Post by Allie Pullman on Mar 16, 2009 8:12:29 GMT -5
it's all about YOU;;
Name: Emily
Other Characters: None
How much will you be able to login?: About every day
the CHARACTER;;
Name: Alice Pullman
Age: She believes she was born in the early fifteen-hundreds, but no one she knew could count back then, so she doesn’t know her age. She has the appearance of a woman in her early twenties.
Species: Human Immortal
Celeb: Kiera Knightly
Personality: Most who meet Alice see her as a world-weary cynic and think this strange. She seems to them only a child, barely past her childhood and they wonder what could have happened to her to make her so angry and so sad. She rarely lets people in to her life for long, and never grows attached as she has felt the pain of bereavement too many times before.
Allie is fond of saying “I’m broken, but my body won’t break”. She is referring to the psychological effect that her deaths have had. She dreams of faces she barely remembers doing unspeakable things to her until she dies. Upon death there is release, but for Allie, that release is only temporary. She has to live with the things she has seen, the things that have happened to her, and that has changed her from the flirtatious bar-wench of her first life into the hardened, world-weary woman she is today.
History: Alice was born under the rule of King Henry VIII, in London. She remembers little of this time – even the name her mother gave her escapes her. What she remembers most vividly is her first death. She had entered a tavern; owned by her husband. It was late and there were few people around at that time. Her husband (time has erased her first love’s name as well as her own from her mind) had been in the beer and had had too much. She had ended up with one of her own kitchen knives lodged between two of her ribs. When she had come to, he had been sitting in the corner, staring at her lifeless body with fear in his eyes.
After giving him back the knife, she had taken enough money to survive for a few days, and left. First travelling to Scotland, where she entered service as a cook, or a maid, or whatever was needed by the local gentry.
She remembers little of anything that happened during the years between leaving London and the Civil War, but her second death happened over one hundred years after the first. She had been working for a prosperous baker, cleaning and tidying his shop, and selling his goods while he made them. He thought he was in love with her, and she knew this so she was preparing to leave. She was living in Royalist Somerset, and Parliamentarians were rumoured to be making raids nearby. One happened in Alice’s small shop. Her second death was more violent and crueler than the first. Separated from their wives and trained for violence, the parliamentarian soldiers who came looking for bread found Alice alone. They used her in turns before beating her over the head until she passed out. She woke up bloody but breathing after they had left her for dead. She left the town immediately, with as much money as she could gather from her room and the shop. She went back to London and watched the beheading of King Charles I with silent tears.
The next few years are, again, a blur for Alice. She left London with the arrival of the Black Death, and missed the Great Fire. She learned to read and write, and crossed the channel into France. She learned the language quickly with complete immersion, and became a courtesan. She earned enough money to be comfortable amongst the landed gentry, and moved back to England in the early eighteen hundreds. She called herself a great many different names, from Nancy to Anne-Marie, from Elizabeth to Maxine.
From England, she gained passage to America, where she purchased a tavern with her new money. She hired girls for entertainment, and men for security. Alice herself (now going by the name of Sarah Jane Powell) kicked a few less than polite customers out of her place. She saw to it that no one ever got hurt or killed in her little bar unless they had it coming to them. She also saw to it that her girls were kept safe and clean. Her boys showed her how to fire a gun, and she showed them how to read and write. They became like her own private army, and more than once the sheriff came to her for their help. The locals called her ‘The Duchess’.
She could only stay in one place for a few years at a time – passing for seventeen at the youngest and thirty-one at the oldest (and then only with the right make up and bad lighting). So all too soon she had to leave her little town. She took up with a man named Bill, who admired her shooting and put her on show. By this time, she had changed her name to Annie, and learned the accent particular to part of America in order to blend in.
With her money hidden away safely, she travelled for a while, seeing more of the United States, and going back to England for a spell. She continued to Europe, starting with France where she visited her old haunts; then on through Spain and down to Morocco. She travelled through Algeria and Tunisia, and then crossed the Mediterranean in to Sicily. She stayed a while, the locals marvelling at her light hair. Eventually, homesick, she decided to go back to England. Going through Europe this time, she posed as heiresses and widows, conning wealthy gentlemen out of their money. By the time she got back to London, she had enough money with her to settle down again. Choosing a small country house, she hired a modest staff and planned to rest for a while. The year was 1913. The following year war broke out, and she left for the fields of France to do what she could as a nurse. It turned out that what she was best at doing was getting shot. Twice she woke up to worried faces, next to a dead or dying man or woman. “The blood isn’t mine... I must have fainted at the sound of the shot...”. Her third and fourth deaths.
After the war, she left England behind for good, and went back to where she had been happiest – America. Her old bar was gone, but she bought a new one nearby. Prohibition came into effect two years later and she turned it into a restaurant.
She grew bored with life on the straight and narrow after her decadent adventures through Europe, so she sold up in the early 30’s. Through WWII and up to the present day she has been making her living in any way possible. With the collapse of most civilisation, she lost much of her money, and makes ends meet in any way she can. This usually involves a certain degree of dishonesty, but she never takes from those that can’t afford to give.
Occupation: Chancer/Grifter
Likes: Banana daiquiris; A good man in her bed; Honesty (although you can’t con an honest man); A good woman in her bed; Good food; Singing; Target practise; Sunlight.
Dislikes: People who take advantage of honesty; Time Wasters; An empty bed; Strawberry daiquiris; Bullies and louts; Any situation where the odds are more in favour of one party than the other.
Cannon?: no
Codeword: [ADMIN EDIT]
RP Sample:
Paris. Home of the Eiffel Tower. Culture capital. City of romance, or whatever.
Kee was bored out of his skull. He’d flooed to Paris for the weekend. Partly in search of a rare book he wanted for the library back home, and partly because he needed a holiday. His plans had all gone to hell in a hand basket however, when he realised upon his arrival that he didn’t speak a word of French. Well... he could say “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” but that was pretty much the extent of his experience with the language of love.
And so, Keeley Macpherson was alone and friendless in a strange city. Worse, a strange country. As the day drew to a close he became more and more despondent; he hadn’t been able to find the volume he’d wanted because of the language barrier, and his accent was making it difficult to make himself understood to even those Parisians who spoke English. Delving into his pocket as he walked the streets, he brought out a pamphlet he’d picked up before leaving Scotland. It listed most of the best wizarding bars in Paris, so he thought he might as well check one out. ‘Fleur Moisie’ looked reasonable enough in the pamphlet, so it was in that direction he wandered.
The sun sank lower over the city as he walked, taking in the city. If he ignored the fact that he felt completely isolated, it was quite nice. The landscape in this quartier dominated by that most famous of towers, La Tour Eiffel. He began to grow wary, however, when he noticed that the directions given to him by the pamphlet in his hand seemed to be leading him down a fairly dark alleyway. Gripping his wand inside his pocket he ventured in, and was startled to see the entrance to the advertised pub. On the sign, there was a rotting rose.
“Just my luck” He muttered quietly to himself as he walked through the door. Inside was much like it’s Leeds counterpart, but it all seemed to somehow have been contrived – as though the owner had visited The Mouldering Flower and enjoyed the atmosphere so much he’d decided to emulate it with his own establishment.
Sauntering up to the bar, he smiled lopsidedly at the bartender. He held up a forefinger, and said, in painful pidgin French “Une whiskey see voo play.” The bartender seemed to understand, as he poured the right drink, but he glared at Kee the whole way through. Kee’s grin faltered and then died on his lips. “Right you are then” he murmured under his breath, paying for his drink, and turning to survey the room.
