Post by AZELMA THENARDIER on Sept 3, 2015 7:43:01 GMT
AZELMA THENARDIER
Name: Azelma Thenardier
Age: 15
Member Group:Citizen
Appearance:
Azelma is small and plain, her eyes are brown, her hair, thick and red and curly, and her skin often has a sickly, sallow tint to it. She's short and dresses simply, in ragged, tattered clothes and sturdy boots. Her hair is usually hanging loose, often in her face, and frequently has mud, pebbles, and the odd flower or two, trapped inside it. Though nobody would see them, she's got a number of nasty scars on her back. Her hands are rough, calloused and red from years of hard work, and she has the look of a simple, sturdy, if somewhat sickly, peasant about her.
Personality:
Azelma is a quiet, unassuming young woman. She rarely speaks, and when she does, it's usually only one or two words uttered so quietly the person she's addressing usually can't make them out. Coaxing a full sentence out of the girl is a feat worthy of some grand reward, and most in the Paris slums where she lives with her family would likely conclude that Azelma is simple. This isn't helped at all by her unusual habit of repeating words--typically in groups of three--whenever anyone suceeds in coaxing more than one word from her.
Rumors abound, some suggesting the girl was kicked in the head by a calf, while others say her mother--a loud, boisterous woman--dropped her on her head as a baby. Neither are true. Still others, who've seen her curled up in an alley, chattering away at the ragged doll she carries everywhere, would say the girl was mad as well.
Those who've managed to befriend the odd little thing have found her a pleasant, sweet girl, dutiful and hardworking--though she is somewhat prone to singing to the dishes and chatting with the mice. Whether the nice talk back isn't a secret she's shared with anybody, except perhaps her doll. Her sister, Eponine, looks after her, and she does what she can to keep out of her parents' way.
History:
Once upon a time. That is, after all, how the best stories start out. Though, perhaps, for Azelma Thenardier, or Magpie, as the other street children called her, once upon a midnight dreary might be a more fitting beginning. Azelma was born at midnight, on January the 21st, the second Thenardier girl She came out into the world perfectly formed, save for one rather glaring and obvious problem.Azelma's cord was wrapped around her neck and she was quite blue. The midwife snipped the cord, and after several desperate attempts to coax air into the baby's lungs, finally succeeded in drawing out a pitiful cry from the small girl.
The first several years of her life were passed in surprising comfort. Her parents owned a small inn, in a small village, and her mother, who doted on both girls, was a constant--and mostly reassuring--presence. Azelma's memories from that time are hazy, tinted with rose and wrapped in soft furs and warm fires. There was another little girl there, a third one, and a little boy, Azelma thought, sometimes, but she didn't remember much about them--except thst the little girl was good for blaming their own mischief on. Sometimes, Azelma thought perhaps she and her sister were wicked to do that, but, usually she had more important things to think about.
Things like finding food. Avoiding the bobbies. Keeping away from her father's strap. Most important, though, was keeping up with Eponine. Her older sister made the world far less confusing and frightening. Azelma's rather hairaising entry into the world had left behind an invisible, but permanent, scar.
She had grown from a quiet, big eyed child who listened to Eponine's stories and directions as faithfully as any postulant, copying her in every way she could, into a small, plain, wide-eyed thing, prone to startling at loud sounds and sudden movements. An odd, skittish child, she sucked her hands, rocked, and curled up in the corner whenever she became upset or frightened. Sometimes, she disappeared for hours at a time inside her own head, seeming not to hear or see anything going on around her. Prone to violent temper tantrums, she threw whatever came into her hands, kicked and screamed when she was angry.
Azelma was also an accomplished thief with an affinity for anything shiny she could find--the other children dubbed her Magpie because of it.
She also, it must be said, had a rather unfortunate habit of biting and scratching anyone who got too close when she was in the midst of a fit. Confinement, in a closet or a cellar, quickly became one of the few ways to control her, though in a pinch dunking her in water worked as well. Consequently, she developed a fear of small spaces, as well as the dark, and water. Thunderstorms likewise terrified her and she usually stuck close to her sister at the first sign of bad weather.
Azelma had no real interest in politics. Enough food would be nice. Decent clothes would be nice. A roof that didn't leak would be nice--but then, parents who didn't send her out into the street to beg would also be nice, and probably the government wouldn't do anything about that, no matter who was in charge. But, Eponine followed the students, and Azelma followed Eponine. She didn't quite understand everything they talked about, but the cafe where they met was warm, and nobody seemed to mind if she curled up in a corner and listened for a while. For Zel, being overlooked was better than being noticed. As long as L'Amis De L'ABC were willing to let her sit, that was good enough for her.
Rp Sample:
Azelma sat, tucked up in one corner of the old--and filthy--garret she shared with her father, her mother, and her sister. An equally old, equally tattered, and equally filthy doll--the same one that caused the upset all those years ago between that little girl and she and her sister, though Zel barely remembered that--sat on her lap. Her eyes were closed, and she was dozing, nearly asleep, propped up against the wall. The fingers of her left hand were in her mouth, and every now and then she sucked them, sometimes waking herself up. She blinked, peering around the room, and finding herself alone, Azelma cuddled the doll closer and resumed her nap.
The previous evening, Papa had whipped her, soundly, because she'd knocked into his mug of gin, and spilled it all over the just-finished stack of begging-letters. The paper was old, and thin, the ink cheap and poorly made, and before she could blink, most of the letters were little more than a soggy mess. She told herself she deserved her punishment. Of course she deserved it. Those letters were what kept her family in clothes--threadbare and thin as they were--and food--never mind that it was usually several days old, and sometime rotted or spoilt by the time they got hold of it--and a house--or a room, in any case, with a window, and a chair, and a fireplace, and two beds, and a roof and four walls besides, which was far better than some of the places they'd lived.
Zel told herself all that, but the strap still stung, and she'd cried--though she tried not to, as that only made Papa more cross, and more likely to keep hitting her till she stopped--and Papa had shouted at her, called her stupid, and useless and clumsy, and that hurt even more than the thrashing he gave her. After, Mama had held her, and kissed her, and said not to mind her father, he was only old and cross, like a grumpy old bear. That had made her giggle, but quietly, and into her mother's shoulder, and she'd spent the night curled up next to her mother on one of their little pallets.
The next morning, everybody scattered, but Zel stayed behind. Her back still hurt, and anyway, she hadn't slept well last night--Mama snored though she'd never tell her this--and a whole day to herself, with nobody around to scold or question, was wonderful. Of course, she wouldn't have minded if Eponine stayed behind, too, but her sister had her own comings and goings, and sometimes these didn't include Azelma, That wasn't nice, Zel thought, but, for today in any case, she wasn't up to trailing Ponine through Paris's slums.
She'd spent most of the day in the corner she now sat in, sleeping or talking with Madeleine, the doll. Waking once more, she stretched, pushing herself to her feet. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she'd not eaten since yesterday--and that only some stale, hard bread. Tucking Madeleine under her arm, Azelma crossed to the door. She wedged her feet into her boots--they were men's boots, really, and at least two sizes too big for her feet, but, stuffed with rags, they did alright, and sometimes were warm besides. Grabbing her mantle--little more than a coarse blanket--she threw it over her shoulders and went out.
Perhaps somebody could be found who would give her enough money for a bit of bread, or maybe even a whole pastry. She was very good at looking pitiful. Her parents had taught her well. There was bound to be some kind soul on the streets of Paris today, surely. Humming to herself, Azelma walked, hunting for a benefactor.
Your Alias: Marley
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Time Zone: CST
