone in France while he was away and his second had two kids with another man while Napoleon was still alive, Chaz has developed a fear of commitment when it comes to relationships. He also likes writing poetry and is touchy about his height.
Personality:
Chaz comes off as a cocky and arrogant person. And he is not without a cause; he accomplished quite a bit in his past life and for that reason he views himself as obviously superior to these dull North Carolinian citizens around him. Though obviously unfit in today's society, Chaz still has the mentality of an emperor. He is loud and haughty about his successes, always boastful when he is better than another and sullen when he is worse. Most of the time his cockiness comes across as a demure smugness. His social interactions are always tainted with that tinge of superiority, the way he'll give people self-satisfied little smiles or the tone of patronization in his voice. His upfront personality is awkward to interact with. His disconnection from others makes him seem shallow, especially coupled with his flippant reaction towards his failures. Outwardly he oozes confidence and charisma, and takes a fiendish delight at poking at other peoples' vulnerabilities.
While not the stereotypical model of an intellect, Chaz is undoubtedly smart. The defining factor is that Chaz really only works hard in the things he is interested in. He's a well-rounded sort of person; he enjoys bits of math and science and likes to write, though his main interest lies outside of the classroom. And academia has never been at the top of his list of priorities. He's been through a revolution and many battles; it's always been difficult for him to make the transition from roaming around the battlefield to sitting inside solving mathematical equations. So by no means is Chaz the star pupil of every class. He always gets that comment "if only he would apply himself...", though for Chaz, school is just means to an end. He's finally recognized that if he wants to get far in life he has to jump through these educational hoops. So he'll do as much work as he needs to in order to do well in his classes and then draw the line there. The only exception to this rule of his comes from his competitive nature. Being outdone spurs Chaz to work harder, though that's essentially his only motivator.
Besides, the subjects Chaz really excels in aren't taught in a classroom. For one, he's a smooth-talker. He's observant and manipulative, and its very good at telling people precisely what they want to hear. For this reason, most will come to learn that Chaz isn't exactly the most trustworthy of people. He's an excellent liar, not that he'll make hollow promises just to tick others off. He claims he looks after the big picture; if it will benefit the body as a whole, then hey, a few people can stand to get screwed over. While undoubtedly arrogant, Chaz is not entirely self-centered as many would believe. As long as you can stomach his cockiness, he's a helpful guy. While his generosity does give him another chance to show-off, he honestly does look after others, notably other reincarnates. So really he's two sides of a coin. He either can be dependable or manipulative, though either way he's undoubtedly a cunning and sly fellow. He's the person to go to for help with French Revolution homework, though other than that, he's not exactly the person one should trust with too many secrets.
Chaz has an interesting sense of humor. He's not the class clown though he certainly isn't stoic. He's wry, and derives most of his amusement from mocking others (he's hypocritical in that fashion). It's rare to see him grin; most of the time he smirks. He has a very, ah, versatile temperament, to put it lightly. Part of the time he's conceited and outspoken and smug. But he's quickly moved to anger. Chaz does not like being made fun of or proven wrong. His egocentric nature flips to fury at the drop of a hat and his frequent temper tantrums are strangely destructive. He'll swear - often in French or Italian, punch walls, kick over furniture, and physically harm himself or others. Chaz does not have a good coping mechanism, and will usually retreat to someplace where he can be alone after one of these said outbreaks, and then pop out an hour later as chipper as ever. The former emperor is more sensitive than he would like to let on, which outlines his persistently arrogant personality and his hesitation to open up to others.
It's not as if Chaz can only remember his victories. No; his defeats are firmly planted in his mind. Just being the person he is, he prefers not to talk about them. In all actuality, he's more sensitive about his social and emotional defeats rather than his military ones. Losing a handful of battles to him is nothing compared to being abandoned on an island, ultimately dying alone. So Chaz pretends that he's all rainbows and sunshine, though inwardly he fears abandonment and betrayal. Logically if you do not have any friends, they cannot stab you in the back. This also includes romantic relationships; Chaz is very hesitant regarding those. Not that that stops him from being an outrageous flirt. Flings are harmless, in his mind. Anyway, it's fair to say that most of his cocky personality is a facade. Occasionally he will become serious and melancholy, mostly when his failures are mentioned. But most of the time Chaz acts as an independent person, proudly denying sympathetic help from most. In general, he does get along better with his fellow reincarnates than "normals". Simply put, the reincarnates have more of a reason to have his respect than say the number one student in his chemistry class. He has noticeably more patience for the members of RSOR than the rest of the masses, and will often display a more serious or playfully mocking side rather than patronizing side when he is amongst those he considers to be possibly equal to himself (possibly).
PRETTY BOY, PRETTY GIRL
[/font]PRETTY INSANE[/size][/center]
Mother: Catherine Elizabeth Conte, forty-six, copy editor.
Father: Carson Elijah Conte, forty-nine, professor.
Siblings: Franco Conte, fourteen; Tallo Conte, twelve; Adala Conte, nine.
Other: None.
Pets: None.
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana.
History: Not all strange things are products of strange situations. Chaz's parents were fairly normal. His mother was twenty-nine and his father thirty-two when they were married in New Orleans, Louisiana. His father was a college professor and his mother worked for the Times-Picayune. They met through a mutual friend and were married after approximately a year, having their first child soon thereafter. Neither were blue-blood millionaire sort of wealthy, but Chaz's mother in particular came from a well-endowed family. So on July fourteenth, Chaz was born into a gratuitous three-story house in the heart of New Orleans.
Chaz was an odd child. His parents realized this when his first words were in Italian. He'd gone through the "mama" and "papa" phase perfectly normally, though there was something distinctly off when his mother attempted to teach him new words. He would read his picture books, slapping eagerly at drawings of animals, shouting "cane" or "gatto" or "pesce". His mother would coax him gently, telling him "dog, dog", but the fact remained. English was more difficult for Chaz to comprehend and pronounce, so he defaulted to Italian. His parents had never learned an ounce of Italian and assumed that their crazed child was simply spouting off random syllables. After months of him only being able to say "no", "pasta", "pizza", and random "nonsensical" words, his parents took him to a child psychologist. The psychologist, after showing the child a series of photographs and having him label each one perfectly in Italian, told Chaz's parents that their son somehow was practically fluent in a different language. Having a child fluent in a language he had never heard before was so frighteningly strange that they discouraged Chaz from speaking it, abruptly correcting every "sì" and "per favore". Grudgingly the boy began to pick up English, though would frequently throw tantrums when unable to remember or correctly pronounce one word or another.
In short, he was a bit of a handful. This could be attributed to the fact that he was born with a mishmash of memories, some from a week ago and some from two hundred years ago. His family life persistently confused him. His Louisianan mother and father weren't really his mother and father, he knew. He remembered growing up with his gambling father and his dark-haired mother and all of his siblings, but for some reason they weren't here anymore. They had been nobles and monarchs but now they were gone, replaced by a rather plain looking couple. Throughout his life, he was very disconnected from his parents and could never shake the strange alienated feeling he always had. But that couldn't excuse that fact that he was just a very grumpy baby. He refused to sleep through the night and would cry and scream when he didn't get his way. He did not get along with other children and was rather violent, biting and kicking those that peeved him. Disregarding the fact that he was fluent in a language he had never heard before, Chaz did however show other early signs of superior intelligence. He was independent and insisted upon doing everything himself. He learned how to walk and dress himself prematurely, and on the occasion when he did comply and speak English, it was in meticulous and formulated sentences.
Elementary school was difficult for headstrong Chaz. He excelled academically, though socially he was something of an outcast. He was haughty and a brat, and if anyone in his class spoke Italian they would have realized that the little boy had an amazingly extensive potty mouth. And he had a wild imagination, his teachers always said. He always pretended he was some king or emperor and loved to run around in crowns or hats. When dealing with a child, it's easy to laugh off remarks of "I use to be the emperor of France!" as just empty juvenile claims. Though as he grew older, he slowly realized that this was... a little abnormal. Initially he pestered his mother about the time he'd first ridden a horse or learned to fire a gun or, hell, even when he'd first gotten married - and she told him that they were dreams, that they never actually happened. They weren't, he thought defiantly. But he learned quickly not to mention these "dreams" to other people and tried to put them out of his mind.
[ "Was I adopted?" He remembered asking his mother when he was eight. She became frequently exasperated with him when he asked such questions as these. For her sake he had been trying to keep his outlying memories separate from his "present" memories. Whenever he would speak of his outlier memories she would become flustered and say those things never actually happened. Chaz was not an idiot; until he figured out precisely what was happening, he decided he would simply keep his mouth shut. Ending up in a mental ward was not his objective, though mostly the poor boy was afraid that he actually was insane.
"Of course not, Chaz," His mother replied rather sweetly, giving her confused son a tight smile. He pondered this for a moment.
"Have I ever been to Corsica?" The boy asked in an uncharacteristically innocent voice, tilting his head. The name of the country had bobbed around his head for a while. It always somehow surfaced whenever he pictured those flowing hills that dissolved into bright blue waters: an image he knew he'd never seen before in Louisiana. An over-active imagination, his mother had dismissed. She looked to him now, stupefied, her light eyebrows shooting towards her hairline.
"What? How do you even - that's somewhere in Europe, right, dear?" She glanced to Chaz's father who was standing by the refrigerator.
"It's off the coast of France." He spoke distractedly, buttering a piece of bread. His mother took this into consideration. The boy probably heard it while at school, or saw it on a map somewhere, she reasoned.
"No, Chaz, you have never been to Europe." She seemed to be having trouble deciding if this question was amusing or just plain strange. Perhaps if he had said England, or even France itself - but Corsica was such an oddball location. Last the boy had told her was that they were learning about the American states in his third grade glass. He could never quite place the ones on the western side of the country.
"But I remember beaches-" Beaches was the magic word. His mother leapt upon the familiarity before Chaz could finish his sentence.
"We have beaches here, Chaz. You're thinking of the Louisiana coast. Isn't that funny, dear? Chaz got Biloxi Beach mixed up with some place near France!" Children asked the silliest questions.
The boy clamped up at her mocking laughter, quickly slipping from the room. She was wrong. The fact that he was so set upon that frightened him some. ]
But they popped up frequently. Oftentimes an object would trigger a vivid memory and then he'd have to sit and think about if it was a real thought or a "fake" one. To him, the strangest part of these recollections was that he was never called "Chaz". Everyone referred to him as Le Général Bonaparte, Le Directoire Bonaparte, L'Empereur Bonaparte, Napoleon Bonaparte. It felt more natural, almost. "Chaz" felt like the strange and foreign identity, rather than the name of this person whose memories he had picked up. But that was stupid, of course. Sometimes he would just remember, stacking dusty memories alongside each other, relishing in the recollections of success - this man? he? - had enjoyed. But he always had remind himself that this was - had to be - a stupid fantasy. There was no logical explanation for anything that was happening.
And on the topic of logic, then there was the matter of religion. The Contes followed the Christian faith quite strictly, a matter that Chaz could never understand. From the time he could walk he was dressed up in proper little outfits and dragged to church to listen to some priest talk about a bearded guy in the sky. Chaz could not fathom that he was the only one in his family to see the stupidity behind this theory. There was an explanation for everything that religion proclaimed. The Big Bang and evolution were two perfectly understandable theories that disproved what his parents were trying to tell him. Chaz would always ask questions, such as where heaven or hell was, how St. Peter would know what exactly what everyone had done in life, how was it fair that murderers could repent their sins and go to heaven while good atheists rotted in hell. When he was ten, Chaz made his opinions very clear and requested to no longer go to church. To his parents, this was inexcusable. They told him that no, he had to attend church every Sunday. So he boycotted. He began by just hiding in the bathroom for the entire sermon. In a matter of months he had become a natural Ferris Bueller, feigning illness every Sunday morning. Chaz was not only extremely opinionated, but he was also loud. He had no issue with telling the pastor that the Bible an insanely long storybook. Ironically his family still drags him to church, though he opts to read or doodle during the sermon. It's a reluctant compromise.
Having roughed his way through elementary school, Chaz moved onto middle school. At this point his school required all students to learn a language, and he was randomly thrown into French. On the first day, he was rather surprised to find that many of these words looked familiar. As in, all of them. As soon as he began speaking the language, new words and phrases popped into his head. At first he was smug. Many of his fellow students found the language difficult, while he – save for his poor accent – sounded like he’d lived in France his entire life. He would brag that he’d never taken a single French class before, just to flex his superiority over the heads of his peers. Though as time rolled on, even Chaz realized that this was unnatural. No person, not even some lingual genius, could have possibly learned French this fast. He began to stifle his boasts, fabricating that he had relatives that spoke fluent French and that’s how he knew so much.
[ "Who's that?" He asked casually one day after class, gesturing to a poster of a stout man in a military uniform that hung on the French room wall. Beneath the man's portrait were the words "NAPOLÉON BONAPARTE" printed very clearly, which undoubtedly was a name he knew well. It was his name, though not really his name, but something he had remembered being called. The man looked familiar as well, though Chaz could not think of where he had seen him before. Panic was beginning to swell in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps Napoleon was a common name. An overactive imagination, he repeated to himself. Even he'd tried using that excuse nowadays.
The young French teacher glanced upwards, looking at the blonde with his backpack slung over one shoulder and then to the poster. She pursed her lips carelessly, her gaze flitting back to the ungraded papers on her desk.
"That's Napoleon Bonaparte. He was became the leader of France in 1804, following the French Revolution." 'Became' was a rather mild word for it, and she assumed that the child was not curious about the Premier Consul. The boisterous blonde appeared hesitantly thoughtful, as though he had remembered something frightening.
"L'Empereur des Français?" Chaz repeated, the words materializing on his tongue. The teacher looked to him again, appearing mildly surprised.
"Oui, l'empereur. So you've heard of him?" She asked back in a not particularly interested voice. It was not as if Napoleon Bonaparte was an obscure individual. He was famous enough to have posters of himself made and hung in French classrooms around the country, at least.
"Yes. Well, no - sort of. I don't know." The boy's typically cocky tone faltered uncertainly. He was distracted enough to not notice that his teacher was becoming increasingly bored by the conversation and most likely rather confused regarding the middle schooler's internal debate over if he'd heard of Napoleon Bonaparte or not. She pursed her lips, beginning to skim the topmost paper on her desk.
"Mm."
Her lame reply jostled Chaz, who abruptly gave her a false smile, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder.
"Ah - Merci, Mademoiselle. Bonne fin de semaine." She waved her red pen in the air in response. He, on the other hand, had quite a bit of googling to do when he got home. ]
It was during French class that he inadvertently learned about Napoleon Bonaparte. He plunged himself into research, at first hesitantly skimming a Wikipedia article and then delving into volumes of books about the dictator's life. Everything coincided. Born in Corsica, became a general, overthrew the Directory, crowned himself emperor, escaped Elba, died on Saint Helena. And there were so many battles. Images of bloodshed were forever carved into his mind with names vaguely attached to them - Austerlitz, Jena-Auerstedt, Wagram. He knew every detail of a stranger's life. He had seen every detail, lived every detail, and he had no clue how. Chaz was a very logical person; he believed in an explanation for every phenomenon. His first thought was that he had completely gone insane, but that didn't make up for the fact that he knew everything about this Napoleon Bonaparte without having learned about him before.
Chaz always thought that when you died, you just died. There were no souls, no heaven, no hell. You lived your life, and when it was over, you didn't get an encore. It was through continuous Google searches of "having memories that never happened", "remembering things that happened to other people", etc. that he happened upon the keyword of "reincarnation". Hesitantly he began to read about people who claimed they had snippets of memories from their past lives, which otherwise were stories he would have laughed at. It was borderline ridiculous; people would claim they were afraid of water because they had drown in a past life. But it was really the only thing Chaz had to go off of, and he certainly preferred to think he was a reincarnate of some French guy than to think he was completely insane. Accepting this was a bit difficult at first. This was how cults began, he thought. There had been so many people that had decided that they were Jesus or some other - usually Biblical - figure and rallied a bunch of believers to them. So for obvious reasons Chaz kept his mouth shut. He slowly became more certain that he was, in fact, Napoleon Bonaparte - it did explain his weird fear of cats - and smartly tried to cover up any oddities that surfaced because of it. Well, sometimes. Usually.
[ He had always enjoyed history class, though not for the same reason as he did presently. He was gradually coming to accept that he - it was still difficult to consider it he, but that seemed to be the actuality of the situation - had lived through the French Revolution and the Napoleonic era. Listening to his teacher ramble on about his past successes made the boy feel smug. Of course, remembering the defeat in Russia and exile were not quite as enjoyable.
"... One of Napoleon's military strategies included flying the French army across the Russian border in hot-air balloons," His teacher added with a brief smile. Chaz simply leered as the class laughed and laughed at that stupid idea. Disgusting lies. Almost shamefully he could clearly recollect the period of time when that idiotic German inventor had wandered around his - Napoleon's - court and endorsed his idea of using a hot-air balloon militarily. He was trying so hard not to pipe up and correct every inaccuracy, but when simple error because Napoleonic humiliation, he was not just going to sit there quietly.
"No it wasn't," Chaz interrupted sharply. The class quieted, offset by his insulted tone. "Leppich suggested that and Napoleon told him to ottenere la scopata fuori. And he wasn't even that short, either. I don't know why you stupid Americans think he's five foot two."
"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Chaz-" His teacher started. The boy, animated, was now on his feet.
"And... and... questa è una stronzata! Napoleon was one of the greatest, if not the best, rulers France had! Not only was he a military genius, but he singlehandedly cemented the themes of the French Revolution and brought the entire country to peace!" He was erratically waving his hands about. His plan of no-Italian and ambivalence towards the subject of Napoleon had flown out the window just a bit. He slammed his fist on his desk to reiterate his point.
"Chaz, who's the teacher?" It was probably a rhetorical question, Chaz thought. Nevertheless.
"Well apparently I should be," The boy smarted, scowling. His serious expression did not change even as he heard a few scattered laughs from the rest of the class. His typically jovial teacher's eyebrows bent.
"Go to the principal's office. We'll talk later," She snipped, watching the disgruntled boy scoop up his notebook, swinging his backpack over his shoulder with a look of defiance as he marched towards the door. Exiting the classroom, he shut it harshly behind him. Chaz did not particularly want to hear history's account of his massive defeat, anyway. It was grating enough just to have the memory of it. As he began to walk down the hallway, he could hear his teacher's voice through the classroom's thin walls.
"Now, some attribute part of Napoleon's failure in Russia to his flaring hemorrhoids..."
Chaz walked faster. ]
Save for realizing his past identity, middle school was uneventful. Not surprisingly, deciding that he had been Napoleon Bonaparte in a previous life was a bit of an ego-boost for Chaz. Unearthing things he was magically good at was exciting rather than frightening. At summer camp he found that he was an expert at riding horses and firing a gun. No longer perpetually confused, he got along much better with his family as well. His youngest sister was the person that uncovered Chaz's illogical fear of all things feline. Bringing home that stray cat did not sit too well with him, and his sister was not very happy about having to abandon the fluffy kitty at the local shelter. By the time he was thirteen, Chaz's family consisted of his mother and father, his eleven year brother, his nine year old brother, and his six year old sister. Though Chaz's father never told him, his position at the university was becoming shaky and they were looking to lay off people. It was a job offer in Riverdale that brought the Conte family to North Carolina.
Chaz moved to North Carolina the summer between seventh and eighth grade. Moving honestly was not a big deal for him. He had scarcely any companions back in Louisiana and viewed this move as something of an adventure. They bought a large house under construction in Riverdale right after they sold their one in Louisiana, living temporarily in an apartment until their new home was finished.
At this point we are skipping right along to high school, because Chaz was just his typical intelligent, conceited self all through eighth grade. Up until high school, he had never fathomed that there were other people similar to himself. Observant as he was, he had never even thought to look for these odd traits in other people. And never expecting for anyone else to be doing the same, Chaz was not exactly very discrete about the fact he was a reincarnate. Thus he was picked up very early in his freshman year by the RSOR. He was first noticed on a particularly stressful day when he had kneed an inane freshman in the crotch and proceeded to rant at the poor kid in a mixture of French and Italian in front of a hallway of other students. A now-graduate who was present for his spectacle eventually wiggled the truth out of him, and easily seduced Chaz into the club.
Chaz became a devout RSOR member, and greatly preferred being able to live as his Napoleon personality rather than having to restrain himself as Chaz. He also was talented at sniffing out and recruiting other reincarnates - particularly the latter. Chaz is a smooth-talker. By late in his freshman year he had dragged two new members into RSOR, which resulted to him being appointed to the recruiting board his sophomore year. Thus far, Chaz has not changed much from his freshman year. He's assertive and cocky, and has little interest in the academic value of school. The emperor of France has little need for "Grapes of Wrath" and chemistry. Besides, he has bigger things in mind for himself. He was a French hero in his first life; like hell he's going to spend his second rotting away in a cubicle.
I AM WHO I AM
[/font]WHO AM I?[/size][/center]
Name/Alias: Christina. :]
Other Characters: None.
Age: Seventeen.
Time Zone: Pacific.
Post Sample:
His vacation had dissolved from an accurate suggestion to a jejune method of elusion. It had begun as a flippant insinuation from his mother that perhaps he should quit slinking around the house and get some fresh air: which, in his genteel family, meant to fly to some exotic location and bask in irresponsibleness for an undecided period of time. If there was one thing the young prince of Alaine was good at it, it was avoidance (not to forget drinking and charming women: such a cultured repertoire he had), and thus with minimal prodding he had scampered off to Italia, il paese dell'arte. While perhaps sullen about the fact before, now after a healthy dosage of wine Alexander found it amusing that even his family had grown sick of his brooding and dispelled him from the palace. He had been peculiarly silent about his failed relationship; the young man had never been an outspoken individual, but sharply ending any inquiry with a "It wasn't working out" was uncharacteristically abrupt, even for him. It was something he simply could not tell them. He had mentally brewed over it for weeks and finally came to the conclusion that his parents' reactions would lean towards the negative end of the spectrum rather than the positive, and thus he shoved the cork deeper into the metaphorical bottle. His mother would be less direct than his father, probably; he could visualize her politely giving him a scant congratulatory remark in regards to his impending fatherhood. Though his father - his father would most certainly give him a rather brusque lecture on the prince's capricious behavior and for the hundredth time remind them that they were entering a war and that the young man was not easing the situation by producing babies with the opposing side (as though Alexander had any control over the female ovulation cycle). Alexander tried to reason that his relationship was already traveling down the road to death. Diplomacy would eventually gnaw them apart surely, which would result in the prince merely spending a few weeks in his room, suckling wine and blatantly sulking. But no; instead he was left with a tender heart, a mounting sense of guilt, and the sense to stuff every pocket and drawer to the brim with condoms.
His brow wrinkled, bushy brows furrowing over his eyes. This was not why he had come to Venice; he had decidedly abandoned any feelings of anxiety at the private airport prior to his departure. For the past three days he had taken up residence in an expensive hotel and had been meandering the city at his leisure, bumping reservations and cutting lines. He had an odd sort of appreciation for foreign architecture, even in his mildly intoxicated state. The young man was leaning along the stone railing of the Rialto Bridge, staring dully down the Grand Canal. Lights illuminated the boundaries of the river even in the throng of night and the bright palettes of the surrounding buildings wavered on the water's surface. Gondolas smeared the reflections as they glided elegantly beneath the ancient bridge (there was something slightly amusing about the stereotypical striped shirts and red-ribboned hats that many of the rowers wore, the prince thought absentmindedly with a subtle smirk as another boat vanished into the arch beneath him). All in all, the view from the Rialto Bridge at night was rather pretty, and his tranquility was only magnified by the fact that most of the tourists had retreated back to their hotels for the evening. Alexander had never appreciated being the subject of less-than-subtle looks or under-the-table cell phone photos and despite the frequency that both occurred, the unnecessary attention still aggravated him. He could understand the public’s need to understand what was politically going on in the royal family (and therefore the country), but it was this strange need to understand what was intimately going on in the royal family that was absurd. Admittedly his present view of the media was biased; the prince had been the victim of quite a bit of slander since his recent break-up. In addition to the circulating rumors, photographers seemed to appear whenever he was smooth-talking a lady or sneaking another one out of his house.
So in a sense, “hiding” in Italy was fruitless. Obviously the photographs of him at the gaudy Italian restaurant would circulate. He'd had quite a bit to drink, he recalled with a touch of concern. Actually, he could not remember precisely the number of glasses of wine he'd had... ah well, he was feeling more chipper by the moment and had not dropped dead from alcohol poisoning so he discerned that it didn't really matter. The prince had poor coping mechanisms, though he'd never confess to it. Burying his problems with drunkenness and nakedness didn't remedy anything the following morning. He'd fallen back into his trend of bad habits during the past few months ("bad", of course, being a matter of opinion). He couldn't exactly say he regretted it: somewhere internally, subconsciously, he knew it was bad, but at the same time it was delightfully mind consuming and rather fun. Alexander had never before encountered a situation that he could not wait out. He honestly still hoped that Caroline would get an abortion. He knew she wouldn't - they'd been over that again and again - but the prince would never stop hoping that he could simply eliminate the problem rather than avoid it. That sounded crude - eliminate - even in his head, but honestly Alexander could not see why Caroline was so damn insistent about keeping the stupid baby. There was only so long that one could hide a rotund stomach beneath unshapely clothing. And the moment the duchess' "baby bump" made itself public was the moment hell would break loose for him. The thought of denying that the child was his briefly crossed the prince's mind before he realized how idiotic that claim would be and discarded it with the rest of his irrational ideas of how to worm free from this predicament permanently.
Here he was, thinking again. This was an obstinate sign that he needed more to drink.
The young man gave a morose snort, slumping more heavily against the railing and drumming his fingers along its surface. He'd already sampled Venice's wine - he was a connoisseur, not an alcoholic, he liked to think - and thus that left its female specimens. Especially lately he leaned on the promiscuous side and being slightly tipsy (him? tipsy? never.) was a lovely boost of confidence. He was in the midst of a four day dry spell which was an unfortunately long period of time for him: an unfortunately long period of sitting around and thinking to himself and pondering if Caroline had told anyone or wondering how that little egg-sperm mutation inside of her was doing. His tongue precariously slid over his lips as tilted his head over his shoulder in order to inspect the silhouettes passing across the bridge. Just because he had a smidge to drink did not mean that he was going to lower his standards, though desperate times really did call for desperate measures. He wasn't sure if he could deal with one more night alone.- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
application format by dante/dante in ze pot. lyrics from 'wreak havoc' by angelspit. nothing will chase you down if you remove the credits, but i'd rather you not. that is all.
