Thank you! And she can keep her hair. I've decided to wait until Sunday for Justagirl and cspr to have their profiles in, and we'll start sometime on Monday. It that okay for everyone?
Open the gates and seize the day! Don't be afraid and don't delay.
To die would be an awfully big adventure.
I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
Sure, I'll make an exception and give you a spot, but I'll only accept it if you get a profile in by Sunday. I want to start on Monday and anybody who doesn't have their profile finished by Sunday night is out. PM me if you have any questions about your character!
Open the gates and seize the day! Don't be afraid and don't delay.
To die would be an awfully big adventure.
I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
Monday. If Cspr and xXmusicaXx don't have profiles in by Sunday, we are going to start without them. I've sent them reminders, so I hope that they'll have them in!
Open the gates and seize the day! Don't be afraid and don't delay.
To die would be an awfully big adventure.
I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
Name: Stephen Abandonato Age: (13-17) 17-years-old Gender: Male Time Period: 1920s Gem On Ring: Bloodstone Appearance: Tall (and thusly great in the art of looming), lean but relatively well-muscled. Darker skin (ethnicity: Italian), few-inches-long shaggy black hair, dark eyes. Appears relatively posh, well-spoken, good posture. Isn’t that bothered by wearing the ring. Square-jaw, bit of stubble, seemingly-narrowed eyes, thinner lips, slight Roman nose. Picture (reminder: he is younger and slightly more, erm, suave? -feels awkward for having to look up Italian men on Google images- Should've drawn him, I suppose, but blargh):
Spoiler! :
Stephen.jpg (5.27 KiB) Viewed 161 times
Personality: Abrasive, logical, easily annoyed, harsh, dominating, sometimes violent, yet very protective of those he’s decided to side with, likes new ideas (welcomes them), and will acknowledge your opinion if you sound intelligent. He will not stand for imbeciles; idiots, fools, and people that apparently want him to get killed are the bane of his existence. History: Lived in New York, parents were immigrants (dead; one to illness--father, one to a stabbing--mother), three older siblings (two dead, boy and girl, young; sister married, moved to North Carolina). Left alone, simply. Poor and hungry, but still looking built like a bull, was enlisted to, ahem, deal with things by an unsavory individual. Managed to find himself a lover, but she left after finding out about his job--even though the bootleg business is going quite well right about now. It wasn’t a hard decision to leave. Strengths/Weaknesses: Strengths: Knows how to use a gun, knives, and various other instruments of pain/death or, in nicer terms, self-preservation. He’s used to blood, street fights, pain, extreme stress, and dealing with difficult situations. He, in short, has gained nerves of steel, even if he might’ve been called vaguely neurotic or paranoid today (he’s good at rooting out traitors, though, so this isn’t exactly a weakness--it just makes him mildly more ruthless). Weaknesses: Emotions confuse him. It is unsurprising he lost the girl. He doesn’t play nicely with others, either. He understands following orders or giving them, being equal to someone is an odd notion to him. Equals, in his mind, are normally competitors. He’s also somewhat sexist (somewhat unsurprising, given the time he lived) and--well, you know, he doesn’t particularly like people, actually. They all die, or stab one in the back, or are useless, or a threat to one’s safety--by either being hapless, helpless, or dangerous. Likes/Dislikes: Likes: Money, shelter, good food, not dying of infectious diseases, his girl, people who are not idiots, time when he’s not getting shot at, or when someone is trying to drown him, or when he isn’t dealing with drug dealers, because they’re worse than alcohol salesmen and they don’t seem to get morphine, or cocaine, or marijuana, while new, is what people who can’t afford alcohol buy. Up For Love: Would you want this guy? No? Good, that’s a very good idea. He probably hits. (Admittedly, he does have some redeeming factors, but, guys.) But feel free? Other: He took a relatively large deal of cash and two suits, one he was wearing and the other one all black, with fancy ties. Compared to today, 20s ties were rather colourful. I am not sure how this translates, though, sorry. (Otherwise, I thought it might be fun, what can I say? An Al Capone or Jack “Legs” Diamond in the time period of the American Revolution? Yes. Very much so yes.)
Also, sorry for the reference to drugs. They got “big” in the Prohibition, too--a replacement for alcohol. Tried to be relatively realistic while making his character. Can take it out, though, if you’d prefer. I mean, it’s not like he’ll do drugs in the SB, he just worked around dealers in his now former life.
Name: Fern Thornton Age: 17 Gender: Female Time Period: 1660 - Renaissance era - Europe Gem On Ring: Blue cat's eye
Spoiler! :
Appearence: Fern is of average height and has a slight, but strong build. She has aquamarine eyes that go dark when she gets angry. She has long, light brown hair that reach upto her waist, which she usually keeps pulled up in a messy bun. She is accustomed to toting around a crossbow and her backpack (which contains, among other things, her quiver of arrows.) Oh, and did I mention that she has a scar running down her face over the right eye? She can keep it open normally though, and sometimes wears a white eyepatch to cover it up. She has a white barn owl named Ariel who gives her company, and likes to perch on her shoulder. Other than her crossbow, she keeps a small dagger tucked into the side of her leather boots and another one that holds up her hair. She speaks with an Irish twang as that is her homeland. She is Irish by birth.
Spoiler! :
Personality: Fern is quick tempered, but calm in the face of danger. She loves people, but hates being ordered around, and will only do something if she is asked to. She loves to drink, and can hold her liquor pretty well. She isn't used to staying in any one given place very long, given her history.
History: Fern ran away from home at the age of 13. It was because she had lived with thirteen other kids her age, and it was hard on the lady who had given them houseroom. She did this in an effort to pay the lady back. She was found by a bounty hunter, who taught her his trade (after much begging, pleaing, biting and fighting) and took care of her. By the time she was 15, Fern was an accomplished bounty hunter. She is incredibly flexible, and good at camoflouging herserlf.
Strengths: Distance combat, decision making, speed and flexibility. Weaknesses: Close - range combat, her nakama (which could also be considered her strength in another way.) Likes: Her owl, beer, people Dislikes: People who insult her friends, criminals Up For Love: Depends - If she likes the person, she will be open about it. Other: She only took her backpack along with her....and two bottles of beer. Her owl flew in after her.
Last edited by xXmusicaXx on Thu Feb 16, 2012 7:50 pm, edited 3 times in total.
"Married to music - 'nuff said." "Freedom is everything to me."
"Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?" "I shall futterwacken vigorously" ~ Tarrant Hightop, Alice in Wonderland.
Alright guys, the profiles are in and it's the Final Countdown! We're starting tomorrow! So if you have any last-minute questions, now is the time to ask! I can't wait!
Open the gates and seize the day! Don't be afraid and don't delay.
To die would be an awfully big adventure.
I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
We are starting at the time when your character steps into the tear and finds themselves in Boston. Perhaps you can give a little explaination why they decided to go as well! Have fun!
Lottie I wait in the empty stall, grateful that John Hancock has taken his horse out for a ride today. I look over my shoulder, making sure that no Redcoats have followed me before I sit on the bale of hay in the corner. I lean against the side of the barn, pulling out a pair of stockings that I am knitting.
I finish the edging, pulling out my needle and thread to make the edge complete. The ring gets in my way, making me prick my finger for the first time in years, but I keep it on. This F.T., the mysterious stranger that sent me the ring with a letter, telling me to find an empty stall in the stables to wait for others to arrive, made it very clear that I should keep the jade ring with me at all times. He had explained in the letter that the people that would be coming would be very different from me, but he said that I should try to have an open mind. I had to laugh to myself when I had read that. The only people I didn’t keep an open mind about are Redcoats and Tories.
Speak of the Devil; I can hear my least favorite Redcoat coming. It has to be at least a year since I had mistakenly used my fan around Thomas Wilder. I hated the man more than anything in the world. First of all, he was almost thirty years old now. Mrs. Burbidge, the woman who was kind enough to let me be her apprentice at the milliners shop, approves of him, telling me that older men are better suited for young ladies. She encourages me to marry him as soon as I can, saying that I’ll be better off married young.
I don’t want to marry. Well, at least not yet. I have my heart set on moving to New York when I get out of my apprenticeship in five years, and starting my own milliner’s shop. I want so much more than to just be a simple housewife, bearing my husband sons.
I flatten my back against the door of the stall, remaining perfectly silent as Thomas Wilder and his friend walk past. I hear Thomas say, “I swear that I saw her come in here. I wanted to introduce you to her, Sir.” It must be his platoon leader with him. The other man replies, “I’ll have to meet Lottie another time, then. Why would she come into the stables, anyways? She should be inside the milliner’s shop, sewing something.” I roll my eyes as Thomas and his superior leave, laughing hardily. This is another reason I hate Thomas. He completely disrespects me. He talks to me as if I am a child, acting like he is superior to me, just because I am a woman. That isn’t the worst part about him though. He gets extremely jealous of any man that talks to me, often picking a fight. And I’ve seen what he does to people who break the law. He’s tarred and feathered people, put innocent boys in the stocks, and he has even hung a man.
Oh, how stupid is Thomas. He thinks that I am a tory, just like Mrs. Burbidge. He trusts me so completely about this that he has taught me to shoot a musket and has even given me one. Just in case “I am ever attacked.” How silly. I’m only ever in danger when I’m around him. Granted, nobody knows just how much of a rebel to the crown I am. Most every Son of Liberty knows that they are welcome to meet in the rooms that I live in above the milliner’s shop. They all know of my allegiance to the Daughters of Liberty. But most do not notice a small boy with freckles, who sits at the back of the room during meetings. That boy is me. I sneak out of the milliner’s shop every night, dressed as a boy so that I may attend meetings. It is a big help that Mrs. Burbidge sleeps in a separate house. Because I am learning how to sew, it was quite simple to use leftover fabric to make myself a boy’s outfit and a tri-cornered hat to cover my eyes and hair. I feel that it is simply not enough to boycott British goods. With my musket and my boy’s outfit, I am a part of the Boston Militia. I have Thomas to thank for that. With his teaching, I am a bit of a crack-shot with my musket.
Now that the Redcoats have left the stables, I sit back down on the bale of hay and stare down at my basket of knitting and crochet needles and colorful yarn. I pick a white yarn, stringing it expertly around the crochet needle. I have been trying for months, but I just can’t get the hang on crochet yet. I can’t grasp the concept of weaving a shawl out of just one needle. How do you start a new row? How can you change the pattern? I am so engrossed in figuring out the art of crochet that I almost don’t notice when the tear in the air comes. It looks like a ragged rip, completely dark; black. Like somebody who is incompetent with scissors has tried to make a straight line in the air. I put the unfinished crochet back in my basket, standing as I watch people step out of the tear. Each of them is looking at me with either disbelief, confusion, or a completely emotionless stare. Before I even get a good look at all of them, I smile hugely and say, “Good day! F.T. sent you, I assume. Welcome to Boston!” Then I stand there, waiting for somebody to reply as I twist the ring on my finger nervously.
Open the gates and seize the day! Don't be afraid and don't delay.
To die would be an awfully big adventure.
I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
After she left, he hadn't had much hope. His job was somewhat enjoyable, but he doubted his Roman Catholic mother would've approved. He hadn't much cared but he'd had to wonder, what sort of life would he ever have? Either he'd be wealthy or alone, or finally arrested and alone.
That's why he hadn't much questioned the letter, just slipped the fetching ring on his finger--the thing, with its solid gold band and bloodstone, was worth plenty, too. He'd gathered up an extra suit, his best, and money. He didn't figure he'd want to bring much, money could get you near anything except people to enjoy your presence, and one couldn't risk bringing liquor everywhere.
He stared at the ring now, wondering if he could take the final step and then, with her face in his brain--the one who'd left him, he let out a bitter laugh and pushed down the semiprecious stone. He hated to think she might return and think him dead, but wasn't that what you got for abandoning the one who'd professed to love you? He wouldn't stand for abandonment, not now. No matter what.
The tear popped up in front of him and he jerked back a step. Somehow, he'd thought it maybe a joke. Now? No. This was real. He shouldered the rucksack he'd shoved his things in--one of the few inherited items he'd kept--and stepped into the seam.
***
Smell of horses and straw wasn't unusual to him, pleasant, really, from those few times he could remember of the family's home in a more rural New York before they left for the city in hopes of finding work--not that either of his parents had succeeded with that. Him, yes.
He looked around, only to be jostled as someone else apparently came out of the seam as well. He jerked away and glowered, but wasn't too bothered. In the city, that was normal, too. They'd just upset his nostalgia, though.
He looked around and his eyes fell on a smallish woman as she started to speak. “Good day! F.T. sent you, I assume. Welcome to Boston!” she said.
His eyebrows rose. Impressive. He'd somehow been moved to Boston. Much faster than horse and buggy or even those newfangled cars. No matter, he knew Boston. This would be fine.
After all, he was used to risky jobs. Maybe this would also be enjoyable.
I quietly rubbed the gems on my ring when it occured to me that I had my bag I'd stashed with my clothes and twenty thousand dollars of cash. My bag, which was tucked close to my for my perch on top of a roof, had changed into a dark grey messenger bag.
Inside the money had turned into several pewter coins. My clothes were almost the same, but my shoes had lost some of their heels and were reduced to worn leather hunting shoes.
Some man yelled at me to get of the roof, but I just threw an apple at him. I remembered I should be going to a horse stall, so I hopped off of the roof and landed on the edge of a water trough gracefully.
I ran for some time towards where I had a feeling where I was supposed to go, and it turned out I was correct. I jumped over the stall door easily and landed calmly on the ground with my back against the wall.
Nella vita vi è la distruzione, desolazione nella morte, ma c'è speranza nella rivoluzione.
I look over the letter again, reading every word and thinking about it, something I wouldn't usually do. It wasn't in script, as I was used to seeing, and it wasn't in any other sort of type. I couldn't tell if it was from an author's type writer or by hand. So, whoever made it must be good at this sort of thing. Either they always played tricks like this on people, or they had been giving out many of these letters. But, there was also the prospect of the ring. If someone was playing a joke on me, why would they invest so much money on something they might not get back?
I finally made my choice. I knew the ring was real, so the note must be too.
***
A few hours later I stepped out of the dark tear I had been in. I jostled a few other people and muttered, "Watch it, clodhopper."
Finally, when we all stopped pushing and shoving each other, we stood in front of a pale, ginger-haired girl who looked about fifteen or sixteen. She looked slightly nervous in front of all of our eager and judging eyes.
Suddenly, another pale girl came through a window of one of the stalls behind everyone. She had dark brown hair pinned on top of her head and a grey messenger bag at her side. Leaning silently against the side of the stall, she surveyed the heap of us.
I stared back at her, looking her over. "Well, you seem a bit blue at the muzzle, hm?" I gave a cocky grin, then shut my mouth tightly so as I wouldn't say anything else.
"Just remember there's a difference between stalking people on the internet, and going to their house and cutting their skin off." - Jenna Marbles
~ Yeah I'm letting go of what I had, yeah I'm living now and living loud ~
Maybe I should not have left. I should have stayed with my family - they need the money. I don't know what came over me, but before I knew it I had put my things in a satchel and pressed the ring, stepping into a black tear that appeared.
Realization hit me when I fell into a barn, nearly toppling over a few other people.
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