In Character
Name: Andrea Stone
Date of Birth: May 30th
Gender: Female
Placement: She is looking to be a resident, but in her current state of mind cannot decide whether she is an adult or child
Height: Five-foot-four
Weight: One hundred and fourteen pounds
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Complexion: Fair—light tan
Nationality: French—parents were immigrants, though
Likes: ] -First day that it’s safe to run around barefoot indoors without getting cold
-Clothing that is still warm from the drier
-Every season
-Warm rain
-The first day of lightning bugs
-The butterflies you get when you first meet someone you’re attracted to
-Gum—specifically peppermint
-Working out
-Girls
-Whistling
-The cool side of the pillow
-The right side of a bed
-Inspirational quotes
-Beaches
-Tea
Dislikes: ] =Awkward silences
=People with overwhelming personalities
=That feeling of paranoia that sometimes sets in the pit of your stomach
=Meat
=Red shoes
=Days so cold you can feel your lips chapping
=Air too cold to breathe in through your nose without it stinging
=Hail
=People who don’t wash their hands after a bathroom excursion
=People who ANNOUNCE a bathroom excursion
=Missing someone
Strengths: -Reasoning with people
-Staying calm
-Is not easily coerced with sex
Weaknesses: =Feels the need to provide for someone
=Always puts others before herself
=Soft spoken
=Pines away for love
Favorite Food: Oranges
Avatar: 
Personality: “I’m not one to get angry. I’m really not. I’m nice! I promise. It’s just…sometimes I think I’m too nice? That’s what everyone used to say—Mama, Papa, Raphael, Genevieve…everyone said I was too nice. My English tutor in school called me a ‘pansy,’ but when I looked that up in my French-English dictionary it said that a pansy was a flower. I still don’t see what that has anything to do with my personality. But apparently I’m too nice because I think that other people’s happiness is just as important as my own, and sometimes I’ll stop thinking about myself and think about them first. I mean, if I do them a favor, won’t they do one for me? Maybe I just trust the good in people too much.
“But even so, I’m not bitter. I mean, yes, I know the world is not perfect and there are men and women and people out there who would want to hurt me if they saw me, but ultimately I think the world is a beautiful place. Have you ever seen a baby smile? That’s the world. You know one day the smile will disappear, but it’s grand while it’s there. I suppose I am an optimist. I smile when I wake up in the morning.
“Yes…I’m a happy person. I’m nice and I’m not bitter, but I’m shy. Mon dieu, I’m shy. When I see a stranger I just can’t look them in the face. I mean, I’ll talk to them! But I can’t make eye contact—I stare at the floor and my feet and count tiles or the number of stitches in my shoe and I’ll chew my lip furiously while I talk. There’s something about a stranger’s eyes—especially if they’re the confident sort—that make you feel as if they’re stripping you bare. Your clothes, all the walls you’ve built up around the real you and your heart and soul…they don’t exist. They have you.
“Love? Me? Je souhaite! No…I’m shy, remember? And I can’t strike up a conversation. And I’m not one for sex…not really…not after…well, it’s not important. I’m just not a very sensual person, and it seems that most of the girls in Toulon are out for sex on the beach and nothing else. Even Genevieve…baise, I thought she loved me! That’s all I want…I want someone to love me and for me to love and for me to be happy with. But everyone wants sex and lust and a decent orgasm, so I’ve learned to accept the fact that I won’t find what I need. Does that make me bitter? No. I love a baby’s smile and I’m too nice, remember?”
Basic History: “‘Once upon a time,’ Mama told me, ‘there was a God who created the sun and the earth and the moon and the universe and you, and it made me and Papa very happy.’ And I think that she was telling the truth, for awhile at least. She and Papa were immigrants from Australia—they came here for their honey moon and fell in love with the city of love and the language, but it was far too expensive for them to settle in Paris. So they went back to Australia and packed up their belongings and moved to Toulon to live along the beach. They were still madly in love at the time, and Mama says that when love happens (and by love, I know now that she means sex) God listens (to how loud they are?) and creates a baby and puts it in a Mama’s tummy. That baby was my brother, Raphael. The second time around, that baby was me.
“Raphael was four years my senior. He was a brother who was kind most of the time and would take me down to the beach when I was old enough to walk on my own, and we would play in the surf and build castles and moats and get our pants dirty and soiled so that Mama would throw a fit and Papa would laugh at us. He was a mean brother too, when he was cranky, but I loved him irrevocably. He was my very best friend in all the world and I could tell him anything, even if he was cranky, because he knew when to put his own feelings aside if I needed him. I say was, however, because he was gone one morning when I was nine. Mama and Papa did not look for him, as much as I saw. I only found out when I was thirteen—the age Raphael was when he was gone—that they showed up on television and asked anyone to look for their son, to please bring him home, because they missed him and loved him and their world was crumbling without him. I never saw this, because we did not have a television.
“I didn’t know what to do without Raphael. I was studying in school, and when I was thirteen I would be starting my years in college (it is like a secondary school in other parts of the world) prior to university. Raphael was the only one who could bring out my carefree side, when I was not so shy. But then he was gone and it was as if God had taken the sunshine out of the sky that was my life. It became dark and rainy and I never spoke to Mama, and only Papa could sometimes get me to smile because he and Raphael were very good friends and he knew what Raphael would say in some situations, and he would say this to me and I would smile. Mama did not know, so I did not love Mama as much as I used to. I blamed her a little bit. I think Papa did too, because one day he told me that he and Mama loved me very very much but they did not love each other, and so Papa left for Paris because now he could afford it. He came down every other weekend to spend a day with me, and I recognized him less and less every time.
“I began to enjoy life again, though. It took some time for me to realize, but I could not fall asleep one night and I did the math in my head and realized that I knew Raphael for a very brief period of time in my life, if it would be long, and so I refused for him to ruin the rest of it. So I entered college still extremely shy, but at least I was happy. I smiled shyly and averted my eyes and did well in my studies, and I think people liked me because I was something they could not figure out. Well…everyone except for Genevieve. Genevieve was the girl who sat next to me in my English class, and she spoke it so wonderfully. The teacher hardly ever heard my voice in class and asked Genevieve if she would mind talking to me one-on-one for our oral exam, because perhaps if it was not in front of the class I would not be so shy and I could do well. She agreed. She took me out to the common outside the front of the school and we sat in the grass in stead of the benches and she talked to me. I talked back only a little, because the things she said made me blush and stutter. She kissed me at the end, and lied to the tutor and said I did wonderfully.
“What happened after that is not important. Four years went by and I wanted to say something to Mama. Genevieve found out. Genevieve stopped talking to me, but Mama found out anyway. And then I left, like Raphael.
Sample RP: To find Zakaeus Tasseon awake at all hours of the night was nothing unusual, particularly for those who had ever watched the boy eat at meals. He had a monophonic habit of scarfing down any and all desserts that he could get his hands on, knowing that digestion and monumental amounts of sugar coursing through his veins were good enough reasons for any semi-logical, half-awake student or teacher that should stumble across him. But in all truth, the sixth year found something terribly comforting in the placid silence of the night, knowing full well that he was enjoying hours of being fully awake, ever nerve pulsating with life as others slowly rotted away in their beds, mouths wide open to let out snores and invite in gaping illnesses. Zak had hours at his fingertips to use as he pleased while his peers wasted such precious moments upon sleep--something that came in infinite amounts once they truly
were dead and rotting six feet under a rainstorm of tears brought up for the one-day-only, step-right-up-and-get-your-tickets-now funeral.
But there was no tempest of tears coming down around him at the lonely hour of one-fifteen in the early morning, as there was no funeral currently being attended. Within the vicinity of Hogwarts Castle, at least--when he thought about it, Zak supposed that there was always a funeral going on somewhere in the world, and this overly-depressing thought currently caught him sitting up in bed, spine set rigid in it's constant slightly-learning-forward curvature. The molecules of his skin were screaming out with the inexplicable urge for something to come and stab at his back, proving that he really was alive, unlike the unlucky corpse that was currently being buried into the ground every six or seven or fourteen-point-four seconds--whatever the statistic was that week. Images of roses and black, hearses and mascara-and-tear-stained cheeks tripped through the conglomeration of random thought fragments that was the mind of the Gryffindor boy. Stupid, subliminal messages of grief that whispered terrible secrets of panic into his reactions, causing Zak to suddenly jump out of bed and shiver as if something were crawling across the skin of his exposed chest.
He paused a moment, allowing his suddenly-accelerated heartbeat to slow down to a substantial rhythm that would not earn him a ticket should the muscle be a car speeding down a highway. Calmed for a moment, Zakaeus took advantage of this brief moment of sanity to allow himself to pull a long-sleeved tee-shirt over his chest, his sock-clad feet skidding a short distance across the polished hardwood floor of the dormitory. Whether it was from almost tripping on the floor and coming dangerously close to cracking his skull open on the corner of a trunk, only to have the deep, dark secrets of his brain spill and drip out slowly onto the comforters of the four-poster, or if it was from the thoughts that previously inhabited his mind, Zak found that his breathing was still slightly accelerated. He shakily rose from where he had landed as gracefully as an elephant upon a unicycle, knees unsteady as he made his way down the staircase and into the common room. Embers of a dying fire whispered and winked at his shadow, splayed across the wall, as Zak hurriedly sulked past the fireplace, couches in front of the perishing flames sprayed with the occasional unconscious form of a student who studied too hard.
The hinges that were the support to the frame of the
pleasantly plump (but never fat, as Zakaeus was a gentleman) lady never failed to shriek with protest every time that a student out past curfew attempted to open the secret door with one quick, fluid movement. It seemed that only when it didn’t matter how much ruckus one made that the hinges cooperated and ceased their squaks, saving students the irritating trouble of a headache. However, it was after hours, and the terrible high-pitched howls of the aging metal vibrated throughout Zak’s eardrums, an automatic cringe making its icy path up his spine and rattling his bones within his covering of muscle and skin. To him, it sounded more like the cries of an anguished lover, perhaps a mother who had lost her child far too soon, knowing full well that it went against nature’s law whenever a parent was forced to bury their child. He froze, halfway through the portrait hole, head ducked and eyes squeezed tight, waiting for the horrible, dreadful noise to stop, permitting him to continue to a haven somewhere a good distance away from the common room, which seemed to be laced with negative energies that night. His next movement was slapdash—Zakaeus didn’t attempt to be quiet, only hasty as he jumped out of the portrait hole and slammed the passage shut, immediately sprinting to the nearest staircase, a perfect example of Shakespeare—those who hasten trip far easier.
It seemed as if his footsteps were attempting to keep up with his racing mind, but Zak was never one for self-control over more than two functions (on a good day) at a time. Between the flashes of thoughts and memories flying through his head at break-neck speed—damned images that refused to vanish from his mind—and the urgency of retreating from the site of the thunderous noise he had made, it seemed as if the teenager forgot hot to retain control over his movement. Approaching a staircase, Zakaeus’s sock slid against the hardwood flooring, forcing his foot to skid over the edge of a stair, upon which his arse promptly landed. Immediately after, he began a lengthy and uncomfortable tumble down the stairs, grunts and moans coming unbidden from his mouth as his nerves danced as though they were on fire from the pain. As unfortunate as the situation was, the thought of his expressions of pain being mistaken for those of pleasure couldn’t help but enter his mind. It was for that reason that he erupted into a fit of laughter, rather than more groaning or (God forbid) tears when he finally rolled to a halt in a hallway of the sixth floor, allowing the noise to echo and ricochet off the stone walls and mix with the footsteps that he could hear in the distance.
Wait a tick…footsteps? As the realization that he was not alone on this promenade de la noir, Zakaeus Tasseon’s blood froze within his veins.
Out of Character
Name/Alias: Rad
Age: 15
Contact Details: PM is good
Other Characters: None
Daily Password: {adminedit} password removal
STONE, Andrea
