Post by Deleted on Mar 30, 2013 20:01:27 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #7a9aa9, bTable][tr][cs=2] rémi tristan grantaire. twenty-five. fRIENDS OF THE ABC. george blagden. | |
[rs=2] | we'll be washed and buried one Grantaire would not be counted among the handsome, and that suits him just fine. He was born with a straight, aristocratic nose, which has since been broken twice and still bares the small bumps of being set back into place and healed. His dark brows are thick and his mop of inky black, loosely curled hair is very rarely in any semblance of order. In fact, it is more often than not stuck together with dried or drying paint that will in turn be smeared across his forehead. Of course, that's more notable, but still no worse than the perpetual stain to his fingers from the time he spends with pieces or charcoal in hand. His sharp blue eyes are nearly always red-rimmed and veined from the alcohol he imbibes regularly. Perhaps, if he cared for it, he would be a better looking man, but he's rather content with how he is. the time we were given will be left for the world Rémi Tristan was born the second child of the Albertine and Charlot Grantaire on April 1, 1807 in Marseilles. The Grantaire name had, in the previous generation, held some significance in the area, but had slid down on the totem pole due to poor money handling and a penchant for gambling that seemed to run in the family. For as long as Grantaire could remember, his sister Jacqueline was his constant caretaker. Their mother had once been attentive and involved, taking the children out and about the city, to the park, and even to the opera on occasion, but her presence waned as Albertine’s own addiction increased. Once a respected man of the French navy, Albertine Grantaire had been wounded during the war of the Second Coalition and honorably discharged with honors for saving the lives of several men on his ship. The wound in his leg had resulted in an eventual amputation, and everything went downhill from there. By the time Remi was six, Albertine was already away more than he was home, taking trips to various cities for reasons unknown. And when he was within Marseilles, he would come home with empty pockets after a night spent out, wreaking of smoke and with an odd sort of air. Although Remi was too young to know of opium, his mother and sister were well aware of what had taken hold in their home. From that point on, Charlot grew distant, often leaving for long weekends in the country at her family’s home, leaving the children with some caretaker or another until Jacqueline was deemed old enough to mind Remi on her own. Remi and Jacqueline grew up as well as they could in the circumstances, enrolled in fine schools and allowed to follow their own fancies. Jacqueline drew their mother’s scattered attention with her music, becoming proficient at three instruments by the time that she was fifteen. Remi, on the other hand, took more to sketching than any of what he was expected to learn in school. His Latin was passable, his geography less than so, and his patience for the classics waning with each book that he was expected to read. His art however, was another story. The sheer number of parchment pieces that he had confiscated in school was astronomical, and nearly rivaled the many times he had his knuckles smacked or was forced to sit with his face to the wall. If anything, these punishments made him all the more intent to continue his work. And such it continued throughout his schooling years. so let the memories be good for those who stay Grantaire has strong views, although most of them are negative, which have always clashed so starkly with those who educated him that he was often thrown out of classes. That could be a reason he took so strongly to art. Nothing about his delicately painted lines or long dark strokes of charcoal could rouse such anger in an educator, unless he is simply ignoring his assigned task in favor of portraying something he is more interested in. Namely, his over-usage of the colors gold and red, when his last assignment was meant to be completed in various hues of green. He’s argumentative and stubborn to a fault, a combination that puts him at odds with others constantly, and has lost him many a friendship. Grantaire, for the most part, says what he feels and does not dull nor censor his thoughts when they pass through his lips. After years of saying what he knew others wanted to hear, and being who others wanted him to be, he grew tired with concerning himself with such things and making himself miserable. In his eyes, it is far better to speak his mind, be what he wants and be at peace with himself, than pretend to be anything else. Since meeting Les Amis, he’s learned to tone down, if only slightly, his brutally honest ongoing commentary. While he’s found that some of the men delight in it, it has earned him nothing but scowls from Enjolras. If he could, he would be everything the marble sculpted man would ever want, but he can’t bring himself to change again, not even for his Apollo. Instead, he simply tries to clean himself up, biting back ruder remarks and drawing upon his own extensive knowledge of the classics and political philosophy to engage in debates, his favorite past time, with the other man. Although they turn into arguments, it’s his own way to capture his leader’s thoughts and bask in his attentions, even if it is directed through furrowed brows and a frown. Although he is often written off as useless, it is the one group that has come to accept him for who he is. He may not believe in their cause, he has seen the worst in many and does not believe people to be capable of what Enjolras envisions, the men have become his family. They would miss him if something happened, which is more than he could say for his parents. Remus didn’t have the most eventful day. Not that it was particularly surprising. The moon, though he wasn’t aware of it, had been one of the worst that the werewolf had encountered in a long time. The previous month had been rough, but this past night Moony had been on edge, which likely could have been explained by Remus’ faltering health and mood leading up to the night. The idiotic animal had picked a fight yet again with a book shelf which had a wonderful tactic of toppling over. It seemed that the wolf did not have the same regard for literature as the boy did. He’d awoken feeling particularly numb, and his first thoughts had been that he could possibly make it through the day with a bit more of whatever potion he’d been given. This was a crucial year for grades, and thestrals couldn’t keep him out of class. Of course, Pomfrey was a lot stronger and more persistent than thestrals, because when she’d seen Remus’ awake, flushed and scratched, grumbling about classes, she did everything but strap him to the bed before he would finally listen to her explanation as to why he was in no condition to be going anywhere. He wasn’t sure that he really believed her, but when he’d finally managed to peek at his body beneath the blanket, he knew very well that he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon, The fact that he had a fluctuating fever was doing nothing good on top of the moon damage. He’d swallowed some foul potion, and didn’t remember anything after that. He’d woken up once to find a stack of notes placed neatly on the table beside the bed, obviously snuck in when Pomfrey wasn’t looking. If he’d had it his way, he would have stayed up to read over what he’d missed, but the minute he was found awake, he was forced fed another potion, and was out like a light. The day had continued on the same. Pomfrey had woken him to insist that he eat a few times, but was met with no success. There was no chance that his stomach was going to keep anything down, especially with the potions working away down there. So, he was kept under to avoid experiencing the pain and the effects of healing. Hours later, he was dimly aware of the door creaking open. Somewhere on the verge of a potion-induced sleep, and feeling so uncomfortable that he couldn’t lay down for much longer, he began to force himself awake. As he surfaced from the haze, his senses, though mottled by the potion, picked up on someone else in the room. At the sound of a chair scraping the floor, he had only three guesses as to who was there, but only one really fit the bill. He was still struggling to full consciousness when Sirius’ hand touched his shoulder, though he smiled slightly for it, and let out a muffled sound. “I heard that wince, Black,” he croaked, eyes still closed, but head tipping ever so slightly in the other boy’s direction, “is everything alright?” His typical first question, and the first thing on his mind. What happened with Moony? Was anyone hurt? Did he do anything? Did he get to anyone.. “I also hear chocolate wrappers.” Trust Remus to be demanding chocolate upon waking up. . |
callie. 21. through laur!. |
