Post by waddup on Jun 11, 2009 19:59:01 GMT -7
†Advotia (That's Agatha in English)-Ekatarina-Czajkowski†
†Agy†
[/center]†General Information†
Full Name:Advotia Ekatarina Czajkowksi
Nicknames:Agatha, Agy, Agyness
Gender:Female
Age:156
Age they appear:26
Race:Vampire
Orientation:Straight
Health Problems:Not able to bare children
†Personality†
Basic Personality:
Avdotia is a woman that can take care of herself-she is strong, independent, and has been alone for a long time. Men are not good for anything but money and sex and wine. She gets along just fine with her only daughter, Ruby-don't even bother trying to pronounce her child's name in Russian because you'll embarrass yourself and get Avdotia worked up.
And she gets worked up pretty easily you know. It's really a Russian thing-she can't resist a fight, she loves to argue, and it's only too easy to piss her off. Strike the wrong button with her and you've opened a can of 'whoop ass'. She will fuck you up and she knows how-be it through the catty bitchy-ness of a woman who will find out your secrets and reveal them, or be it through a good old fashioned fight, she will kick you in the balls. Of course, she much just prefers arguing.
But have you met her sweet side? She loves to mother people-though it's toned down since Ruby came along. She loves to take care of people-listen to their problems, pat their heads, sing them lullabies, and cook for them too. It's fun, and it's natural, and that's best of all! It's natural to her!
But just because she's a sweet mother doesn't mean she's amazing. She has a little drinking problem. Her fancy taste for exquisite old wine has been known to get her in trouble, dancing around tables like an old drunk bastard, or even singing old beer songs and telling tales of old Russia. She is quite a character.
Likes:
†Her Daughter
†Fancy Wines
†Wealthy Men (they're blood is good for your health!)
†Good Sex
†Money
Hates:
†Idiots!
†Piss poor people
†Beer
†Druggies
†Cigarettes
Talents:
†Great liar
†Smart
†Incredibly Independent
†Fast
†Aloof
Habits:
†Mothering Everyone
†Doing Dirty Things for Money
†Drinking Too Much
†Yelling
†Arguing! (It's a Russian thing)
†Appearance:†
Skin Color:White
Hair Color:Brown
Eye Color:Green
Build:Thin
Piercing/Scars/Tattoos:How grody.
Choice of Clothing:Anything sexy
Wolf Appearance:N/A
Other:N/A
†History:†
History:Russia, Russia, Russia! It's a history full of Russian things you stupid filthy English wouldn't understand, don't you get it? Nothing compares to mother Russia!
Anyways, 300 something years ago Avdotia was born, blahblahblah, it doesn't get juicy for awhile. You know the drill-she was raised in a fancy rich house, worshiped all the right gods, and was sexy and wanted by the men, and despised her arranged husband to be-he was gross, but wealthy. She'd live. She let him escort her.
One night it became too much-his obnoxious behavior, like his farting in the bed, made her leave for a walk and who did she find but the most gorgeous Russian man she'd ever seen? Well, that's who she met actually. They had the most wonderful sex she'd ever had, and after well-he changed her forever.
She didn't mind at first-she was more beautiful, but she realized soon she couldn't birth anyone. She lived in hatred for the next hundred years or so, traveling alone, never loving anyone. Her coldness rubbed off on the men she slept with. She drank expensive wines and argued. But finally, she came to London and fell in love with the perfect baby.
Her life complete, she seemed to almost open up more-almost, but not quite. She's settled down for a bit in a huge wealthy apartment on the top floor with a luxurious view-but you wouldn't understand, because you're not Russian, are you?
Mother/Father:They are deceased, it does not matter.
Siblings:They're also deceased, so therefor they do not matter at all.
Offspring:Unfortunately, although Avdotia is a strong, independent woman, she could not resist having a child-it was always her downfall-loosing the chance to conceive. About a year ago, she took a child for her own to mother and nurture from a mother who couldn't even take care of the child. Of course, it's controversial-a vampire mother raising a human child, but Avdotia is a wonderful, caring mother who has never even been tempted to feed off her child. The child named Lyubov, English for Ruby, is always with a trusted Nanny when not with her own mother-though she is a huge weakness is Avdotia's life-if anyone can find the nanny, that is. The child is currently 13 months old.
Other:N/A
[/sup]
†RP example:†
THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG AND RIDICULOUS. I LOST ALL MY EXAMPLES BUT ONE, AND IT IS OLD, BUT STILL WORKS. Just a warning!
The steady dripping of a liquid substance was rhythmic-it made a beat, a background to music. It acted as a bass, making the background to a song that people would crowd around, bodies sweating, and dance. It was that music for James. The steady dripping of the deep red crimson fluid that fell from the ceiling to the floor was a song-a chorus of violins and harps, pianos and flutes. The bass of this song was far above trashy club scenes, it was a song for the sophisticated, the rich, the glamorous, and furthermore, the dead and the dead only.
Sitting below the liquid was a tall man, masked by shadows. The bouncing, the echoes of the blood hitting the floor, suggested he was in the basement of a large house, and the lack of lighting suggested there was no need for light where he was. He was sitting luxuriously in the most vibrant thing in the room, which happened to be a creamy white chair with a mahogany finish-the only source of a bit of light in the dimmed room. And from the looks of it, the patterning in it and the finishing which seemed so intricately done, it was pricey. It had a faint glow to it, as if it was new or unused. The wood on it glowed as if it had just been cleaned, and the patterns of swirls and leaves in it were so touchable it seemed as if no one had ever sat in it. This was just not the case though-he was a careful man, the creature in said chair. He had money. He had the nice chair to prove it, and the wine glass in his hand, which also had a faint glow. The crystal seemed to reflect his face, the stem was beautiful and decorated in crystal, and the rim had no marks on it, despite the fact he was frequently taking sips. His lips left no residue, and as quickly as the equally red crimson in the cup swished around, it left no trace it was ever there.
The shadow tossed its head back, and let out a small sigh of appreciation. Its ears perked up a bit, and in the darkness, its eyes closed, listening closely to the rhythm that was being made. In its head, it clearly could see a vivid image; several people, about eleven woman and thirteen men, all dressed elegantly in suites and dresses that showed off their amazing figures. They were all beautiful; too beautiful. Their hair was all a rich color and soft to the touch, their eyes were all glowing with joy-or perhaps sadness and their bodies were made to be models. A few seemed to dance in couples while the others sat a long white table, eating assortments of meat. In the background there were several other people, their heads bent low and playing assortments of fine instruments, and on the floor was a fine marble. The windows reflected the moonlight, and outside that was a heavenly sea. And then suddenly the scene changed. The beautiful people seemed to have lost all trace of elegant clothing, and seemed to be less dressed. Their hair was wild, and there were a few dozen dead people on the floor-but the music continued, the players not distracted. And the creature smiled, opened his eyes and stood up.
Light poured down into the cellar as a door opened, which he quickly shut. Ah, it was obvious now; the creature was a he, and a handsome one at that. He turned and quickly shut the door, then took a lock out of one of the pockets on his blue jeans. He quickly locked the basement door, and stretched his arms up, relaxing a bit. His eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness that accompanied the first floor of his house. Chandeliers were placed on the high ceiling, crystals dangling down from them, the light bulbs on them reflecting onto the marble floor. A woman’s voice echoed down to the kitchen where he was.
“What do you down there, Garret?” It was obviously a woman-the voice was high pitched. The girl asking couldn’t have been more then 23 by her light voice, and couldn’t have been human. She would’ve easily lowered her voice so it didn’t echo, and she would’ve probably joined him and known what he did, had she also been dead.
“Tayce, I told you to stop asking me!” Elegant, haggard arms went up to his head, and the long, skinny fingers on his hand rubbed at his temple. She wouldn’t ever find out-she didn’t need too. Besides, the key was hidden in a great place she would never find-in a chandelier. Good luck for her getting it all the way up there. He knew better then to leave it out. To have Tayce find out would be a horrible, a dreadful experience for the likes of him. He would have to kill her, and that would destroy the whole purpose of him staying with her. He was there for one reason, and one reason only. Tayce was one of his (insert a large number here) cousins, and of course, she carried the Devereux surname. She was the last of his line-her parents, god knew what had happened to them, he didn’t know nor care, but she had been alone, and when he found out his name was going to die in the human population, he went to take her in. He was going to make sure that the Devereux name lived on. They had too, they had it going for them besides the fact their population was two-and technically, one was dead. They were French, Rich, High class, and quite pretty.
Why, even the mortal one was pretty, though certainly not up to par with her male counterpart. He was tall, roughly 6’3”, and lithe, graceful. His skin was a haggard color, much paler then hers or any other mortal, but it seemed to fit and make him even more elegant then the others. Eyes were a hue of an emerald green, flecked with yellow-and those weren’t eyes he got when he died. He had had them even when he was mortal. His hair was a dark chocolate brown, short, ending at the middle of his neck, and messy, as if he frequently tousled it. His jaw was strong, his lips a bit big, pouting. He had a small bit of 5 o’ clock shadow on his jaw, and these things were the only masculine things on his face.
His clothing was feminine, or perhaps it just looked that way placed upon his skinny frame. He was wearing a simple white shirt made of cotton, which wrapped around his neck. It seemed loose and thin, something not to be worn in cold weather, and he seemed to have noticed that by putting a cardigan over it. Though that too was light and made of wool. It was striped with grey and a dull grey color, part of it clinging to his skin to show off the lithe and feminine like features that his body possessed. It had a large Vneck and showed off the white shirt beneath it, taunting people to rip it off and see if he was a female or male beneath it. He carefully buttoned up the light grey buttons, and pulled the sleeves down, then pulled his arms up in a stretch, letting out a small yawn as if he had just woken up-and in a way he had. He spent the daylight in the basement with the lights off, luxuriously enjoying fine blood and sleeping, and when about eight at night came, he came upstairs. His long, graceful legs moved to follow his movement, the muscle stretching, the jeans following. His skin was clad against the indigo jeans, though the color was washed out at the knee area. There were several tears in random spots in the straight legged jeans, giving him an almost sensational look mixed with a rebellious feeling. The jeans were low rise, tugging on his hips, highlighting his womanly figure. The belt that held up said jeans defined his hips more, a white leather belt with printings from a French newspaper printed onto it-Excerpts from Le Monde, which he barely read or enjoyed, as he didn’t trust the news one bit. The outfit seemed finished with a pair of black slip on vans, which were decorated with white pinstripes, going around the shoes vertically, starting from the tip. He finished his stretch after a few moments, and glanced down at the silver watch on his left arm. 9:06. He ought to be out. The long fingers grabbed a wool knit rugby striped scarf, black and white, off a mahogany table and wrapped it around his neck quickly, as well as a pair of rugby striped black and white fingerless gloves which he put on effortlessly. He turned to look up the long stairs. “Tayce, I’m leaving,” The accent on him dripped out of his mouth-he was quite obviously French. “Don’t le-“
Before he could finish, a small girl was at his side.
The word small was simply used to describe her for her lack of height on him. She was roughly 5’4”, give or take an inch or two. This had to be Tayce-she looked quite a bit like him, the same pretty face but more feminine. The jaw wasn’t as strong, though the lips were still slightly bigger than average. Her eyes were big, as were his, and filled with the same green, though in a slightly more dark shade, and they were flecked with a lighter yellow. Her nose was strong; like his, they both had thin, pointed and sharp noses, giving them both a slightly arrogant look as if they frowned upon everything-but the smile held on hers compared to the scowl on his sent an entirely different message on a whole. Her hair was the same deep shadow of dark chocolate brown, though parts were covered with a knit classical styled beret, yellow in color, made with a large rib stitch, clad against the color of her dark hair. Bangs fell just above her eyes, cut neatly and straight across, and bits of her layered hair fell onto her shoulder. She moved quickly, stepping away for a moment, the corduroy pinafore dress she was wearing following her movements, swishing as she moved quickly. When she returned to his side, she had on a pair of black gloves on her small hands and a white scarf draped over the long sleeved turtleneck she was wearing under her dress. She smiled. “I’m coming with you! I’ve been home all day doing absolutely nothing and now you’re leaving and I want to go.”
Garret shook his head. “You can’t go out when it’s cold-not in leggings and a dress.” He shook his head again, turned to open the door, before she grabbed the handle as well, stopping him.
“I’ve got gloves! A scarf! It’s not even that cold!” She opened the door and stepped out into the light snow that had fallen down. “See?” She stepped outside and he glared at her, already annoyed by her presence. If he wasn’t so vain and into himself, he would’ve kicked her out, but seeing as he was dead and couldn’t possibly keep their name alive, he had to watch her, simple as that.
“At /least/ put on some boots,” The eyes rolled in his head, and he glared at her, shooting her thousands of death glares, and she disappeared, returning in a moment in black suede boots that were half way up to her knee, laced up intricately. He shook his head, and watched her walk ahead of him, and then he grabbed her hand, pulling her next to him. “Will you stay near me?” He hissed.
She shook her head. “I’m a twenty one year old woman, Garret. I think I can do as I please,” Either way, she seemed to have already given up and she let him lead her by his hand as he dragged her along. His vision was ruined. There would be no feast tonight, there would be nothing glamorous, and there certainly wouldn’t be any more music with her tagging along. He mumbled a few curses under his breath in French, his hand tightening around hers. He knew that there were other vampires, and of course, it seemed cliché, but he often worried one would fancy her pretty and love the smell of her blood, then win her affections and eat her, so he often chose to keep her close when out. She had no idea, and he wasn’t going to let her know either.
The manor of the house they were leaving was decorated in snow. There were several acres of the large house, and what had once been lush grass was now a blanket of frost, icing over everything that dared to stay under it. They reached gates, and he opened them with his free hand, shaking his head still. Why did she have to go anyways? In all honesty, Garret Ayer Beaumont Noel Devereux (Damn ancestors who insisted on giving him their names) hated her. He hated Tayce Merci Charlene Devereux, who was also forced to share the same fate of having a ridiculously long name. If he had met her and not known who she was, he would’ve killed her, violently. He couldn’t stand her childlike ways, and her curiosity. It was dangerous and stupid. He crossed his arms and dragged her along into the dark night, trying to listen to a song that wasn’t there.
THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG AND RIDICULOUS. I LOST ALL MY EXAMPLES BUT ONE, AND IT IS OLD, BUT STILL WORKS. Just a warning!
The steady dripping of a liquid substance was rhythmic-it made a beat, a background to music. It acted as a bass, making the background to a song that people would crowd around, bodies sweating, and dance. It was that music for James. The steady dripping of the deep red crimson fluid that fell from the ceiling to the floor was a song-a chorus of violins and harps, pianos and flutes. The bass of this song was far above trashy club scenes, it was a song for the sophisticated, the rich, the glamorous, and furthermore, the dead and the dead only.
Sitting below the liquid was a tall man, masked by shadows. The bouncing, the echoes of the blood hitting the floor, suggested he was in the basement of a large house, and the lack of lighting suggested there was no need for light where he was. He was sitting luxuriously in the most vibrant thing in the room, which happened to be a creamy white chair with a mahogany finish-the only source of a bit of light in the dimmed room. And from the looks of it, the patterning in it and the finishing which seemed so intricately done, it was pricey. It had a faint glow to it, as if it was new or unused. The wood on it glowed as if it had just been cleaned, and the patterns of swirls and leaves in it were so touchable it seemed as if no one had ever sat in it. This was just not the case though-he was a careful man, the creature in said chair. He had money. He had the nice chair to prove it, and the wine glass in his hand, which also had a faint glow. The crystal seemed to reflect his face, the stem was beautiful and decorated in crystal, and the rim had no marks on it, despite the fact he was frequently taking sips. His lips left no residue, and as quickly as the equally red crimson in the cup swished around, it left no trace it was ever there.
The shadow tossed its head back, and let out a small sigh of appreciation. Its ears perked up a bit, and in the darkness, its eyes closed, listening closely to the rhythm that was being made. In its head, it clearly could see a vivid image; several people, about eleven woman and thirteen men, all dressed elegantly in suites and dresses that showed off their amazing figures. They were all beautiful; too beautiful. Their hair was all a rich color and soft to the touch, their eyes were all glowing with joy-or perhaps sadness and their bodies were made to be models. A few seemed to dance in couples while the others sat a long white table, eating assortments of meat. In the background there were several other people, their heads bent low and playing assortments of fine instruments, and on the floor was a fine marble. The windows reflected the moonlight, and outside that was a heavenly sea. And then suddenly the scene changed. The beautiful people seemed to have lost all trace of elegant clothing, and seemed to be less dressed. Their hair was wild, and there were a few dozen dead people on the floor-but the music continued, the players not distracted. And the creature smiled, opened his eyes and stood up.
Light poured down into the cellar as a door opened, which he quickly shut. Ah, it was obvious now; the creature was a he, and a handsome one at that. He turned and quickly shut the door, then took a lock out of one of the pockets on his blue jeans. He quickly locked the basement door, and stretched his arms up, relaxing a bit. His eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness that accompanied the first floor of his house. Chandeliers were placed on the high ceiling, crystals dangling down from them, the light bulbs on them reflecting onto the marble floor. A woman’s voice echoed down to the kitchen where he was.
“What do you down there, Garret?” It was obviously a woman-the voice was high pitched. The girl asking couldn’t have been more then 23 by her light voice, and couldn’t have been human. She would’ve easily lowered her voice so it didn’t echo, and she would’ve probably joined him and known what he did, had she also been dead.
“Tayce, I told you to stop asking me!” Elegant, haggard arms went up to his head, and the long, skinny fingers on his hand rubbed at his temple. She wouldn’t ever find out-she didn’t need too. Besides, the key was hidden in a great place she would never find-in a chandelier. Good luck for her getting it all the way up there. He knew better then to leave it out. To have Tayce find out would be a horrible, a dreadful experience for the likes of him. He would have to kill her, and that would destroy the whole purpose of him staying with her. He was there for one reason, and one reason only. Tayce was one of his (insert a large number here) cousins, and of course, she carried the Devereux surname. She was the last of his line-her parents, god knew what had happened to them, he didn’t know nor care, but she had been alone, and when he found out his name was going to die in the human population, he went to take her in. He was going to make sure that the Devereux name lived on. They had too, they had it going for them besides the fact their population was two-and technically, one was dead. They were French, Rich, High class, and quite pretty.
Why, even the mortal one was pretty, though certainly not up to par with her male counterpart. He was tall, roughly 6’3”, and lithe, graceful. His skin was a haggard color, much paler then hers or any other mortal, but it seemed to fit and make him even more elegant then the others. Eyes were a hue of an emerald green, flecked with yellow-and those weren’t eyes he got when he died. He had had them even when he was mortal. His hair was a dark chocolate brown, short, ending at the middle of his neck, and messy, as if he frequently tousled it. His jaw was strong, his lips a bit big, pouting. He had a small bit of 5 o’ clock shadow on his jaw, and these things were the only masculine things on his face.
His clothing was feminine, or perhaps it just looked that way placed upon his skinny frame. He was wearing a simple white shirt made of cotton, which wrapped around his neck. It seemed loose and thin, something not to be worn in cold weather, and he seemed to have noticed that by putting a cardigan over it. Though that too was light and made of wool. It was striped with grey and a dull grey color, part of it clinging to his skin to show off the lithe and feminine like features that his body possessed. It had a large Vneck and showed off the white shirt beneath it, taunting people to rip it off and see if he was a female or male beneath it. He carefully buttoned up the light grey buttons, and pulled the sleeves down, then pulled his arms up in a stretch, letting out a small yawn as if he had just woken up-and in a way he had. He spent the daylight in the basement with the lights off, luxuriously enjoying fine blood and sleeping, and when about eight at night came, he came upstairs. His long, graceful legs moved to follow his movement, the muscle stretching, the jeans following. His skin was clad against the indigo jeans, though the color was washed out at the knee area. There were several tears in random spots in the straight legged jeans, giving him an almost sensational look mixed with a rebellious feeling. The jeans were low rise, tugging on his hips, highlighting his womanly figure. The belt that held up said jeans defined his hips more, a white leather belt with printings from a French newspaper printed onto it-Excerpts from Le Monde, which he barely read or enjoyed, as he didn’t trust the news one bit. The outfit seemed finished with a pair of black slip on vans, which were decorated with white pinstripes, going around the shoes vertically, starting from the tip. He finished his stretch after a few moments, and glanced down at the silver watch on his left arm. 9:06. He ought to be out. The long fingers grabbed a wool knit rugby striped scarf, black and white, off a mahogany table and wrapped it around his neck quickly, as well as a pair of rugby striped black and white fingerless gloves which he put on effortlessly. He turned to look up the long stairs. “Tayce, I’m leaving,” The accent on him dripped out of his mouth-he was quite obviously French. “Don’t le-“
Before he could finish, a small girl was at his side.
The word small was simply used to describe her for her lack of height on him. She was roughly 5’4”, give or take an inch or two. This had to be Tayce-she looked quite a bit like him, the same pretty face but more feminine. The jaw wasn’t as strong, though the lips were still slightly bigger than average. Her eyes were big, as were his, and filled with the same green, though in a slightly more dark shade, and they were flecked with a lighter yellow. Her nose was strong; like his, they both had thin, pointed and sharp noses, giving them both a slightly arrogant look as if they frowned upon everything-but the smile held on hers compared to the scowl on his sent an entirely different message on a whole. Her hair was the same deep shadow of dark chocolate brown, though parts were covered with a knit classical styled beret, yellow in color, made with a large rib stitch, clad against the color of her dark hair. Bangs fell just above her eyes, cut neatly and straight across, and bits of her layered hair fell onto her shoulder. She moved quickly, stepping away for a moment, the corduroy pinafore dress she was wearing following her movements, swishing as she moved quickly. When she returned to his side, she had on a pair of black gloves on her small hands and a white scarf draped over the long sleeved turtleneck she was wearing under her dress. She smiled. “I’m coming with you! I’ve been home all day doing absolutely nothing and now you’re leaving and I want to go.”
Garret shook his head. “You can’t go out when it’s cold-not in leggings and a dress.” He shook his head again, turned to open the door, before she grabbed the handle as well, stopping him.
“I’ve got gloves! A scarf! It’s not even that cold!” She opened the door and stepped out into the light snow that had fallen down. “See?” She stepped outside and he glared at her, already annoyed by her presence. If he wasn’t so vain and into himself, he would’ve kicked her out, but seeing as he was dead and couldn’t possibly keep their name alive, he had to watch her, simple as that.
“At /least/ put on some boots,” The eyes rolled in his head, and he glared at her, shooting her thousands of death glares, and she disappeared, returning in a moment in black suede boots that were half way up to her knee, laced up intricately. He shook his head, and watched her walk ahead of him, and then he grabbed her hand, pulling her next to him. “Will you stay near me?” He hissed.
She shook her head. “I’m a twenty one year old woman, Garret. I think I can do as I please,” Either way, she seemed to have already given up and she let him lead her by his hand as he dragged her along. His vision was ruined. There would be no feast tonight, there would be nothing glamorous, and there certainly wouldn’t be any more music with her tagging along. He mumbled a few curses under his breath in French, his hand tightening around hers. He knew that there were other vampires, and of course, it seemed cliché, but he often worried one would fancy her pretty and love the smell of her blood, then win her affections and eat her, so he often chose to keep her close when out. She had no idea, and he wasn’t going to let her know either.
The manor of the house they were leaving was decorated in snow. There were several acres of the large house, and what had once been lush grass was now a blanket of frost, icing over everything that dared to stay under it. They reached gates, and he opened them with his free hand, shaking his head still. Why did she have to go anyways? In all honesty, Garret Ayer Beaumont Noel Devereux (Damn ancestors who insisted on giving him their names) hated her. He hated Tayce Merci Charlene Devereux, who was also forced to share the same fate of having a ridiculously long name. If he had met her and not known who she was, he would’ve killed her, violently. He couldn’t stand her childlike ways, and her curiosity. It was dangerous and stupid. He crossed his arms and dragged her along into the dark night, trying to listen to a song that wasn’t there.
†Let's talk about you:†
Name:Aria
Other Characters: None!
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