Post by astrid gunnhild svennson on Oct 10, 2010 21:11:53 GMT -5
astrid gunnhild svensson
character basics
I WANNA DARKEN IN THE SKIES, OPEN THE FLOODGATES UP.
I WANT TO CHANGE MY MIND, I WANT TO BE ENOUGH.
I WANNA DARKEN IN THE SKIES, OPEN THE FLOODGATES UP.
I WANT TO CHANGE MY MIND, I WANT TO BE ENOUGH.
FULL NAME , astrid gunnhild svensson
NICKNAMES , ass
AGE , eighteen
BIRTHDAY , aprid twentieth
SEXUALITY , bisexual
GRADE , n/a
OCCUPATION , tourist
MEMBER GROUP , townie
hello, my name is ASHLEIGH. i am SEVENTEEN years young and i consider myself an ADVANCED roleplayer. i found this site through MY FRIEND ZIGGY!. so, here's an example of my average post:
Not much held his attention.
There wasn't much that the average person could do to entertain themselves on an island with a population of nine thousand. Consequently, there was even less that someone like Didrik could do to evade the unyielding sense of boredom that seemed to plague his days at Beaton like, well...a plague. Skye relied on its landscape and quaintness to attract people. He wasn't one for reveling in the natural beauty of anything and the mediocre coming and goings of the locals could only entertain him for so long. His fellow students were similarly disappointing.
At age six he discovered the meaning of the word ennui. At seventeen, it's become the perfect summation of his existence - or part of it, at least. For years he'd been a victim of the acute, all-encompasing sense of boredom normally reserved for supermodels and the disgustingly rich and bitter. While the second category wasn't much of a stretch, taedium vitae was something he'd hoped to be exclusive to his later years. Jaded hypocrisy seemed to suit gray streaked temples a lot better than it did prep school uniforms.
Marie. She's French. A sophomore. A little blonde thing with blue eyes that looks so much like him that she could probably pass for a sister if he had one. His mother had three boys and a thing. He wasn't even sure if he could call it a baby girl because it came out four months early and died two weeks later. Ten fingers, ten toes. Born the size of a two litre bottle of Coke with its insides on the outside. Astrid. He could remember asking what the point of naming it was and being disappointed when he wasn't slapped upside the head for being a prick.
She's pathetic in the way that all little girls trying to seem older are pathetic. And depressing for the same reason. Half of him wants to give her his coat and tell her to go back to her dormitory and wash her face. She should be studying or gosipping or doing whatever it is that girls her age do - not shivering in the boathouse, doing a Brigette Bardot expression that's veering dangerously away from Le Mépris and erring more on the side of Jonbenet Ramsey. The other half, the half that's winning, could care less.
He almost feels bad when her warm little body shivers against his. Smells like sex and Princess by Vera Wang and the combination is enough to invoke the impression of a little girl doused in her mother's perfume. It's not that much of a stretch. Fifteen going on sixteen is probably just as wrong as six going on nothing when it's digging its nails into your back. He knows he should feel guilty about Jonbenet eating his neck, but he doesn't. If confronted he'd probably say something as concerningly banal as "I want my MTV". There are more embarassing ways for a girl to degrade herself.
Autumn's only started but the nights are brisk. An irriguous fifty degrees that feels colder than it is. The kind of damp cold that's capable of seeping into his bones and making him feel like an old man with rickets even though he's barely eighteen. A pack of Dunhils he swiped from Leni, cigarette number seven. Chain smoking's a filthy habit but even he allows himself to indulge every now and then. Vague recollections of his father reaming his brother Ole about tar and rat poison and lung cancer but he can't be fucked. He's going to die anyway. Part of him is dead already - figuratively, at least. Something that was never born can't die.
He's alive only in the most technical terms - blinking, breathing, bleeding. When it comes to loving his fellow man, he falls short. He always loves too much or too little - toeing the line between disassociation and devotion. Infatuated with his companions and detatched from everyone else.
He raises his head slowly and exhales in her face. She breathes it in unflinchingly and he can tell that she's trying not to cough when Marie-not-Astrid plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes a long drag. Puts her little hand on his thigh and pokes her tongue through her teeth, searching for the lipstick that's everywhere - on his neck, the cigarette filter, around the base of his dick - but on her lips. She's crawling onto his lap, tugging at his fly, running her fingers through his hair. Most guys would be ecstatic but the prospect of a second round doesn't excite him. All he can think about his how ostentatious and incredibly boring the whole situation as gotten in such a short time.
"Vous avez terminé?" He nods his head as she sucks on his collarbone and it's all he can do to stop himself from shoving her off of his lap and over the side of the dock. Some people didn't know when to stop. "Mais pourquoi?" Her voice is starting to sound like nails on a chalkboard and she's getting whiny in a way that he knows she uses with her mother. Any notions he might've had about fucking her again dissolve. "Je ne sais pas."
He leaves her on the floor of the boathouse (with his coat), bewildered and possibly relieved. He doesn't know and doesn't care to ask. Unsurprisingly, he finds himself mourning the loss of the vintage Burberry more than the loss of her company and lights another cigarette as he walks back to his dormitory. C'est la vie.
There wasn't much that the average person could do to entertain themselves on an island with a population of nine thousand. Consequently, there was even less that someone like Didrik could do to evade the unyielding sense of boredom that seemed to plague his days at Beaton like, well...a plague. Skye relied on its landscape and quaintness to attract people. He wasn't one for reveling in the natural beauty of anything and the mediocre coming and goings of the locals could only entertain him for so long. His fellow students were similarly disappointing.
At age six he discovered the meaning of the word ennui. At seventeen, it's become the perfect summation of his existence - or part of it, at least. For years he'd been a victim of the acute, all-encompasing sense of boredom normally reserved for supermodels and the disgustingly rich and bitter. While the second category wasn't much of a stretch, taedium vitae was something he'd hoped to be exclusive to his later years. Jaded hypocrisy seemed to suit gray streaked temples a lot better than it did prep school uniforms.
Marie. She's French. A sophomore. A little blonde thing with blue eyes that looks so much like him that she could probably pass for a sister if he had one. His mother had three boys and a thing. He wasn't even sure if he could call it a baby girl because it came out four months early and died two weeks later. Ten fingers, ten toes. Born the size of a two litre bottle of Coke with its insides on the outside. Astrid. He could remember asking what the point of naming it was and being disappointed when he wasn't slapped upside the head for being a prick.
She's pathetic in the way that all little girls trying to seem older are pathetic. And depressing for the same reason. Half of him wants to give her his coat and tell her to go back to her dormitory and wash her face. She should be studying or gosipping or doing whatever it is that girls her age do - not shivering in the boathouse, doing a Brigette Bardot expression that's veering dangerously away from Le Mépris and erring more on the side of Jonbenet Ramsey. The other half, the half that's winning, could care less.
He almost feels bad when her warm little body shivers against his. Smells like sex and Princess by Vera Wang and the combination is enough to invoke the impression of a little girl doused in her mother's perfume. It's not that much of a stretch. Fifteen going on sixteen is probably just as wrong as six going on nothing when it's digging its nails into your back. He knows he should feel guilty about Jonbenet eating his neck, but he doesn't. If confronted he'd probably say something as concerningly banal as "I want my MTV". There are more embarassing ways for a girl to degrade herself.
Autumn's only started but the nights are brisk. An irriguous fifty degrees that feels colder than it is. The kind of damp cold that's capable of seeping into his bones and making him feel like an old man with rickets even though he's barely eighteen. A pack of Dunhils he swiped from Leni, cigarette number seven. Chain smoking's a filthy habit but even he allows himself to indulge every now and then. Vague recollections of his father reaming his brother Ole about tar and rat poison and lung cancer but he can't be fucked. He's going to die anyway. Part of him is dead already - figuratively, at least. Something that was never born can't die.
He's alive only in the most technical terms - blinking, breathing, bleeding. When it comes to loving his fellow man, he falls short. He always loves too much or too little - toeing the line between disassociation and devotion. Infatuated with his companions and detatched from everyone else.
He raises his head slowly and exhales in her face. She breathes it in unflinchingly and he can tell that she's trying not to cough when Marie-not-Astrid plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes a long drag. Puts her little hand on his thigh and pokes her tongue through her teeth, searching for the lipstick that's everywhere - on his neck, the cigarette filter, around the base of his dick - but on her lips. She's crawling onto his lap, tugging at his fly, running her fingers through his hair. Most guys would be ecstatic but the prospect of a second round doesn't excite him. All he can think about his how ostentatious and incredibly boring the whole situation as gotten in such a short time.
"Vous avez terminé?" He nods his head as she sucks on his collarbone and it's all he can do to stop himself from shoving her off of his lap and over the side of the dock. Some people didn't know when to stop. "Mais pourquoi?" Her voice is starting to sound like nails on a chalkboard and she's getting whiny in a way that he knows she uses with her mother. Any notions he might've had about fucking her again dissolve. "Je ne sais pas."
He leaves her on the floor of the boathouse (with his coat), bewildered and possibly relieved. He doesn't know and doesn't care to ask. Unsurprisingly, he finds himself mourning the loss of the vintage Burberry more than the loss of her company and lights another cigarette as he walks back to his dormitory. C'est la vie.