Post by EPONINE THENARDIER on Mar 6, 2013 12:11:22 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: f9f9f9; border: #1f4579 solid 10px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] At the end of the day you're another day colder FULL NAME: Eponine Thenardier NICKNAMES: 'Ponine, too many aliases to remember HERITAGE: French AGE: 18 GROUP: Patron-Minette, Les Amis de l'ABC CANON: Yes PLAYBY: Samantha Barks (because really, who else?) ----- PERSONALITY: Eponine is a study in contrasts, of two sides of a person warring with one another. At first glance, she seems a typical trash of the streets of Paris, a consumate criminal. Having spent her adolescence in the slums, she has grown cynical and guarded out of necessity. She expects people to take advantage of her and her low position and strives to never let anyone see her in weakness.Highly observant and alert, her dark eyes dart about her all the time as she takes note of just about everything. As such, her father has made her the lookout for his jobs, which she does despite her obvious disdain for him. Over the years, she's learned her way around the streets and cultivated the ability to sneak past people or blend into a crowd. All this adds up to an outwardly appearance of a fiery fierce young woman, wise beyond her years. In reality, there is a side of herself she keeps locked away. Eponine is a dreamer who remembers a better life. Even if it was built on lies. She longs to be more than she is, more than the daughter of a thief. Despite her feelings for her parents, Eponine is very protective of her siblings, even those not living with her family. As the eldest, she sees it as her duty to watch out for them, in spite of Gavroche's stubborness. Much like her namesake, she is a romantic, falling in love with the young Marius Pontmercy nearly at first sight. Around him, her cold, hard shell seems to melt a little and let some happiness shine through. APPEARANCE: Eponine might have been beautiful once. Years of life in the imporvished slums of Paris, however, have taken their toll. Her face is drawn, her cheekbones creating sharp lines in her tanned skin. Her brown eyes are sunken in, but still manage to shine with intellegence from time to time. Her dark brown hair falls in waves down her back, haphazardly cut and weighed down with the grime and dirt of the street. What little clothes she has hang loosely off her skeletal frame. Her chemise and skirt, even her shawl, are so threadbare they cannot hope to protect her from the elementsand do little to protect her modesty. Her complexion is tanned and coarse from too much exposure to the sun, and her skin is covered in scars and bruises, both old and recent. GOALS: For the longest time, Eponine's one and only goal was simply surviving to the next day. She was simply too hungry or too cold to even think beyond that. Upon meeting Marius, however, her focus has become divided, wishing to spend as much time with him as possible in the hope that one day he might notice her there. She's even begun following him to his meetings with Les Amis de l'ABC wher even more hopeful ideas have begun to take root in her mind. HISTORY: Eponine was born to a fairly well off family, the eldest of the Thenardier's children. Her family ran an inn in the little town of Montfermeil. As a child, Eponine was pretty, well-dressed, and spoiled. Her parents doted and pampered her and her sister, Azelma. Their mother taught the both of them a little reading and writing, and their father taught them less savory things, like how to wring everything bit of money from any situation. Just like any child, Eponine wanted nothing more than to make her parents happy. So when a young Cosette, left in the Thenardier's care, was treated as little better than a slave, Eponine followed her parents' example, something she regrets to this day. Shortly after a man took Cosette from her family's inn, the business went bankrupt. Eponine went from having everything she could possibly want to having nothing, nearly overnight. After moving to Paris, her whole world began to crumble. Her parents' criminal ways were more out in the open, including bringing their children into their schemes. Partially out of the need for food and partially out of fear what her parents would do to her, remembering their treatment of Cosette, Eponine threw herself into the seedy underworld of Paris. Through the last few years, she's had to do many things she'd rather forget and things she's definitely not proud of. From pick-pocketing to lookout to out and out robbery, Eponine and her family have scratched out a name for themselves, even landing in prison a couple times. Most recently, Eponine ran into, literally, her next door neighbor, Marius Pontmercy. The two have struck up a friendship, which she hopes will one day turn to more. They poke fun at each other, Eponine about Marius's ideals and naivety, Marius about Eponine's tomboyish ways. But with Marius's thoughts turning to the mysterious young woman he met on the streets, Eponine has been trying hard to hide the hurt it causes while remaining a close friend. After all, if it doesn't work out, she wants Marius to remember she never abandoned his side. ----- ALIAS: RoroASU AGE: 30 GENDER: Female OTHER CHARACTERS: N/A HOW DID YOU FIND US: Google ROLEPLAY SAMPLE: (This is from a superhero RPG I played in before City of Heroes sunsetted, sadly.) 'He's wrong.' That one thought fills my head as I slam my fist into the bag suspended before me. The rythmic slap of skin meeting leather joins my own grunts and groans bouncing off the corner of the dojo. Despite the cool air, sweat dances on the ends of my hair and down my back, soaking my thin tank top. I swing my leg in a wide arc, grimacing as it meets the side of the bag. It's just starting to get light, the first rays of dawn peeking in the windows and tinting my world in red and orange. I had deliberately kept the lights low when I let myself in half an hour ago. I like the dark, the quiet. It's safe. It's isolated. It makes me feel alone. I like being alone for a workout. 'He's just like the rest of them.' Who am I kidding? This isn't a workout. Even a blind person could see that. I feel my jaw clench and my attacks speed up. Right jab, kick, elbow, left hook. This isn't a workout. This is punishment, a merciless and rageful assault. It almost makes me feel sorry for the bag. I know I'll probably feel this for days to come. But I just don't care. Last night replays in my mind's eye. Over and over. The sparring, the training. That smug grin on his face as he deflects everything. Anger floods my vision again. "Come on, Bethie. It's not always going to be this slow." Strike takes another swing at me. I duck instinctively and kick out, aiming for his stomach. "I'm not slow!" He dodges back, my balance thrown from not connecting. "Hold still!" I'm a fighter, always have been. A good one too. He's taught me a thing or two, beaten me in practice spars, but I'm older now. And a hell of a lot more experienced. So why can't I hit him? "Make me, Bethie. Force me to. You have two arms and legs. Use them." That stupid grin is still plastered on his face. He knows the moves he's shown me, practiced with me. But he's not the only one I've ever fought. I abandon the martial arts crap in the hope of throwing him off and send my fist at the smug smile. And he blocks it, my fist slamming into his hand with a painful pop. He laughs and calls me slow again. I feel my anger rise another notch, that much closer to boiling over. I'm a great fighter. The best in my family. This is my domain. WHY CAN'T I HIT HIM? A voice in the back of my head begins whispering. "Brandon probably hit him. Probably laid him out. That's why he's smiling. You have been found lacking. Again." My eyes narrow as I feel a surge of power and speed. I know I've just broken his rules, tapping into my abilities, but he's out here healing every bruise I give him in a matter of minutes. I'm done playing by the rules. I yell as a I lay into him, my fists and kicks getting blocked at each turn. "I'm not slow! I'm ten times faster than you and better at this than him!" The smile fades. His feet begin to drift backwards over the mat. He's not longer countering my attacks, focusing only on blocking them all. "Better than who, Beth?" No more Bethie. The childhood nickname is gone. I've gotten his full attention now. The anger builds more. "Like you don't know! You're just like the rest of them! 'Why can't you be more like him, Beth?'" Getting close to the edge of the mat now. I can see it just behind him. A few more steps and I've proven that I'm better. That I have a place. That I deserve praise too. "Like who, Beth? Come on, you're doing great." He's playing me. He knows me better than most, probably better than my parents. I stole my first drink from his stash, but he never told them. He knew I smoked before they did, and even if he didn't approve, he never tried to stop me. He taught me the best way to fight is to end it was quickly as possible, with the least amount of injury. So why is this question such a mystery to him? "'Straighten up, Beth! Follow in your brother's example, Beth!' The great f#@&ing Brandon Jordan and his misfit sister!" I feel something spark in the back of my mind, next to the disapproving voice. The anger has hit the boiling point and I realize that my hand is wreathed in flame. My yell of anger reverberates off the walls. I cough as I pull my hand from the smoldering hole in the punching bag. Lost control again. Figures. I try to catch my breath, inhaling deeply. The air of the dojo smells of sweat, burning leather and... tea? Without even looking, I wave dismissively. "Hey, Erin." The petite asian woman in the corner has paused in her tai chi. Ten Strike's wife. My godmother. I owe her for the punching bag now. "I made some tea. Do you want to talk about it?" I shrug and towel off my face, unwrapping the singed tape from my hand. "About what?" "About what the bag did to you to deserve such a fate." I look back at the smoking crater. "Look, I'll talk to my folks and we'll figure something out to pay for it. But I don't want to talk about it. I got an early class." I pause long enough to take a drink of water and grab my gym bag. "Try not to have a heart attack that I actually go to class." "I wasn't going to." "Whatever." I push the doors of the dojo open and sprint across town to the school, one thought playing through my head. 'She's just like the rest of them.' And the shirt on your back doesn't keep out the chill |
