Post by Deleted on Aug 10, 2013 18:19:11 GMT
CLARISSA ADELAIDE COHEN
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Eye Color: Light Brown
Height/Weight: 5’9” ; 165 lb
Shape: Slender hourglass figure with slight muscular definition.
Style: She likes to keep her clothes very simple. When not working, her shirts consist of tank tops and t-shirts in light-weight fabrics, usually layered with a button down or a vest of some sort. Those shirts are always worn with jeans and converse and often a hoodie. Her go-to work attire is a simple blouse and blazer with slacks or trousers. Casual Attire
Play By: Odette Annable
Age: 29 (September 6, 1983)
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Occupation: Runs a coffee/tea house for the majority of the year and takes a break to work at the camp as an assistant librarian during the summer.
Unusual Behaviour: Claire has a mild, undiagnosed form of OCD which is only obvious when things are very much out of place or unorganized. She also has the occasional mood swing that will come out of nowhere and disappear as quickly as it came.
Habits or Quirks: Claire has a tendancy to default to sarcasm and snarky comments. She keeps what she consideres a very stron wall up to protect herself from those bound to hurt her. That wall comes along with her trust issues and is usually defended with lies and false cordiality. She distances herself from others, often because she dislikes them, but occasionally because she fears being hurt should she come to care for them too much.
On a less serious note, she has been known to mumble in her sleep, loud enough to startle several room mates, and on rare occasion sleep walk.
Likes: A warm mug of tea, good books, being outdoors, comfort food, order, thunderstorms
Dislikes: Crowds in small places, asking for help, not being taken seriously, snow, tradition
Other Info/Overall Personality: Details are certainly not lost on Claire; she notices the small things. She may be very detail oriented, but her knack for seeing the details in things often leads to her getting distracted. It is not as though she means to be that way, but there have been quite a few times when others have found this to be rude.
She is by no means a ‘people person’, and it is quite obvious, though she will make attempts to behave.. Since she was a little girl, she has strayed away from the company of others, for reasons that she chooses not to share. Groups of people are something that Claire cannot work with. She would prefer to spend time with only one person; she is just able to act more like herself that way. However, she does enjoy what she calls People Watching; she just sits and observes. It’s calming and, more often than not, rather amusing.
Once she is comfortable around someone, which usually takes some time, her little mask just sort of melts away. Claire then shifts into a somewhat playful, albeit sarcastic, girl. She can be a bit more compassionate and caring if the situation calls for it, but she seldom lets other see that side of her. She is a fierce protector of those she cares for, and will do most anything to keep them from harm. When she is angry, she will not hesitate to lash out at others, and she has a tendency to hold back her emotions, only to release them all at once.
Parents: Merideth Elaine Cohen/62/Retired Neonatal Nurse ; Joseph Franklin Cohen/64/Professor of Christian Theology
Siblings: None
Other Family: Aunt – Theresa (Resa) Simonne Grantham/56/Juvenile Correctional Officer
Pets: Tucker ; German Rottweiler
History:
Claire was an unexpected, though not unwanted child. Merideth had assumed that, after years of failed attempts and procedures, she would not be able to ever conceive. She and Joseph both considered it a miracle. They spent hour upon hour pouring over baby book after baby book until they’d memorized half the names and their meanings and they knew precisely what was happening at every step of the way. They had every intention to name her Catherine Elizabeth, after his grandmother and hers. Those plans changed the moment they actually saw her.
Those plans changed when they saw her. She was not a Catherine, nor an Elizabeth, so the new parents were at a loss. Someone, no one can really recall who when they tell the story, suggested Clarissa. The small bundle cooed and the name stuck. Then, neither could remember any of those names they’d spent hours on. Joseph began to list the names of random relatives, most of which he hadn’t seen in several years. Adelaide fit the bill. She was some eccentric aunt of Joseph’s that he only vaguely recalled. But the name was pretty and it was about time they put a name on the certificate.
Merideth and Joseph were doting parents from the moment they left the hospital. But they eventually had to return to work. Clarissa was left to day care and baby sitters and any number of relatives who happened to be close enough.
Claire had a childhood that was very much unlike that of the other children in her neighborhood. Though she was an only child, she was not spoiled. She often acted like a small adult when she was younger, having been around many of her parents’ friends. As she grew older, she enjoyed being alone, and would only spend her time with a select few.
Growing up, her life practically revolved around both her parents’ religion and careers. Most of the time, Claire was left on her own with a house to herself and a growing pile of books. This was not a big deal to her, she knew no other way, but it made her into a stronger, more independent girl. This was something that her parents wished had not happened because she would often pull away from them. She always looked at her independence as a very good thing. It meant that she didn’t have to rely on others.
Only a month or so after her eighteenth birthday, Claire left her parents’ house to live in her own home on the outskirts of a small town that she was familiar with. She wanted to be off on her own, figuring things out and exploring the possibilities of what she could do without having religion and her parent’s wishes for her future forced upon her. She loved living alone and taking care of herself, but then again, that was almost all she had ever done. The only thing different about this was that she had to support herself. That took a little bit of getting used to.
Claire got a job at some place she can’t quite remember now and dabbled about in college. A bit of business here. A bit of culinary there. Some art and English and math and science. Somehow, she got a degree, not that it matters all that much to her.
She eventually went off and found a little place of her own, one that had walls thick enough that she couldn’t hear the neighbors and enough hot water to do the dishes and take a shower in the same hour, above a little shop she found. Claire made it her own, lined the walls with fragrant coffee and shiny tins of tea, named it after a beloved childhood character. It was home. Or at least, it was as close to home as she could make it.
Those plans changed when they saw her. She was not a Catherine, nor an Elizabeth, so the new parents were at a loss. Someone, no one can really recall who when they tell the story, suggested Clarissa. The small bundle cooed and the name stuck. Then, neither could remember any of those names they’d spent hours on. Joseph began to list the names of random relatives, most of which he hadn’t seen in several years. Adelaide fit the bill. She was some eccentric aunt of Joseph’s that he only vaguely recalled. But the name was pretty and it was about time they put a name on the certificate.
Merideth and Joseph were doting parents from the moment they left the hospital. But they eventually had to return to work. Clarissa was left to day care and baby sitters and any number of relatives who happened to be close enough.
Claire had a childhood that was very much unlike that of the other children in her neighborhood. Though she was an only child, she was not spoiled. She often acted like a small adult when she was younger, having been around many of her parents’ friends. As she grew older, she enjoyed being alone, and would only spend her time with a select few.
Growing up, her life practically revolved around both her parents’ religion and careers. Most of the time, Claire was left on her own with a house to herself and a growing pile of books. This was not a big deal to her, she knew no other way, but it made her into a stronger, more independent girl. This was something that her parents wished had not happened because she would often pull away from them. She always looked at her independence as a very good thing. It meant that she didn’t have to rely on others.
Only a month or so after her eighteenth birthday, Claire left her parents’ house to live in her own home on the outskirts of a small town that she was familiar with. She wanted to be off on her own, figuring things out and exploring the possibilities of what she could do without having religion and her parent’s wishes for her future forced upon her. She loved living alone and taking care of herself, but then again, that was almost all she had ever done. The only thing different about this was that she had to support herself. That took a little bit of getting used to.
Claire got a job at some place she can’t quite remember now and dabbled about in college. A bit of business here. A bit of culinary there. Some art and English and math and science. Somehow, she got a degree, not that it matters all that much to her.
She eventually went off and found a little place of her own, one that had walls thick enough that she couldn’t hear the neighbors and enough hot water to do the dishes and take a shower in the same hour, above a little shop she found. Claire made it her own, lined the walls with fragrant coffee and shiny tins of tea, named it after a beloved childhood character. It was home. Or at least, it was as close to home as she could make it.
Name/Alias: Mostly just Shelby. Occasionally Muffin. Take your pick.
Age:17
Contact: PM me or email me at vibrant_insanity[at]hotmail[dot]com
Experience: Almost six years
Additional Bits'n'Bobs: Eh, nothing of any importance
Sample RP:
September 29th, 1984
The chime of the bell hung from the door was eerily loud in the stark, empty place. It echoed through the silence that had settled like fallen ash upon the room. Seldom was that silence broken. The bell itself was a singular glass orb that, upon first glance, would not appear to make a sound. It was molten silver and gold woven together that when moved produced the most appealing sounds of high, melodic, tinkling laughter. The sounds was mesmerizing and for a moment, the young man who set it in motion stood stagnant in to doorway to listen to its reverberations. But he was the only one in the room to even acknowledge its existence. Of course, for it to be acknowledged, there first must be people there to do so, and save the statuesque receptionist and the silent man at the back door, there was not a soul in the room. And the unobservant boy, for he was far more boy than man, didn’t notice a things awry.
As he sauntered from the door to the lone stiff chair, his feel shuffled and scraped along the clean linoleum floor, further fracturing the ever-present silence. He reached the seat and planted himself upon it when an oomph. There he sat for a while, so absorbed in himself that he was oblivious to the world.
And the stony receptionist watched him. She watched his every move for several minutes until finally, she nodded. It was a single nor of her head, just one motion directed at nothing in particular. Though the motion was small, it was firm and concise and one of the two stationary guards began to move. He was a huge, burly man, but his footsteps were utterly soundless. It was no more than twelve strides until he stood before the young man in the seat. Hr said absolutely nothing. He just stood there until the man looked up from his vanity.
When finally he turned his eyes up from the ground, he looked at the man and rose when the gesture to follow met his eye. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the muscle man before him began to briskly walk to the door his counterpart guarded. All was silent until the two men passed through and an unnaturally loud snick told them the door had met the frame. And suddenly, the sound erupted forth. IT was startlingly loud. The young man jumped, receiving nothing in response save a wicked smirk. The buzz of what sounded like gargantuan insects echoed though hall that, in contrast with the previous room, was exponentially louder.
The walls were cluttered with leather bound book upon leather bound book, none of which had any sort of identification along the covers or spines. Every few feet a door interrupted the shelved of books. They were cold and unnatural looking next to the earthy tones of the leather. The floor was concrete. Everything except the books reflected the same stark, medical feel the lobby had. It would have been extremely unnerving had the boy put his narcissistic thoughts on pause for even a short moment to observe his surroundings.
When the exceptionally long hallway came to an end, all that stood before him was a single door that was not unlike all the others. The only difference was the handle; this door had an ornate knob where the others had only a blank sheet of metal. The burly man reached around his temporary companion to open the door without a sound. Before the boy could even think, there was a thick strip of opaque fabric tied around his eyes and he was physically shoved through the open doorway. He stumbled to what appeared to be a chair and fell to the seat. Confused and disoriented, his hands fluttered over what he assumed to be a table before him.
The guard grumbled audibly at the guy’s stupidity and gruffly instructed, “Do not touch anything. Do not look at anything. Sit there and do not move. Disobey and you will regret it.” And he was gone.
When left to his own devices, the man continued with his chaotic shuffling until his hands brushed against the soft, supple leather of what he assumed was one of the same books that lined the hallway. He brought his hands up to his eyes and removed the cloth, not taking into consideration the warnings of his strange escort. It fell to the floor as he opened the book before him and let his eyes wander over blank pages. He began flipping through the book. With each turn of the page, thick ink outlines began to grow darker and darker until all of the paper was painted with intricate designs.
Unbeknownst to the young man, the silent woman from the front room had opened the silent door behind him. Upon seeing him so longer blind and interacting with the book in the desk, she calmly reached over to press the near hidden white button on the wall. Almost instantly, the huge man appeared over her shoulder. He lumbered over to the one in the chair and jerked him from his seat.
It was as though this was a practiced routine as he was dragged down the hall and out through a side door. The bouncer did not care what his human dumbbell hit on the way out. He was thrown into the dingy alley. As the young man lay bruised and a little battered on the nasty cobblestone, the woman handed her friend a small bottle of clear liquid.
The next think the boy knew, the bouncer had him pinned to the ground and held an eye-dropper no more than an inch or two from his face, the tube filled to capacity with the unknown liquid. Without and signal of some sort of remorse, he squeezed the rubber stopper.
Instantly, the young man could not see. His eyes burned as though someone stuck a red hot poker in them. He heard screaming, but didn’t recognize the voice. Before long, the screams transformed into the high-pitched sirens of emergency vehicles. It was then that he realized the man was no longer on top of him. He was cold and burning to charcoal. He couldn’t speak but his own voice rang in his ears.
The last thing he remembered before drifting into the nitrous-oxide induced slumber was a gurney beneath him and big white doors closing at his feet.
February 19th, 1993
The firelight flickered on the walls of the darkened room, providing the only source of light. It was a warm, cozy room, even when the fire was not lit. What normally would have felt cluttered merely provided a sense of hominess to the place. In it sat a small desk, pushed close to the wall and a single large loveseat close to the stone fireplace.
A deep voice rumbled quietly from the chair, the slight southern twang lightly echoing in the small room. The voice originated from the man sitting in the chair. His salt and pepper speckled hair was close cropped and he wore what appeared to be a well-loved pair of flannel pajamas. On his lap sat a small child, no more than five years old. The drowsily leaned against his chest and looked down at the large story book that rested on his knees.
The smooth voice faded away after a few moments when the story came to an end. The man sat there with his young daughter a little while before she roused and looked up at him. Slowly and tentatively, she extended a chubby little hand to touch the scars that framed her father’s eyes. The skin was raw and ragged as though burned away just yesterday. Yet somehow, his eyes retained the color that they always had.
“Daddy,” she almost whispered. “What happened?” She had always wondered what caused the strange marks on his face, but he never answered her questions or told her the story.
He sighed, refusing to look down at her when he answered. “Caydance Emmaline, honey, I’ll tell you that story another day.” He couldn’t look his sweet little girl in the eye as he kept that from her. The truth was that he was too ashamed of his own pride and idiocy to expose that part of his past to her.
Perhaps he would tell her when he was older. That had a certain sort of humorless humor to it, didn’t it? That was always what parents said to their children. Oh, I’ll tell you later sweetie. I’ll tell you when you’re old enough. Just wait a couple years and ask me again. Years ago, he promised himself that he wasn’t going to be one of those parents. Looks like that plan went down the drain.
The chime of the bell hung from the door was eerily loud in the stark, empty place. It echoed through the silence that had settled like fallen ash upon the room. Seldom was that silence broken. The bell itself was a singular glass orb that, upon first glance, would not appear to make a sound. It was molten silver and gold woven together that when moved produced the most appealing sounds of high, melodic, tinkling laughter. The sounds was mesmerizing and for a moment, the young man who set it in motion stood stagnant in to doorway to listen to its reverberations. But he was the only one in the room to even acknowledge its existence. Of course, for it to be acknowledged, there first must be people there to do so, and save the statuesque receptionist and the silent man at the back door, there was not a soul in the room. And the unobservant boy, for he was far more boy than man, didn’t notice a things awry.
As he sauntered from the door to the lone stiff chair, his feel shuffled and scraped along the clean linoleum floor, further fracturing the ever-present silence. He reached the seat and planted himself upon it when an oomph. There he sat for a while, so absorbed in himself that he was oblivious to the world.
And the stony receptionist watched him. She watched his every move for several minutes until finally, she nodded. It was a single nor of her head, just one motion directed at nothing in particular. Though the motion was small, it was firm and concise and one of the two stationary guards began to move. He was a huge, burly man, but his footsteps were utterly soundless. It was no more than twelve strides until he stood before the young man in the seat. Hr said absolutely nothing. He just stood there until the man looked up from his vanity.
When finally he turned his eyes up from the ground, he looked at the man and rose when the gesture to follow met his eye. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the muscle man before him began to briskly walk to the door his counterpart guarded. All was silent until the two men passed through and an unnaturally loud snick told them the door had met the frame. And suddenly, the sound erupted forth. IT was startlingly loud. The young man jumped, receiving nothing in response save a wicked smirk. The buzz of what sounded like gargantuan insects echoed though hall that, in contrast with the previous room, was exponentially louder.
The walls were cluttered with leather bound book upon leather bound book, none of which had any sort of identification along the covers or spines. Every few feet a door interrupted the shelved of books. They were cold and unnatural looking next to the earthy tones of the leather. The floor was concrete. Everything except the books reflected the same stark, medical feel the lobby had. It would have been extremely unnerving had the boy put his narcissistic thoughts on pause for even a short moment to observe his surroundings.
When the exceptionally long hallway came to an end, all that stood before him was a single door that was not unlike all the others. The only difference was the handle; this door had an ornate knob where the others had only a blank sheet of metal. The burly man reached around his temporary companion to open the door without a sound. Before the boy could even think, there was a thick strip of opaque fabric tied around his eyes and he was physically shoved through the open doorway. He stumbled to what appeared to be a chair and fell to the seat. Confused and disoriented, his hands fluttered over what he assumed to be a table before him.
The guard grumbled audibly at the guy’s stupidity and gruffly instructed, “Do not touch anything. Do not look at anything. Sit there and do not move. Disobey and you will regret it.” And he was gone.
When left to his own devices, the man continued with his chaotic shuffling until his hands brushed against the soft, supple leather of what he assumed was one of the same books that lined the hallway. He brought his hands up to his eyes and removed the cloth, not taking into consideration the warnings of his strange escort. It fell to the floor as he opened the book before him and let his eyes wander over blank pages. He began flipping through the book. With each turn of the page, thick ink outlines began to grow darker and darker until all of the paper was painted with intricate designs.
Unbeknownst to the young man, the silent woman from the front room had opened the silent door behind him. Upon seeing him so longer blind and interacting with the book in the desk, she calmly reached over to press the near hidden white button on the wall. Almost instantly, the huge man appeared over her shoulder. He lumbered over to the one in the chair and jerked him from his seat.
It was as though this was a practiced routine as he was dragged down the hall and out through a side door. The bouncer did not care what his human dumbbell hit on the way out. He was thrown into the dingy alley. As the young man lay bruised and a little battered on the nasty cobblestone, the woman handed her friend a small bottle of clear liquid.
The next think the boy knew, the bouncer had him pinned to the ground and held an eye-dropper no more than an inch or two from his face, the tube filled to capacity with the unknown liquid. Without and signal of some sort of remorse, he squeezed the rubber stopper.
Instantly, the young man could not see. His eyes burned as though someone stuck a red hot poker in them. He heard screaming, but didn’t recognize the voice. Before long, the screams transformed into the high-pitched sirens of emergency vehicles. It was then that he realized the man was no longer on top of him. He was cold and burning to charcoal. He couldn’t speak but his own voice rang in his ears.
The last thing he remembered before drifting into the nitrous-oxide induced slumber was a gurney beneath him and big white doors closing at his feet.
February 19th, 1993
The firelight flickered on the walls of the darkened room, providing the only source of light. It was a warm, cozy room, even when the fire was not lit. What normally would have felt cluttered merely provided a sense of hominess to the place. In it sat a small desk, pushed close to the wall and a single large loveseat close to the stone fireplace.
A deep voice rumbled quietly from the chair, the slight southern twang lightly echoing in the small room. The voice originated from the man sitting in the chair. His salt and pepper speckled hair was close cropped and he wore what appeared to be a well-loved pair of flannel pajamas. On his lap sat a small child, no more than five years old. The drowsily leaned against his chest and looked down at the large story book that rested on his knees.
The smooth voice faded away after a few moments when the story came to an end. The man sat there with his young daughter a little while before she roused and looked up at him. Slowly and tentatively, she extended a chubby little hand to touch the scars that framed her father’s eyes. The skin was raw and ragged as though burned away just yesterday. Yet somehow, his eyes retained the color that they always had.
“Daddy,” she almost whispered. “What happened?” She had always wondered what caused the strange marks on his face, but he never answered her questions or told her the story.
He sighed, refusing to look down at her when he answered. “Caydance Emmaline, honey, I’ll tell you that story another day.” He couldn’t look his sweet little girl in the eye as he kept that from her. The truth was that he was too ashamed of his own pride and idiocy to expose that part of his past to her.
Perhaps he would tell her when he was older. That had a certain sort of humorless humor to it, didn’t it? That was always what parents said to their children. Oh, I’ll tell you later sweetie. I’ll tell you when you’re old enough. Just wait a couple years and ask me again. Years ago, he promised himself that he wasn’t going to be one of those parents. Looks like that plan went down the drain.
Coding and Images are (c) to AMBE3251/AMBER!? of Caution 2.0. Remove this credit and die. Simple as that: Kapeesh? Alright! Enjoy this lovely app.
