Post by inspectorjavs on May 24, 2008 11:35:16 GMT -5
Name: Mina Veronique Renfield
Nicknames: Although discouraging others from using her name at all, she is partial, simply to Mina... And was notably referred to as Alice by two particular individuals years ago.
Age: seventeen
Gender: female
Clique: MISFITTTTTTTTTTT =D
Clique Status: Youngest
Picture:
Play by: Laetitia Casta
Appearance: Beauty is of no importance-- it is simply something perceived, says Mina, by the eye, useless and imperceptible to the remaining senses. Close your eyes and beauty no longer matters. It is finite, it will deteriorate, and it is completely, utterly worthless.
Ironically, Mina is graced with the very beauty that she often scorns; she could easily have eased into the Pretty Faces if her opinion of beauty was much different. Her face--normally pale, in the summer acquiring a golden tan that she loathes-- is one of traditional beauty in that her lips are generous above a rounded chin and beneath a flawlessly straight nose, her brows carefully arched, her cheeks voluminous over high cheekbones. There is something gentle, nearly fragile, about her features that contradicts her strong personality. Her hair color, a golden-brown, was inherited from her father, with the thick waves coming from her mother; she currently wears it simply down, cascading to the middle of her back. She has had no motives to cut or style it for a while.
This unfortunately fair face is supported by a long neck, giving way to sloping shoulders, the remainder of her frame equally lithe and graceful. However, her long-fingered hands are marred by multiple calluses from archery; there is a small scar upon her right index finger. Her arms are also surprisingly toned, almost, barely muscular, and she has often been teased or berated for this, but it is a testament to her tendency to completely ignore gender roles.
Before her mother died, she would dress Mina in the flounciest of dresses, all in ladylike pastels, accentuated with lace and golden buttons; ribbons and bows would be affixed in her tumbling wheat-colored curls, present too on her carefully-shined shoes. She was a living doll, and, although she detested the clothing, Mina didn't exactly mind-- her parents were the two indiduals that she truly loved (and, despite their absence, they hold this title even today). Now that Mother's gone, however, Mina wears clothing that is as neutral as possible-- blacks, greys, deep browns, colors that allow her beauty to fade into the background. A habit that she hasn't outgrown from her childhood, however, is wearing layer upon layers of clothing, even in the heat of summer, a habit first spawned by a mild case of anemia (which, in turn, gave her horrible circulation), and continued also because of a desire to retreat entirely into herself.
Personality: Mina’s personality cannot be conveniently summed up in several adjectives– it is multi-faceted and multi-layered, extending far beneath her impenetrable exterior, deep down into something that no one has ever been allowed to touch and probably will never even catch a glimpse of: her heart, her soul, or at least the pieces of each that have not been callused, scarred, and permanently locked away.
On the outside, she is blank. Her face is commonly a stoic mask of boredom; no emotion shines through on these features, as if she is a statue, beautiful but unchanging. She uses no gestures when speaking, and to accompany this, her voice is a monotonous alto, unchanging in pitch, conveying no emotions. She appears to be thoroughly bored with the world–not arrogantly above it, but simply enormously apathetic–and this is because she is, in spirit, far older than a seventeen-year-old, possessing almost wisdom and intelligence that no teenager should have, a seventy-year-old scholar entrapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old student. This frightening intelligence weaves her wintry words into riddles that make perfect sense to her but often confuse others; she is convinced that she is blunt, speaking only the truth (for the truth is what she craves), and although she does, often the listener does not realize this.
Radiating from her is a strength that is almost as visible as physical muscles, though deeper, darker. She has learned to be strong; she’s had to. From this strength stems obstinance: when she does not agree with something, or is convinced that she is right and They are wrong, she will challenge it immediately, no matter with whom she is arguing. She has vehemently debated with teachers (for, in her mind, they deserve no more respect than she), school administrators, adults thrice her age and experience and possibly even wisdom and IQ, arguing until her throat closes and her clenched fists loosen in exhaustion. She has never rebelled through physically fighting, but her words–sharp as knives, carving and hacking and slashing from her opponent’s defenses–are more than enough. From this obstinance stems something even more profound: a silent, twisted wrath that lurks just beneath her fingertips, refusing to be betrayed by her voice or exterior, but always lurking, always, having no qualms over pouncing at the most unexpected of times. She was sorrowful at once, perhaps, but that grief was promptly erased and replaced by his anger.
She is also thoroughly convinced–meaning that no one will ever, under any circumstances, be able to persuade her otherwise, although if they present a thorough argument she will, at least, listen to it–that only a person’s mind defines them. Names mean nothing. Gender means nothing, nor age, nor outward appearance, nor any other factor. Therefore, despite the rigid gender roles of her time, she sees nothing wrong with alternating between dresses and men’s clothing, with arguing upon subjects that she should not even be aware of, with a young gentlewoman being an enthusiast for archery and hawking and other activities.
History: Mina was never a normal child.
Quite honestly, her parents, Lucinda and Jonathon Renfield, never expected her to be. Mina was born twelve weeks earlier than she was supposed to. It was a miracle enough that she survived, let alone without any physical or mental deformities (however, she would forever be plagued by a mild case of anemia whose effects thankfully extended merely to horrendous circulation). Indeed, instead of her premature birth shedding power from her brain, it seemed to enhance it–by age two she was precocious, by age five, a prodigy. She was reading and writing by three, memorizing and reciting Latin texts at five, and had written a two-hundred-page book at six-and-a-quarter entitled “An Unprecedented Chronicle of the Life and Times of Mina Veronique Renfield”. Her parents were wealthy, but when their manorhouse in Oxford was destroyed in a fire, the Renfield family relocated to London, easing very fortunately back into their more-than-comfortable lifestyle in a matter of months.
Mina was not one for friends. She had never desired any. However, always harboring hope for her darling daughter, Lucinda would shuttle her daughter to the park (all wrapped up in her layers of flounces and lace and pastels), peck her upon the cheek, and retreat into the background to converse with her fellow mothers, confident that her child could communicate efficiently enough with others of her age to make friends. Whenever she glanced back, Mina remained in the same position that she had been placed in: arms crossed over her chest, stormcloud eyes blinking at lazy intervals, as if so bored that she was unable to even do anything about it. Every once in a while, Lucinda would see a particularly brave soul venture up to Mina and smile and wave and introduce themselves, and Mina would blink at them, purse her lips, and calmly mutter something that Lucinda could never hear, but within a matter of seconds, Brave Soul would retreat and cast bemused looks over their shoulder at the girl with the stormcloud eyes.
When she was seven, one particularly Brave Soul ventured over and smiled and waved and introduced himself–and did not turn away when Mina replied. She barely even looked him in the eye–she retains, even now, a habit of fixating her gaze just over someone’s shoulder when she doesn’t wish to talk to them–and yet he continued blabbering and asked for her name, where she lived. Knowing, even then, the futility of names, she did not offer hers to him, and yet young Dante Yerami dubbed her Alice, and Alice she became–to him and his brother, Peter, anyway.
Mina and Dante had an interesting relationship. Mina recognized that poor Dante was hopelessly in love with her, and she made sure to convey that the feeling was far from mutual. She did, however, become inseperable with him; if you saw one, the other was never far behind, and often, poor little Peter would often be floundering along in the background trying to keep up. Mina, surprisingly, truly did come to consider Dante a friend--a foreign word in her extensive vocabulary--although she never outwardly expressed this. She even came to respect him, and, privately, to admire him.
As their parents had also become friends, the Yerami's and Renfield's planned to have dinner together one evening. Several nights prior, the Yerami parents were attending a party, imploring Mr. and Mrs. Renfield to check up on their children (they happily obliged). Mina requested to tag along; she hadn't seen Dante for a few days, and she was currently reading a fascinating book that she wanted to tell him about.
Mina was perusing the downstairs of the Yerami household when she heard a plethora of gunshots, one after another, resounding horribly somewhere upstairs. She had never been athletic, but she sprinted upstairs as quickly as her seven-year-old legs could carry her, and was confronted by the sight of Dante wielding a gun, Peter cowering some ways behind him. Mina's parents lay in a steadily increasing pool of blood at her feet.
She stared. Dante stared. As if moving in slow motion, Dante's eyes widened, his mouth opening to speak, but Mina shouted, "Monster!" and fled the room, the hall, the house, the city. She ran until she forgot how to run. At that point, she remembered how to faint, and did so.
When she awoke she was in the care of more than a dozen matronly nuns--she had been discovered motionless upon the streets and had been taken to Tyburn Convent to nurse her back to health. Mina--who had scorned religion since the first book she read about it--fought tooth and nail to escape once she was well enough to do so. They allowed her to, confident that God would bring her back to them. After a two-day wandering of the London streets, He did just that, and Mina returned, begrudgingly, to the convent, having no other family and certainly no other friends to live with. She did not participate in their songs, their prayers; instead, she sat alone in her room for years, with no company but nuns and the pigeons that they kept outside. She became a beautiful girl, a bitter girl, and, ultimately, a terribly lonely girl, but her books and her bow and arrows were her constant companions, and she was too proud to find any others.
Secretly, the Mother Superior had planned for years to send Mina to school when the time was right. At the age of 13, they had pooled enough money together to send their oddly beloved Mina to school; by the age of 15, she was sent packing for having argued with a teacher one too many times (and for nearly coming to blows over it). Now, despite Mina's constant, vehement assurances that there is nothing for her to learn in school that she does not already know (and disagree with), she is being forced to try again with Florence's Academy for the Young. She will go, against her will. She will also loath it immensely--especially when she learns of the dark fragments of her past that will rear their ugly heads at her there...
Fears: on the outside, none. secretly: strangers, being mortally wounded, rejection or commitment, guns
Likes: books, archery, learning, black coffee, moonless nights, being independent, scarves, complete silence, eloquence, intelligence, mathematics, simplicity, riddles that only she knows the answer to, hawking, searching for the truth, birds, arguing and debates
Dislikes: people, most animals, bright colors, loud noises, white noise, idiots, the sun, music, candy, food she can't identify, not knowing something, being agreed with, pickles, smiling, frustration, being sick, her anemia, almost everything not expressed in her 'likes'
Dreams: she has never dreamed; she yearns, however, for the answers to any question she has ever asked, and also, distantly, for vengeance
Anything you'd like to add? OH. MY. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.
Nicknames: Although discouraging others from using her name at all, she is partial, simply to Mina... And was notably referred to as Alice by two particular individuals years ago.
Age: seventeen
Gender: female
Clique: MISFITTTTTTTTTTT =D
Clique Status: Youngest
Picture:
Play by: Laetitia Casta
Appearance: Beauty is of no importance-- it is simply something perceived, says Mina, by the eye, useless and imperceptible to the remaining senses. Close your eyes and beauty no longer matters. It is finite, it will deteriorate, and it is completely, utterly worthless.
Ironically, Mina is graced with the very beauty that she often scorns; she could easily have eased into the Pretty Faces if her opinion of beauty was much different. Her face--normally pale, in the summer acquiring a golden tan that she loathes-- is one of traditional beauty in that her lips are generous above a rounded chin and beneath a flawlessly straight nose, her brows carefully arched, her cheeks voluminous over high cheekbones. There is something gentle, nearly fragile, about her features that contradicts her strong personality. Her hair color, a golden-brown, was inherited from her father, with the thick waves coming from her mother; she currently wears it simply down, cascading to the middle of her back. She has had no motives to cut or style it for a while.
This unfortunately fair face is supported by a long neck, giving way to sloping shoulders, the remainder of her frame equally lithe and graceful. However, her long-fingered hands are marred by multiple calluses from archery; there is a small scar upon her right index finger. Her arms are also surprisingly toned, almost, barely muscular, and she has often been teased or berated for this, but it is a testament to her tendency to completely ignore gender roles.
Before her mother died, she would dress Mina in the flounciest of dresses, all in ladylike pastels, accentuated with lace and golden buttons; ribbons and bows would be affixed in her tumbling wheat-colored curls, present too on her carefully-shined shoes. She was a living doll, and, although she detested the clothing, Mina didn't exactly mind-- her parents were the two indiduals that she truly loved (and, despite their absence, they hold this title even today). Now that Mother's gone, however, Mina wears clothing that is as neutral as possible-- blacks, greys, deep browns, colors that allow her beauty to fade into the background. A habit that she hasn't outgrown from her childhood, however, is wearing layer upon layers of clothing, even in the heat of summer, a habit first spawned by a mild case of anemia (which, in turn, gave her horrible circulation), and continued also because of a desire to retreat entirely into herself.
Personality: Mina’s personality cannot be conveniently summed up in several adjectives– it is multi-faceted and multi-layered, extending far beneath her impenetrable exterior, deep down into something that no one has ever been allowed to touch and probably will never even catch a glimpse of: her heart, her soul, or at least the pieces of each that have not been callused, scarred, and permanently locked away.
On the outside, she is blank. Her face is commonly a stoic mask of boredom; no emotion shines through on these features, as if she is a statue, beautiful but unchanging. She uses no gestures when speaking, and to accompany this, her voice is a monotonous alto, unchanging in pitch, conveying no emotions. She appears to be thoroughly bored with the world–not arrogantly above it, but simply enormously apathetic–and this is because she is, in spirit, far older than a seventeen-year-old, possessing almost wisdom and intelligence that no teenager should have, a seventy-year-old scholar entrapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old student. This frightening intelligence weaves her wintry words into riddles that make perfect sense to her but often confuse others; she is convinced that she is blunt, speaking only the truth (for the truth is what she craves), and although she does, often the listener does not realize this.
Radiating from her is a strength that is almost as visible as physical muscles, though deeper, darker. She has learned to be strong; she’s had to. From this strength stems obstinance: when she does not agree with something, or is convinced that she is right and They are wrong, she will challenge it immediately, no matter with whom she is arguing. She has vehemently debated with teachers (for, in her mind, they deserve no more respect than she), school administrators, adults thrice her age and experience and possibly even wisdom and IQ, arguing until her throat closes and her clenched fists loosen in exhaustion. She has never rebelled through physically fighting, but her words–sharp as knives, carving and hacking and slashing from her opponent’s defenses–are more than enough. From this obstinance stems something even more profound: a silent, twisted wrath that lurks just beneath her fingertips, refusing to be betrayed by her voice or exterior, but always lurking, always, having no qualms over pouncing at the most unexpected of times. She was sorrowful at once, perhaps, but that grief was promptly erased and replaced by his anger.
She is also thoroughly convinced–meaning that no one will ever, under any circumstances, be able to persuade her otherwise, although if they present a thorough argument she will, at least, listen to it–that only a person’s mind defines them. Names mean nothing. Gender means nothing, nor age, nor outward appearance, nor any other factor. Therefore, despite the rigid gender roles of her time, she sees nothing wrong with alternating between dresses and men’s clothing, with arguing upon subjects that she should not even be aware of, with a young gentlewoman being an enthusiast for archery and hawking and other activities.
History: Mina was never a normal child.
Quite honestly, her parents, Lucinda and Jonathon Renfield, never expected her to be. Mina was born twelve weeks earlier than she was supposed to. It was a miracle enough that she survived, let alone without any physical or mental deformities (however, she would forever be plagued by a mild case of anemia whose effects thankfully extended merely to horrendous circulation). Indeed, instead of her premature birth shedding power from her brain, it seemed to enhance it–by age two she was precocious, by age five, a prodigy. She was reading and writing by three, memorizing and reciting Latin texts at five, and had written a two-hundred-page book at six-and-a-quarter entitled “An Unprecedented Chronicle of the Life and Times of Mina Veronique Renfield”. Her parents were wealthy, but when their manorhouse in Oxford was destroyed in a fire, the Renfield family relocated to London, easing very fortunately back into their more-than-comfortable lifestyle in a matter of months.
Mina was not one for friends. She had never desired any. However, always harboring hope for her darling daughter, Lucinda would shuttle her daughter to the park (all wrapped up in her layers of flounces and lace and pastels), peck her upon the cheek, and retreat into the background to converse with her fellow mothers, confident that her child could communicate efficiently enough with others of her age to make friends. Whenever she glanced back, Mina remained in the same position that she had been placed in: arms crossed over her chest, stormcloud eyes blinking at lazy intervals, as if so bored that she was unable to even do anything about it. Every once in a while, Lucinda would see a particularly brave soul venture up to Mina and smile and wave and introduce themselves, and Mina would blink at them, purse her lips, and calmly mutter something that Lucinda could never hear, but within a matter of seconds, Brave Soul would retreat and cast bemused looks over their shoulder at the girl with the stormcloud eyes.
When she was seven, one particularly Brave Soul ventured over and smiled and waved and introduced himself–and did not turn away when Mina replied. She barely even looked him in the eye–she retains, even now, a habit of fixating her gaze just over someone’s shoulder when she doesn’t wish to talk to them–and yet he continued blabbering and asked for her name, where she lived. Knowing, even then, the futility of names, she did not offer hers to him, and yet young Dante Yerami dubbed her Alice, and Alice she became–to him and his brother, Peter, anyway.
Mina and Dante had an interesting relationship. Mina recognized that poor Dante was hopelessly in love with her, and she made sure to convey that the feeling was far from mutual. She did, however, become inseperable with him; if you saw one, the other was never far behind, and often, poor little Peter would often be floundering along in the background trying to keep up. Mina, surprisingly, truly did come to consider Dante a friend--a foreign word in her extensive vocabulary--although she never outwardly expressed this. She even came to respect him, and, privately, to admire him.
As their parents had also become friends, the Yerami's and Renfield's planned to have dinner together one evening. Several nights prior, the Yerami parents were attending a party, imploring Mr. and Mrs. Renfield to check up on their children (they happily obliged). Mina requested to tag along; she hadn't seen Dante for a few days, and she was currently reading a fascinating book that she wanted to tell him about.
Mina was perusing the downstairs of the Yerami household when she heard a plethora of gunshots, one after another, resounding horribly somewhere upstairs. She had never been athletic, but she sprinted upstairs as quickly as her seven-year-old legs could carry her, and was confronted by the sight of Dante wielding a gun, Peter cowering some ways behind him. Mina's parents lay in a steadily increasing pool of blood at her feet.
She stared. Dante stared. As if moving in slow motion, Dante's eyes widened, his mouth opening to speak, but Mina shouted, "Monster!" and fled the room, the hall, the house, the city. She ran until she forgot how to run. At that point, she remembered how to faint, and did so.
When she awoke she was in the care of more than a dozen matronly nuns--she had been discovered motionless upon the streets and had been taken to Tyburn Convent to nurse her back to health. Mina--who had scorned religion since the first book she read about it--fought tooth and nail to escape once she was well enough to do so. They allowed her to, confident that God would bring her back to them. After a two-day wandering of the London streets, He did just that, and Mina returned, begrudgingly, to the convent, having no other family and certainly no other friends to live with. She did not participate in their songs, their prayers; instead, she sat alone in her room for years, with no company but nuns and the pigeons that they kept outside. She became a beautiful girl, a bitter girl, and, ultimately, a terribly lonely girl, but her books and her bow and arrows were her constant companions, and she was too proud to find any others.
Secretly, the Mother Superior had planned for years to send Mina to school when the time was right. At the age of 13, they had pooled enough money together to send their oddly beloved Mina to school; by the age of 15, she was sent packing for having argued with a teacher one too many times (and for nearly coming to blows over it). Now, despite Mina's constant, vehement assurances that there is nothing for her to learn in school that she does not already know (and disagree with), she is being forced to try again with Florence's Academy for the Young. She will go, against her will. She will also loath it immensely--especially when she learns of the dark fragments of her past that will rear their ugly heads at her there...
Fears: on the outside, none. secretly: strangers, being mortally wounded, rejection or commitment, guns
Likes: books, archery, learning, black coffee, moonless nights, being independent, scarves, complete silence, eloquence, intelligence, mathematics, simplicity, riddles that only she knows the answer to, hawking, searching for the truth, birds, arguing and debates
Dislikes: people, most animals, bright colors, loud noises, white noise, idiots, the sun, music, candy, food she can't identify, not knowing something, being agreed with, pickles, smiling, frustration, being sick, her anemia, almost everything not expressed in her 'likes'
Dreams: she has never dreamed; she yearns, however, for the answers to any question she has ever asked, and also, distantly, for vengeance
Anything you'd like to add? OH. MY. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.
