Post by Beatrice Crichton-Stuart on Feb 7, 2012 13:21:09 GMT -7
BEATRICE CRICHTON STUART
before she hits the ground,
she's going to want to explore
got to step aside, never run and hide
she holds it all above us, that pretty head of hers oh
it comes screaming out, in and out of a electric show
she's the worst thing i've been addicted to
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I AM BEYOND GOD
[/font]I AM HUMAN
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Full Name: Beatrice Victoria Crichton-Stuart
Nickname(s): Bee - call her Beatrice and die.
Gender: Female
Age: Seventeen
Birthdate: September 13th 1994
Sexuality: Bisexual
Reincarnate: Yes
I am: Emily Davison
Played By: Kaya Scodelario
Grade: Junior
Boarding: Yes
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OUR SHINING FUTURE
[/font]IN REVOLT
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Height: 5'7"
Weight: 119lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Build: Skinny, but strong enough to kick your ass (or at least try to).
Scars: She was something of a 'bruiser' as a child - she has a couple of scars from stitches on her legs, a very faint one on her forehead, and quite a bad one on her forearm where she fell through a greenhouse roof.
Piercings/Tattoos: Ears and bellybutton pierced, tattoo on her shoulder.
Personal Style: Most aptly described as 'a hot mess', Beatrice manages to pull off that just rolled out of bed and pulled this shirt on look with aplomb. She looks perpetually dishevelled and couldn't tell you the last time she styled - or perhaps even brushed - her hair. She favours hoodies and dark denim over anything particularly 'girly' and believes shapeless is the way to go. (Luckily she has the figure for it.) She doesn't pay too much attention whether she's flashing too much skin or not - unusual for a girl who'd fought vigilantly for women's rights in a past life, you might think - and doesn't give a crap what anyone else thinks of her, or whatever she might look like.
Appearance: Sometimes it can be difficult to find Beatrice not covered in bruises or cuts and for some bizarre reason split lips have started to look good on her. Her mother had been thrilled with her blue-eyed beauty of a daughter, with all that dark shiny hair and those long legs, but it had never been hard for Beatrice to rebel against her natural good looks. At first she'd though doughnuts might have done the trick - but she found that she was far too vain for that (even though she pretended not to be) and her metabolism didn't quite agree. So, yes, she's tall and pretty and her eyes are quite stunning in any light, but she's nothing particularly special. She's just a good-looking girl with an English accent and a killer pair of pins.
She's not your average, run-of-the-mill stick - no, she's lean and lithe and muscular from years of kickboxing and smoking far too much and eating far too little. And she is far from perfect. There are freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones, and a couple of scars from where she scratched her chickenpox as a child (she never wanted to listen to her parents). There is something athletic in the way she moves, though at the same time she appears quite lazy... she has the grace of a ballet dancer relaxing away from the stage, or a runner away from the track, but none of their quick, precise movements.
HOPE AND HORROR
[/font]MIXED IN BLOOD[/size][/center]
Likes: Alcohol, drugs, computers, martial arts, literature, children (surprisingly), politics, activism, debating/arguing, travelling, idealism, optimism, good music, fighting, adrenaline rushes.
Dislikes: Sleeping, passivity, snobbery, horses, her parents, conformity in any situation, most people, especially those with strong & visible emotions, mind games, teachers as a rule, expectations.
Dreams: What she most wants to accomplish is to do something similar as she had done in her previous - though perhaps not to such a intransigent extent. She wants to do something important for the cause she believes in... the trouble, however, is finding that cause.
Fears: Horses, emotional intimacy, finding weaknesses in herself.
Habits/Hobbies: Smoking, twirls her hair when she's comfortable or nervous, kickboxing, extensive reader, interested in politics even though she pretends not to be.
Secret(s):
• Finds it impossible to form lasting emotional bonds - secretly believes she might be asexual even though she'll sleep with anything that walks.
• Broke her brother's collarbone when they were semi-fighting on the trampoline in the garden - she told her parents he was messing around and fell off. They believed her because really, how could a skinny little girl (albeit one who knew kickboxing) break her older brothers collarbone!?
Personality: Beatrice is a chain smoker. She’ll smoke tobacco, weed, crack… anything she can get her hands on. It’s more the fact that she needs something to do with herself than a craving for some kind of high (though she’s not complaining), and she’s highly susceptible to additives. The first clue she’d had for that one was the constant, pressing urges as a teenager to do anything dangerous. It didn’t matter what it was – going home with a random guy she met in a club, or skydiving on a tremulous family holiday in Vegas that had ended in her mother’s black tears on the aeroplane home a week early, and little Beatrice sitting on a wall outside a casino with the majority of her legs showing, one of her arms in a cast adorned with loving Sharpie scrawls and in the other the last of her Marlboro lights. Hey, she’d said to a stranger, who’d looked sharp in a white tux with dark, slicked back hair, Marlon Brando for the twenty-first century, I’m all out of cigarettes.
She enjoys tinkering with computers, an unusual habit for a girl like her, but she’s never been a stickler for convention and she’d not go as far as to call herself a hacker (though she wishes she was). Naturally a practical thinker, she finds mechanics and other concrete vocations come easily; a whole lot easier than sitting down for hours studying scientific formula from textbooks (though she does find that she enjoys the logic). Her obsessive personality means that she often indulges in what you might call ‘fads’. She’s had a go at least at pretty much every hobby you could think of, from the mother-approved to the very much frowned upon. Horse riding, ballet, piano lessons, modern foreign language study, swimming, tennis, yoga, lacrosse, netball, gymnastics, at least four different types of martial art, paint balling (she had a natural talent for head shots), she’ll give anything a try once.
Probably more introverted than a raging, blazing extrovert, she finds that she sometimes prefers being alone with her thoughts better than engaging in mindless conversation with others; the exception being, her best friend Reese with whom she spends hours smoking and chattering and whiling away time that could otherwise be used productively. She loves it when he wears his pyjamas in inappropriate situations and secretly longs to introduce him to her parents as her boyfriend (though they are quite platonic in their relationship) just to piss them off. When she is in one of her infamous ‘moods’, it is better to completely ignore her than try and struggle against the situation. With people she dislikes, or doesn’t know, she can appear disinterested in the extreme (to where it leaves people feeling worthless, drained) though she has been well trained in the art of common courtesy and etiquette, she chooses to ignore it. This abrasiveness could be, perhaps, a silent act of rebellion against the stiff manners her parents instilled in her, and the false façade the reigns so prominently in upper class society.
Her background is very much a touchy subject for her; one to be breached only after a hefty amount of some mind-altering substance has been consumed. Beatrice Victoria Crichton-Stuart was a good deal more aggressive before she met Reese Anderson, who dubbed her ‘Bee’ and was done with it. However, the sound of classical music and crushed ice in clinking against glass is enough to send her into a fidgeting wreck, looking around desperately for the easiest and nearest way to destroy the smooth, aristocratic atmosphere. She can be a little destructive at times; though as of yet her acts of devastation have been limited to stealing road signs and traffic cones, vomiting in the street and indecent exposure.
PRETTY BOY, PRETTY GIRL
[/font]PRETTY INSANE[/size][/center]
Mother:
Victoria Crichton-Stuart (neé Appleby), forty nine, socialite
Father:
Robert Crichton-Stuart, fifty eight, senior banker
Siblings:
William Crichton-Stuart, twenty seven
Felix Crichton-Stuart, twenty four
Other: None
Pets: None
Hometown: London, England
History: There’s a certain kind of stereotype reserved for girls like Bee. You know the one, of course, mummy and daddy and shiny Bentley’s and private schools and ponies. Hockey sticks and a stiff upper lip and the foreign au pairs… one nameless accent after the other. Beatrice is a Londoner at heart; but her London was all chauffeurs and nice white boutiques, soiree’s and fashion shows. Daddy is a banker, and mummy is a socialite desperate to cling to her youth, and every one of their children is more dysfunctional than the other.
First of all there’s William, who actually managed to graduate from Warwick University, but his degree was in English Literature and then he went off and married an American and lives in North Carolina and you should see Mrs Crichton-Stuart’s face at Christmas when a gaggle of slovenly, ill-mannered children from across the Atlantic fill the drawing room. Next is Felix, and in some ways he’s almost worst than Bee (who, as the last child, should be the most wayward of the lot of them) because he works in theatre, and oh, God, here comes the rub; he’s gay. A lot of the time, Felix doesn’t turn up at family dinners. When Beatrice was living at home, she had frequently wished he would more often; everything was a lot more exciting when he’s there (not to say she thrives off drama, but…).
For a long time Beatrice was the perfect child, straight A’s and smiles and perfect pretty pictures from school on the mantelpiece, until somewhere in her fourteenth year she discovered the way her parents treated her and her siblings wasn’t normal. That really hit home, along with a couple of other incidents involving their injustices and snobbish, upper class behaviour, and Beatrice rebelled in the only way that way easily accessible to her – she became the prodigal daughter. It was just alcohol and parties at first, and too many black items of clothing in her wardrobe for her mothers liking. Then it escalated to being woken for school in the morning and not being found alone… her grades slipped, she grew an attitude and a sharp tongue and was crashing on random sofas more often than she was sleeping in her own bed.
She had this strange feeling that she wasn't that normal, either. There had been too many times where she'd been crippled with deja vu for it to be your everyday, run-of-the-mill creepy, spine-tingling feeling - and then there had been the incident with the horse. That had been years and years ago, when she was barely six years old, but even today it resonates in the back of her mind like church bells every time she hears a clip-clop of hooves. She'd been so little, but she knew that she had to be anywhere but where that big, snorting beast could get to her. Beatrice had run away and hidden in the ladies bathroom, had cried so hard and been so very terrified and it had all just come flooding back, one memory after the other and then there was no stopping it. The slightest hint of injustice and her blood would boil in her veins, those stupid 'make me a sandwich jokes' the boys would crack with their eyebrows raised - she couldn't stand them. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew they were just playing, but once Emily took hold of the proverbial bit there was no stopping her. She'd give them a black eye before she could say 'long live the king' and throw a brick through his window. Emily had her cause - and there's a need, an ache, a longing in Beatrice to find hers.
She was eleven when she learned about the suffragette movement in school, and she felt like she had come home. She remembered the miss Pankhurst's like she remembered her granny who'd died three years before, and when they showed the classroom of starry-eyed girls the picture of Emily Davison underneath the horse, her hat floating off to the side in some fantastical land where nothing got squashed - Beatrice had found the source of her memories. She sat at the back of the classroom with her hands tucked into the folds of her pleated school skirt, and there were little, pearly tears in her eyes. 'It's alright,' Miss Thompson told her, later, 'Emily Davison didn't do much good for the name of Suffrage - the whole country loved the king in the early twentieth century, do you remember, Beatrice?' And she remembers. Emily would have cursed, and thrown a brick through the school window as an act of rebellion, she thinks. Bee sets off the fire alarm and embarks on a long journey of troublemaking. She has to do Emily proud, after all.
Beatrice's relationship with her parents was, to say the least, strained, and in an effort to repair the fractures she asked quite politely if she could go and stay with William for a while. They complied (as a last-ditch parenting attempt) and she transferred into her junior year at Riverdale; this is the reason why she is not a RSOR member. Saying that, she hates conformity, and she's painfully secretive in that stiff upper lip way so common amongst the British.
I AM WHO I AM
[/font]WHO AM I?[/size][/center]
Name/Alias: Chaz
Other Characters: Just Bee for now!
Age: Twenty... jeeezus, I'm getting so old ;__;
Time Zone: GMT c:
Post Sample:
She's chewing on the insides of her cheeks and hoping, wishing, praying that she's not falling in love with him, because this feeling twisting her stomach into knots is one she's never felt before, not with smoke swirling around her in the air or salt water under the soles of her shoes, just here with him in an empty corridor with with her thumbs pressed against the strong slopes of his cheekbones and their mouths inches apart. Something about it doesn't feel entirely physical, she's not used to it, not used to wanting to lie next to anyone in the grass for hours staring at the clouds so much that it hurts, grips her heart tight and makes it ache. When she pulls back away from him she's glad for the loss of his proximity; it's overwhelming at the best of times, the smell of smoke and pine trees and it often sends her reeling. Ivet the ever pragmatic Bulgarian turned quite cruelly into a blithering, blushing wreck with just the smallest smile, a tilt of his lips, the brush of his rough skin against her cheek.
And now the three of them are just standing there, her feet spread at shoulder width and Freddie's spine held up straight, Gael straight-faced and imposing at her side; the two war generals and the pacifist locked in a stand off cackling with lightening, electricity sparking blue, the girl tousling her blonde hair and trying to put things at ease. Ivet is chewing hard on the inside of her cheeks and she watches as Gael lifts his hand to his mouth, coughs, rubs his palms on his jeans. She's tempted, oh so tempted, to grab a hold of his hands and kiss the backs of them so softly, in that pink, glossy way of hers that is so different to how she throws him up against walls and ravishes him… but temptation is yanked from her grasp as he sits very stoically across from Freddie, his white skin catching in the light from the fire and the heat of him vanishing from her side like smoke disappearing into the night sky. He is so fleeting, gone so quickly that she doesn't even have the chance to try and catch him.
Her mouth trembles a little, imperceptible underneath the flat of her palms (she'd cupped her pretty pink lips so fast it almost looks as if she should be dashing for the bin in the corner). She wishes that Gael couldn't read her so well, then, that she wasn't some open paperback with a cracked spine, yellow pages turned up at the corners. Her hands drop back to her side like stones and for a minute she fusses with the bobbled hem of her oversized jumper, her eyes cast to the floor, the red carpet that brings back of flood of memories that don't exactly put her at ease; her face is sharper than normal when she glances up towards Gael, her voice smooth and catching in all the wrong places as she smirks at Freddie, steps closer to the table he's sitting at, "I can think of a hundred better ways to be productive," but it comes out all wrong, smoky and suggestive when she'd meant it to be playful and light-hearted. She swallows hard, Ivet digging a six foot hole with a too-small shovel and a sore back. The atmosphere is making her nervous, as she stands there dithering between the two of them, her palms open and flat on the table, her fingers curling neatly over the most abandoned parts of Freddie's essays. She wants to sneak off to her room and hide cocooned under swathes of red and gold blankets; red from home and gold a new, English addition.
She's almost choking on her breath, floundering under the weight of all these silly, petty introductions and her smile is like fibreglass, shards of it catch in her throat, "I can't believe you two don't know each other," dig, dig, digging, "you're like… so similar." This breathy little outburst is followed by a moment of uncomfortable silence, the swish of alcohol against glass and she cocks her head to the side, one hand clutching at her sharp hip, "nothing to interest you," she grimaces at him, but it's playful and she turns her head to catch Gaels eye and she winks, her cheekbones flooded red and the pulse in her pale neck throbbing erratically; she turns back to Freddie slowly, hoping the blushing doesn't give the game up too much, "you passing that little hip flask around, fella?"
She's still standing, propped between the boys like a peace offering; the real reasoning for it being she doesn't want to hang around, doesn't want to prop herself up on the arm of Gael's chair so that she's so damn tempted to curl her fingers into the feathery hair at the nape of his neck, doesn't want to sit and dangle her legs on the table, doesn't want to cement her presence. She wants to break up this dangerous tete-a-tete before it bloody well begins. "It's such a tiny bottle, not enough for a party, hm? I'm knackered away… it must be getting on for one, right?" There's an obvious desperate tinge to her voice, her eyes wide and imploring at looking solidly at Gael in the same way they had in the hallway, pressed up against his chest outside the Gryffindor tower, clinging onto iron spokes fifteen feet in the air, over there beside the fireplace with the flames framing her face and shining through the curly wisps of her hair, waiting for her knight in shining armour… but only they know how it's the other way around, that it is Ivet who slays monsters, Ivet waiting at the castle gates. When she looks away, she's chewing on hard on the insides of her cheeks.- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.
