Post by COSETTE FAUCHELEVENT on Jan 30, 2013 15:03:30 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] Claudette Arielle de Bridoire. eighteen. The League of the Pimpernel. Gabriella Wilde. | |
[rs=2] | {{Note: I have read the plot and know that Claudette is really the daughter of Robespierre and her 'nanny,' As I am writing this from her point of view and she doesn't know the truth of her parentage, I do not mention it in her story.}} If I had to describe myself in only one word, I guess that word would be 'restless.' I know not why, but I long for something that I can not define, something that eludes me, something that is just out of my reach. Yet I do not know what this “something” is. I only know that I yearn for it in a way that I cannot explain. One would think I have everything a young woman could wish for. My family is very wealthy and I am given an allowance so generous that I cannot possibly spend it all, despite my penchant for exquisite fabrics, expensive jewelry, and rare books. I was provided with a fine education, and I am a talented singer and musician. A wonderful future lies ahead of me. The only thing that has ever been lacking in my life, I suppose, is a father. I thought I had found a father-figure once, but apparently he did not see me as his daughter, and that was the prevailing reason my mother moved us from England back to the country where my life had first begun. The only child born to the Baron and Baroness de Bridoire in Paris, France, my first five years were happy and carefree ... picking flowers, chasing butterflies, and asking endless questions that inevitably began with the word 'why.' I was a stubborn and impulsive child … traits that have followed me into adulthood ... and while my parents were not always patient with me and reprimanded me on the frequent occasions I misbehaved, my nanny would always be there to comfort me. With no children of her own, Maude Duval was like a second mother to me, and I loved her dearly. Yet I could be sweet and demure when I wished to be. I was a capricious little girl who turned into an equally capricious young woman. My musical proclivity made itself known when I was very young. As soon as I learned how to walk, I delighted in banging the keys of the piano and plucking the strings of the floor harp that stood side by side in the drawing room. They had belonged to my grandmother on my father's side, but neither of my parents could play. They were thrilled that I showed talent and when I was four, hired instructors to teach me to play both instruments. I also started singing before I could talk ... humming at first until I was old enough to learn the words to established songs. My nanny, who had a beautiful voice herself, encouraged me and helped me improve this ability as I grew older. My father was alive during those years. My memories of him are faded and few. I recall his smile, and the way he used to swing me up in the air to make me laugh. I remember how safe and loved I felt when his strong arms enveloped me in a gentle embrace and the habit he had of kissing me on the top of my little blonde head. And sometimes I fancy I can still hear the deep timbre of his voice when he read me stories before I went to bed, my heavy eyelids closing as his words floated around me, lulling me to sleep. It is precious little, but at least it is something. Shortly after my sixth birthday, my world fell apart. I was too young to understand the meaning of the word 'revolution' and I was unaware that all aristocrats were being sent to the guillotine. All I knew was that one day the soldiers came and wouldn't let us leave our mansion. I didn't see my father much and my mother cried a lot. My nanny kept me busy with my studies and while I was no longer allowed to continue my music lessons, I practiced whenever I was allowed, for my music was … and still is … my solace. Sometimes, when the soldiers came to check on us, they would ask to hear me play and sing. I did not know what they represented, but I sensed that their presence did not bode well for us because of the way my parents' demeanor had changed. Frightened of these strange men, I would only honor their requests at the insistence of my mother. Had I known then what I know now, I would have realized that she was trying to play upon their sympathies in order to save us. Once I heard them remark that it was a shame that a child who possessed so much talent had to die, but I didn't think much of it, believing they were speaking of someone else. Now that I know the truth, those words haunt me often and dance in a macabre fashion through the nightmares that sometimes plague me. The day they took my father away will forever be etched into my mind. I was at my lessons when I suddenly heard my mother scream. Before my nanny could stop me, I sprang from my chair and ran from the room, pausing on the landing in front of the staircase leading to the first floor. Below me, I saw my father being forcibly restrained by two soldiers while my mother knelt upon the floor, weeping as if her heart would break. Before I witnessed anything else, my nanny picked my up and carried my back to my chambers. Confused and scared, I burst into tears as well, and asked what was going on. My nanny assured me that everything would be fine and that my father would be back soon, but for the first time in my young life, I did not believe her. That evening, she brought some warm milk for me the way she did every night before I went to bed. This time it tasted a bit bitter, and when I complained, she snapped at me, demanding that I drink it anyway. Never before had she been so cross with me, so I obediently drained the cup, wrinkling my nose as the bitter liquid slid down my throat. She tucked me into bed, and I immediately fell asleep. When I woke up, I was cradled in my nanny's arms and we were well on our way out of France. I remember little of the journey. I do recall becoming sick upon the ship, and that the journey to London was long and boring. My many questions received only vague answers and I finally quit asking them. All I knew was that we were going to live in England now, and that one day my father would come to join us. I did not like England at first. It was difficult living in a place where the language was unfamiliar. I couldn't understand anything that was said to me, until we were finally settled on a spacious and opulently-appointed estate a few miles outside of London and a tutor was hired to teach me English. Eventually, in the way of young children, my fears subsided and I became accustomed to our new home. Weeks turned into months and then into years, and by the time I was ten, I spoke English with only the slightest trace of a French accent. I was given a comprehensive education and threw myself wholeheartedly into my studies … most of the time anyway. There were days when I slipped away and hid myself in the gardens when I did not feel like learning, but I was always found and promptly chastised. No longer needed, my nanny stayed with us as a companion and servant to my mother, and I saw her often. My music lessons resumed, and I was given singing instruction as well. During one of my mother's parties when I was twelve, a guest heard me playing the harp and singing in a parlor, and asked my mother if I could entertain for them. She agreed and I started singing at all of her social events, although I was sent up to my room after I performed and was not able to take part in the festivities. We also owned a manor in London, and spent quite a bit of time there. My mother was highly involved in the London social scene, and she had many friends and acquaintances … most of them with children of their own. I made friends and I made enemies and between the two, life was never dull. I developed interests in fashion, books, art, theatre, and … my favorite activity of all … shopping. I became more aware of the world outside of England, and when I was thirteen, I had learned enough to figure out why we'd had to leave France. I confronted my mother and she told me the truth: that my father had been sent to the guillotine simply for being an aristocrat and that she and I had been scheduled to die the next day. That night, though, we had been rescued by a man known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, and my milk had been laced with a sleeping potion. They knew I would be frightened and could not risk their cover being blown by the accidental sob or sneeze or cough of a child. The words the soldiers had once said came back to me, and I realized just how close my mother and I had come to death. It was then that my nightmares began, my vivid imagination conjuring up all sorts of 'what ifs' and their devastating consequences. For several months, I was quite subdued as I grieved for my late father and adjusted to what I had been told. By the time my fourteenth birthday rolled around, I was once again the vivacious, spontaneous girl I had always been, immersing myself in my studies, spending time with my friends, playing pranks on my enemies, and flirting with handsome young gentlemen. No longer a child, I had blossomed into a young woman, with delicately-sculpted features, wavy blond hair that fell to my waist, and blue-violet eyes framed by long golden eyelashes. Unfortunately, I was rather short, standing at a little less than five feet tall, and my bosom was more than a bit too large for the rest of me, sometimes causing pain in my back and quite a lot of embarrassment. I was often praised for my grace of movement, and I was described by others as clever, witty, and able to discuss most subjects with intelligence and insight. Those closest to me also knew that I was headstrong, impulsive, and rebellious and willing to take risks to have a bit of fun. Such as the theatre incident when I was sixteen. I loved to watch plays and fancied myself as an actress. A few of my friends and I disguised ourselves as commoners and auditioned for a new production. Three of us got parts and we acted in various plays for about six months before the father of one of my friends recognized her performing onstage. We were made to stop and punished for our inappropriate behavior. We were quite repentant and promised never to do it again, but we spoke of the adventure often. It had been good while it lasted. I attended my first court function a few months later and I caught the eye of a powerful and influential Duke when I was asked to sing. He asked my mother if she would allow me to give a private performance for him, and she agreed as long as I was properly chaperoned, for it would not be wise to refuse him. I was certain that I would hit a bad note and displease him, but I delivered a passable … if slightly nervous … performance and he asked me to sing for him again. Over the next few months, I sang for him often and eventually our visits were spent mostly talking. He asked me about myself, and he was so kindly that I was soon opening up to him, telling him my problems and asking for advise. In this aging Duke, I was certain that I had found a substitute father, and I looked forward to our meetings. At least until the day he kissed me. I knew then that he did not see me as a daughter, but as a potential mistress. Shocked and frightened, I fled and when I arrived home in tears, I explained to my mother what had happened. The Duke sent me a courteous letter of apology and did not attempt to contact me again, but my mother was not convinced he would leave me alone, and made arrangements to move back to France. We did not return to our old house in Paris, but bought a new one. It wasn't long before I adjusted to French culture and made some friends. We've been here for nearly a year now, and I have only recently turned eighteen. I fear that I have led my mother into danger as a new revolution brews, but she does not wish to return to England. And so I continue to lead the life of a privileged aristocrat, afraid that the guillotine might once again loom in our future. Perhaps that is the reason I am restless and what I long for is action … to do something to prevent the past from repeating itself. Or maybe it is is something else entirely. When I find it, I will know it, and in the meantime, I will do anything in my power to help my family and friends if things become dangerous for us once more. roleplay sample: ~from a Merlin RPG~ Crumpled and forlorn, the letter lay lay across the room by her wardrobe, where she had thrown it last night in a rare fit of anger. Sophia sighed and picked it up, carrying it to the desk in her small sitting room. The chambers she had been provided in the castle were more than adequate, and for that she was grateful. In fact, there was no reason to leave her rooms if she did not wish to, and most of the time she was content to remain secluded in this small refuge. Meals were sent up to her, a bathtub sat in its own concealed space, and she could send her maidservant for anything else she required. Yet now that must change. Because of the letter. Sitting down, the young woman lay the crumpled paper on the desk and smoothed it out, hoping the words would still be readable among all the crinkles. Why she even attempted to read it, she did not know. The words were engraved on her mind and in her heart. Her father wanted to know what progress she had made concerning her seduction of Prince Arthur. She had been at Camelot for two months; certainly the prince was groveling at her feet by now. Right. She had only spoken to Arthur once, on the day that she had arrived. If he had been impressed with her, he had certainly not shown it. Yet what had she expected? That he would be so entranced by her that he would ask her to marry him right there on the spot? Sophia sighed. It would certainly be easier for her had he done so. It would have been easier for her had he shown any interest in her whatsoever. She doubted that he was immune to her beauty, but there were many beautiful women in the kingdom. He could have any one of them that he wished. Why should he pay attention to her, an unsure and inexperienced girl of not quite sixteen? Somehow, she had to make herself stand out, make herself so appealing that he could not resist her. But how? Her thoughts were interrupted as Cedric came bounding over to her. The wolf cub was a little over two months old and finally able to eat on his own. She had arranged for the cooks to provide him with small pieces of raw meat several times a day, which were usually brought up to her room by her maidservant Kerensa. After dressing her mistress his morning, the woman had asked to be excused for the day. Sophia had agreed. Kerensa had little free time, and she knew that her maid was seeing a man she had met a few weeks ago in the city. The woman had been with her since Sophia was six and Kerensa twelve. They had practically grown up together and Sophia considered her more of a friend than a servant. She certainly did not begrudge her a day off to spend time with her beau. At least one of us knows how to attract a man's attention, she thought bitterly. Prince Arthur probably dismissed me from his mind as soon as he met me and no longer even knows I exist. Closing her eyes, she sighed in frustration. And he never will, as long as I stay ensconced in my room. Sophia picked Cedric up and stood. After licking her cheek with his slick little tongue, he settled down into her arms. Despite her morose mood, the girl laughed as she picked up a handkerchief and wiped her cheek. “It looks like I will be responsible for feeding you today,” she said. Instead of bringing the bowl of meat up to him, she decided to take him down to the kitchen to eat. At least it would get her out of her chambers. Cedric was a friendly little fellow and she doubted that the servants would have any problem with him. If they did, she would simply collect the food and let him eat once she returned to her chambers. Leaving the room, she wandered down the hall. Sophia had no idea where the kitchen was, but she did not think it would be too difficult to find. Unfortunately, she was wrong. . |
Lissa. ancient. An ad on another board, but I can't remember which one. |
