Post by Javert on Jul 13, 2009 15:44:18 GMT -5
[/font][/font][/size][/size]{Re}introducing…
CELESTE WORTHINGTON !
Please Allow Me To {Re}introduce Myself…[/blockquote][/center]
Name: Celeste Jessamine Worthington
Nicknames: most commonly Cel, sometimes Celly, frequently Unworthington or some overused pun on her surname, and, in her mind, Her Highness or Majesty
Age: 17
Gender: femme
Where you stand?: Queen of the Pretty Faces
Play by: Alyssa Miller; I think we all knew that all along. never really could see her as Olivia Wilde. back to the start!
Nicknames: most commonly Cel, sometimes Celly, frequently Unworthington or some overused pun on her surname, and, in her mind, Her Highness or Majesty
Age: 17
Gender: femme
Where you stand?: Queen of the Pretty Faces
Play by: Alyssa Miller; I think we all knew that all along. never really could see her as Olivia Wilde. back to the start!
I'm a man of wealth and taste...
Appearance: It is difficult to be imposing when you stand at two agonizing inches over 5 feet. Nevertheless, Celeste Worthington is convinced that her petite stature is womanly and the perfect height: anyone taller than she is automatically a giant, and anyone shorter, a dwarf. However, she will often attempt to disguise her height by wearing heels, so that she can at least endeavor to look someone in the eye as she berates them, and she has the habit of raising her elegant chin and looking down her dainty nose at someone despite the laws of height differences protesting that to be impossible. (Nothing is impossible for Celeste Worthington--in her eyes, anyway.)
The analogy comparing a young woman to a doll is trite, and yet there is no other that can be so adequately entertained to describe the semblance of Miss Worthington. Her hair is coiffed and luxurious enough to appear like the faux tresses of a doll—jet black that shines deep purple in the appropriate lighting, falling in thick spirals, a waterfall of sculpted ringlets. Her skin is as pale and unblemished as porcelain, the fashionable cream-and-sugar that Celeste inherited and maintains by avoiding sunlight or highly caffeinated beverages. Twin splashes of strawberry often rise at her high cheekbones and contrarily softly rounded cheeks, bringing color to a face that is almost a perfect oval, her forehead fashionably high, her chin gently sloped, as if sculpted by a light hand. Her eyes are the rich green of emeralds, and usually appear to be just as hard, encircled by black lashes like feathers; her brows, although carefully arched and groomed, are much thicker and bolder than is expected on such a delicate face, as if the maker wished for his doll to have a feature that set her apart from the rest. (Miss Worthington also appreciates them, for she is never one to wish to blend into a crowd.) Her nose is small and delicate but aristocratically straight, and her pouting, cupid-bow lips are soft and pink as a rose petal. Overall, there is a doe-eyed innocence to her visage that belies her true nature, although she certainly can work the innocent look when she finds it necessary. Otherwise, this doll ensures that she is not mistaken for a puppet, and her carefully lifted brows, rolling eyes, pursed lips, and false sugary smiles do the work that her height cannot.
Her frame, although inarguably vertically challenged, is otherwise deemed suitable by society's terms on the feminine figure. Miss Worthington is quite slender, although her womanly curves are present and accounted for; she merely has not been 'blessed' with the wide hips and hourglass figure that most women covet when the time to bear children arrives and abhor any other time. Her hands and feet are small, pale, unmarred, to continue her doll-like exterior, and the nails of her hands are always oval-shaped and hard as opals—she cares for them constantly, inspects them habitually, and if a hangnail were to appear, it could quite possibly herald the end times. The hands of a gentlewoman, she knows, marks her high status, and Miss Worthington thus ensures that they are constantly clean and soft and scented faintly of rosewater—she could not stand to ever be mistaken for anything but the upper crust of the upper class.
Her poor feet, however, are regularly subjected to cruel and unusual torture because of the heeled shoes she crams them into. Miss Worthington is, in fact, an ardent enthusiast of shoes, so long as they are highly expensive do not remind her of—in her own words—“rainbow vomit”. ((LOL@HARLOW)) This is also her criteria for the rest of her clothing choices—she will wear only what is currently most coveted by the fashion world and what is ridiculously overpriced. Fine white gloves, beautifully tailored dresses, wide-brimmed hats with gauze and netting, yards of lace, and breathtaking corsets are all mandatory for day-to-day living, and only the most extravagant will do fore masques or other social occasions. Her jewelry is surprisingly simple—an emerald ring upon the ring finger of her right hand, which she claims match the unparalleled beauty of her eyes.
The author wishes to note, at this conclusion, that this entire appearance makes her gag. Beauty hides the beast.
Personality: Once in a great while, fate will flip an especially lustrous coin, and the beautiful young lady blessed with great quantities of money will also possess the gracious, humble manners.
Unfortunately, Celeste did not receive this coin.
She did, however, receive many others, and this accumulated wealth and the lofty status that is attached to the Worthington name contributed hugely to her personality. First and foremost, Celeste knows that she stands steadily at the top of the social ladder, dominates the food chain like a bird of prey, and has thus become enormously arrogant. Why, yes, she is, in fact, the greatest thing since sliced bread; why, yes, she is better than you. If people do not like her—or at least do not pretend to, or follow her, or succumb to her wishes—she is utterly stymied and thoroughly vexed, because, in her jaded little mind, there is no greater being than the illustrious Celeste Worthington, the fairest of them all. If someone managed to enter her life with a flourish and was obviously of higher stature than she—and perhaps the only person that could do this would be the queen of England, and barely—than Celeste would cling to them and issue compliment after compliment, lying through her pretty teeth, waiting for the moment when she could slam them out of the limelight and step into it herself, but, so far, this has remained nothing but a nightmare to Celeste.
It is, in fact, second nature for Celeste to lie through those pretty teeth and petal-pink lips of hers. She is a magnificent actress. When presented to older gentlemen and -women, the headmistress, or potential suitors, she is intelligent and charming, kind and polite, naively witty only when appropriate—the quintessential prospective wife and young lady of high society. She was born and bred a gentlewoman, and thus has impeccable manners and deportment. While she may be unable to recite to you verbatim the Bill of Rights 1689, nor divide long numbers, nor locate Zimbabwe on the globe, she can discern immediately between soup spoon, tea spoon, and table spoon, can dip into and straighten from a seamless curtsy, can waltz for hours upon end and play the pianoforte and sing Italian arias like a songbird. Thus, she is also quick to locate and exploit the flaws of others. No one is safe from her all-seeing gaze. If you are a Heartbreaker and slurp your soup in front of Celeste, you will receive mocking laughter and a loud comparison of yourself to a buck-toothed horse; if you are a fellow Face, you will receive a sharp slap on the wrist and a glare hot enough your bones into marrow, or cold enough to freeze marrow into bone.
An actress indeed, for Cel quite obviously shows her true colors when surrounded by the student body of Florence's Academy. Her excessive vanity, shallow as a puddle, assures her that she is the most important creature out of anyone—nay, the sole important creature—and everyone else, even her so-called friends, is a plausible addition to her staircase. Celeste always knows what she wants and is convinced that she deserves it (she has a particular love for beauty in all of its forms, including the opposite sex) and she has no qualms about stepping all over people to get wherever she needs to be (figuratively speaking, of course, but perhaps literally as well). She is rude and spiteful, condescending and somewhat clever, with a wicked love for sarcasm and a penchant for subtle insults that are delivered with a sugary-sweet smile and a toss of her ebony curls. Despite her lofty air of maturity, she is also extremely petulant in the fact that she is unafraid to hold a grudge until her dying day and bring it up whenever the opportunity unfortunately presents itself. Revenge is sweet, and if anyone dares to stand up to, insult, glare at, laugh at, humiliate, betray, etcetera, etcetera Celeste Worthington—in summary, does anything that is in her job description—they will, upon waking up the next morning, have a high chance of wishing that they had simply never been born. She has no physical prowess whatsoever and swoons at the sight of blood, but her strength is in the sharpness of her tongue, and the ability to remember, spread, and create gossip and rumors approximately at the speed of sound. Loyalty is a foreign concept to her, so not even those closest to her in her clique are ever safe, but if they manage to find themselves in Celeste's favor (until they make a fatal mistake, at least), they will be nearly invincible, dragged to the top of the chain with her. Almost.
This constant rivalry, of course, create some loneliness that Celeste would never admit to but experiences nevertheless. She is undoubtedly a social creature, constantly traveling in packs of Faces, finding strength in numbers, but she is unable or unwilling to trust any of them with more than petty secrets and lies. She is the queen, after all, the solitary monarch, and it's often lonely at the top, but she finds comfort in material things and in her own greatness, and will be more than content to keep the crown until her dying day.
Likes: handsome young men, gossip, dancing, riches, expensive clothing, being the center of attention, handsome young men, music, corsets, handsome young men, fashion, verbally attacking the weaker, pure-bred horses, being complimented, fashion and shoes
Dislikes: abominable clothing, nearly every female attending Florence’s, body odor, losing, being ordered around, those who can adequately stand up to her, dull colors, learning, cold water, most animals (excluding showy equines)
Dreams: Celeste honestly does not think often of the future; she is convinced that she shall live forever with the world in her iron grasp. She does, however, long for a young, dapper husband who will entertain her every whim and purchase her fine shoes.
Fears: death (an abrupt end to her power!), cholera, the loss of her family’s wealth, being married to an unattractive man, heights, the dark, deep water, developing wrinkles, thieves, ghosts (she's very superstitious), spiders
The analogy comparing a young woman to a doll is trite, and yet there is no other that can be so adequately entertained to describe the semblance of Miss Worthington. Her hair is coiffed and luxurious enough to appear like the faux tresses of a doll—jet black that shines deep purple in the appropriate lighting, falling in thick spirals, a waterfall of sculpted ringlets. Her skin is as pale and unblemished as porcelain, the fashionable cream-and-sugar that Celeste inherited and maintains by avoiding sunlight or highly caffeinated beverages. Twin splashes of strawberry often rise at her high cheekbones and contrarily softly rounded cheeks, bringing color to a face that is almost a perfect oval, her forehead fashionably high, her chin gently sloped, as if sculpted by a light hand. Her eyes are the rich green of emeralds, and usually appear to be just as hard, encircled by black lashes like feathers; her brows, although carefully arched and groomed, are much thicker and bolder than is expected on such a delicate face, as if the maker wished for his doll to have a feature that set her apart from the rest. (Miss Worthington also appreciates them, for she is never one to wish to blend into a crowd.) Her nose is small and delicate but aristocratically straight, and her pouting, cupid-bow lips are soft and pink as a rose petal. Overall, there is a doe-eyed innocence to her visage that belies her true nature, although she certainly can work the innocent look when she finds it necessary. Otherwise, this doll ensures that she is not mistaken for a puppet, and her carefully lifted brows, rolling eyes, pursed lips, and false sugary smiles do the work that her height cannot.
Her frame, although inarguably vertically challenged, is otherwise deemed suitable by society's terms on the feminine figure. Miss Worthington is quite slender, although her womanly curves are present and accounted for; she merely has not been 'blessed' with the wide hips and hourglass figure that most women covet when the time to bear children arrives and abhor any other time. Her hands and feet are small, pale, unmarred, to continue her doll-like exterior, and the nails of her hands are always oval-shaped and hard as opals—she cares for them constantly, inspects them habitually, and if a hangnail were to appear, it could quite possibly herald the end times. The hands of a gentlewoman, she knows, marks her high status, and Miss Worthington thus ensures that they are constantly clean and soft and scented faintly of rosewater—she could not stand to ever be mistaken for anything but the upper crust of the upper class.
Her poor feet, however, are regularly subjected to cruel and unusual torture because of the heeled shoes she crams them into. Miss Worthington is, in fact, an ardent enthusiast of shoes, so long as they are highly expensive do not remind her of—in her own words—“rainbow vomit”. ((LOL@HARLOW)) This is also her criteria for the rest of her clothing choices—she will wear only what is currently most coveted by the fashion world and what is ridiculously overpriced. Fine white gloves, beautifully tailored dresses, wide-brimmed hats with gauze and netting, yards of lace, and breathtaking corsets are all mandatory for day-to-day living, and only the most extravagant will do fore masques or other social occasions. Her jewelry is surprisingly simple—an emerald ring upon the ring finger of her right hand, which she claims match the unparalleled beauty of her eyes.
The author wishes to note, at this conclusion, that this entire appearance makes her gag. Beauty hides the beast.
Personality: Once in a great while, fate will flip an especially lustrous coin, and the beautiful young lady blessed with great quantities of money will also possess the gracious, humble manners.
Unfortunately, Celeste did not receive this coin.
She did, however, receive many others, and this accumulated wealth and the lofty status that is attached to the Worthington name contributed hugely to her personality. First and foremost, Celeste knows that she stands steadily at the top of the social ladder, dominates the food chain like a bird of prey, and has thus become enormously arrogant. Why, yes, she is, in fact, the greatest thing since sliced bread; why, yes, she is better than you. If people do not like her—or at least do not pretend to, or follow her, or succumb to her wishes—she is utterly stymied and thoroughly vexed, because, in her jaded little mind, there is no greater being than the illustrious Celeste Worthington, the fairest of them all. If someone managed to enter her life with a flourish and was obviously of higher stature than she—and perhaps the only person that could do this would be the queen of England, and barely—than Celeste would cling to them and issue compliment after compliment, lying through her pretty teeth, waiting for the moment when she could slam them out of the limelight and step into it herself, but, so far, this has remained nothing but a nightmare to Celeste.
It is, in fact, second nature for Celeste to lie through those pretty teeth and petal-pink lips of hers. She is a magnificent actress. When presented to older gentlemen and -women, the headmistress, or potential suitors, she is intelligent and charming, kind and polite, naively witty only when appropriate—the quintessential prospective wife and young lady of high society. She was born and bred a gentlewoman, and thus has impeccable manners and deportment. While she may be unable to recite to you verbatim the Bill of Rights 1689, nor divide long numbers, nor locate Zimbabwe on the globe, she can discern immediately between soup spoon, tea spoon, and table spoon, can dip into and straighten from a seamless curtsy, can waltz for hours upon end and play the pianoforte and sing Italian arias like a songbird. Thus, she is also quick to locate and exploit the flaws of others. No one is safe from her all-seeing gaze. If you are a Heartbreaker and slurp your soup in front of Celeste, you will receive mocking laughter and a loud comparison of yourself to a buck-toothed horse; if you are a fellow Face, you will receive a sharp slap on the wrist and a glare hot enough your bones into marrow, or cold enough to freeze marrow into bone.
An actress indeed, for Cel quite obviously shows her true colors when surrounded by the student body of Florence's Academy. Her excessive vanity, shallow as a puddle, assures her that she is the most important creature out of anyone—nay, the sole important creature—and everyone else, even her so-called friends, is a plausible addition to her staircase. Celeste always knows what she wants and is convinced that she deserves it (she has a particular love for beauty in all of its forms, including the opposite sex) and she has no qualms about stepping all over people to get wherever she needs to be (figuratively speaking, of course, but perhaps literally as well). She is rude and spiteful, condescending and somewhat clever, with a wicked love for sarcasm and a penchant for subtle insults that are delivered with a sugary-sweet smile and a toss of her ebony curls. Despite her lofty air of maturity, she is also extremely petulant in the fact that she is unafraid to hold a grudge until her dying day and bring it up whenever the opportunity unfortunately presents itself. Revenge is sweet, and if anyone dares to stand up to, insult, glare at, laugh at, humiliate, betray, etcetera, etcetera Celeste Worthington—in summary, does anything that is in her job description—they will, upon waking up the next morning, have a high chance of wishing that they had simply never been born. She has no physical prowess whatsoever and swoons at the sight of blood, but her strength is in the sharpness of her tongue, and the ability to remember, spread, and create gossip and rumors approximately at the speed of sound. Loyalty is a foreign concept to her, so not even those closest to her in her clique are ever safe, but if they manage to find themselves in Celeste's favor (until they make a fatal mistake, at least), they will be nearly invincible, dragged to the top of the chain with her. Almost.
This constant rivalry, of course, create some loneliness that Celeste would never admit to but experiences nevertheless. She is undoubtedly a social creature, constantly traveling in packs of Faces, finding strength in numbers, but she is unable or unwilling to trust any of them with more than petty secrets and lies. She is the queen, after all, the solitary monarch, and it's often lonely at the top, but she finds comfort in material things and in her own greatness, and will be more than content to keep the crown until her dying day.
Likes: handsome young men, gossip, dancing, riches, expensive clothing, being the center of attention, handsome young men, music, corsets, handsome young men, fashion, verbally attacking the weaker, pure-bred horses, being complimented, fashion and shoes
Dislikes: abominable clothing, nearly every female attending Florence’s, body odor, losing, being ordered around, those who can adequately stand up to her, dull colors, learning, cold water, most animals (excluding showy equines)
Dreams: Celeste honestly does not think often of the future; she is convinced that she shall live forever with the world in her iron grasp. She does, however, long for a young, dapper husband who will entertain her every whim and purchase her fine shoes.
Fears: death (an abrupt end to her power!), cholera, the loss of her family’s wealth, being married to an unattractive man, heights, the dark, deep water, developing wrinkles, thieves, ghosts (she's very superstitious), spiders
I've been around for a long, long year...
History: The Worthingtons are an outrageously wealthy family and have been for decades, centuries, perhaps, if anyone were willing or patient enough to research back far enough. All of the money is old, hoarded until it can be passed along to the greedy hands of the next generation, and yet it is money nonetheless, and always in plentiful supply. The true denizens of the upper class did not work, anyway—it was an activity reserved for the poor and pitiful. Therefore, when the most eligible bachelor in London, a certain Vincent Worthington, finally settled down and wedded Victoria Hanoverian, who was reportedly distantly related to the Queen herself, the expensive and insufferable couple had more than enough time on their hands to produce three healthy, handsome, intelligent sons to carry on the family name.
Among the Worthington brood were also two daughters: plain, unattractive Eudora, and Celeste, the pride and joy of her mother and father, the delicate rose of the family who would certainly secure a more-than-proper husband. Celeste came into being after each of her brothers had families of their own, and she was left only with Eudora. Perhaps it goes without saying that the sisters did not get on well. Celeste was convinced that Eudora harbored an intense, burning jealousy for her elder sister, and while Celeste graciously understood her reasoning, she still thought her to be vile. They bickered endlessly about the smallest of things and avoided each other whenever was possible. When Eudora, at the age of ten passed away from cholera, Celeste wept and sniffled at all the appropriate times– yet privately she rejoiced. As the last child still present in the Worthington mansion, further attention could be heaped upon Celeste herself.
Unfortunately, things did not occur exactly as Celeste had automatically assumed they would. As Celeste matured, her father became more distant (allegedly because of an affair with some swarthy broad from the slums, although this was never confirmed, and Celeste had no desire to know the truth, nor for anyone else to know), and her mother became more critical. Celeste was placed under constant pressure to evolve into the quintessential gentlewoman, the desire of every man, the envy of every woman, to further elevate the Worthington family skyward and further inflate the egos of the Mr. and Mrs. Because the strong personalities of Celeste and Victoria clashed so mightily—they were both staunch in their belief that the other was always wrong—Celeste was more than relieved when she was finally sent off to school, where she could prove her own greatness for herself.
Almost immediately upon her grand entrance to Florence's Academy for the Young, a great range of pseudo friends (followers, in actuality) passed before Celeste’s arrogant gaze like moths flocking to light; with them came her share of enemies, yet their flowers were swiftly pruned by Celeste’s sharp, cruel tongue. She had learned the laws of survival of the fittest from her mother and other dames of high society and intended to put them to good use. Soon, a tight-knit group of similarly stationed girls formed around Celeste, or were forced to fall into line, and, thus, the newest, perhaps most powerful generation of the Pretty Faces was spawned, with Celeste and her bejeweled scepter conducting their every move. They have gained nothing but power and momentum as the years progress, as has Celeste herself, and, as her final year dawns and her debut approaches, she fully intends to not relinquish her crown without some final displays of her power.
Family:
Mrs. Victoria Worthington & Mr. Vincent Worthington
Miss Celeste Worthington, 17
Mr. Lucas Worthington, 18 2/3
Mr. Harland Worthington, 22
Mr. Marius Worthington, 27
Anything you'd like to add?
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Among the Worthington brood were also two daughters: plain, unattractive Eudora, and Celeste, the pride and joy of her mother and father, the delicate rose of the family who would certainly secure a more-than-proper husband. Celeste came into being after each of her brothers had families of their own, and she was left only with Eudora. Perhaps it goes without saying that the sisters did not get on well. Celeste was convinced that Eudora harbored an intense, burning jealousy for her elder sister, and while Celeste graciously understood her reasoning, she still thought her to be vile. They bickered endlessly about the smallest of things and avoided each other whenever was possible. When Eudora, at the age of ten passed away from cholera, Celeste wept and sniffled at all the appropriate times– yet privately she rejoiced. As the last child still present in the Worthington mansion, further attention could be heaped upon Celeste herself.
Unfortunately, things did not occur exactly as Celeste had automatically assumed they would. As Celeste matured, her father became more distant (allegedly because of an affair with some swarthy broad from the slums, although this was never confirmed, and Celeste had no desire to know the truth, nor for anyone else to know), and her mother became more critical. Celeste was placed under constant pressure to evolve into the quintessential gentlewoman, the desire of every man, the envy of every woman, to further elevate the Worthington family skyward and further inflate the egos of the Mr. and Mrs. Because the strong personalities of Celeste and Victoria clashed so mightily—they were both staunch in their belief that the other was always wrong—Celeste was more than relieved when she was finally sent off to school, where she could prove her own greatness for herself.
Almost immediately upon her grand entrance to Florence's Academy for the Young, a great range of pseudo friends (followers, in actuality) passed before Celeste’s arrogant gaze like moths flocking to light; with them came her share of enemies, yet their flowers were swiftly pruned by Celeste’s sharp, cruel tongue. She had learned the laws of survival of the fittest from her mother and other dames of high society and intended to put them to good use. Soon, a tight-knit group of similarly stationed girls formed around Celeste, or were forced to fall into line, and, thus, the newest, perhaps most powerful generation of the Pretty Faces was spawned, with Celeste and her bejeweled scepter conducting their every move. They have gained nothing but power and momentum as the years progress, as has Celeste herself, and, as her final year dawns and her debut approaches, she fully intends to not relinquish her crown without some final displays of her power.
Family:
Mrs. Victoria Worthington & Mr. Vincent Worthington
Miss Celeste Worthington, 17
Mr. Lucas Worthington, 18 2/3
Mr. Harland Worthington, 22
Mr. Marius Worthington, 27
Anything you'd like to add?
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Hope you guess my name...
Your name: Javs
Parent of which characters: frannykins and aisheface
Parent of which characters: frannykins and aisheface
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game...
(c) Poe & Realms of Fantasia
Lyrics (c) Guns N' Roses
Do not steal.
It's bad.[/size][/i][/center]
