Genevieve Martin

[GENEVIEVE MARTIN]

Genevieve Annabelle Martin



࿂

[/b]: Genevieve
SURNAME: Martin
ALIAS: Formally Genevieve, informally Anna or Annabelle
TITLE: Madamoiselle or Lady Genevieve, but prefers Miss Anna, or Annabelle

AGE: 28
AFFILIATION: Civillian, aristocratic status
BRANDED?: Haven't had the pleasure, yet.
RANK: --
SHIP: --

࿂ DESCRIBE YESELF![/color]
I've always been taught as a lady it isn't proper to indulge in one's physical appearance. I always thought that was rubbish, but even zen some habits are 'ard to break... So I'll elaborate from what I zee in the mirror from time to time, and what others say about me.

My 'air is a very soft blonde color... Sometimes even described as 'spools of spun gold.' The texture itself iz usually very silky, since I'm very hardpressed to keep myself as clean as possible. It's usually very curly, and no matter what I do I cannot make it otherwise, so I don't even try. I leave it be, and it usually styles itself. Though, ocassionally, I do enjoy wearing it up. Otherwise, it reaches down the length of my neck. The color compliments my eyes, which I would call blue, but others have called "sapphire." Artful talk, I suppose.

My skin is much too pale for my liking. My father's complexion was much the same way, and it passed down onto me. It's 'ard for me to tan sometimes. It's not like I get a chance to be outside anyway, since I am expected to be in the estate at all times to either do my lessons or other assinine things.

Sadly, I'm rather short. I don't come much higher than five feet off the ground... even zen I'm probably only a couple inches over. Everyone towers over me, and I rather dislike it. Being so short comes hand in hand with being more petite... Zo when my Papa calls me 'is "Petite Gene" he means it. I'm sure I weigh only a few stone.. but I do know zat I am very light. However, dis does not make me weak. 'Aving brothers toughens one up a bit, and I was no exception. I can hold my own, but I am no experienced fighter.

As for my clothes, I'm usually expected to wear dresses, despite the fact I despise wearing them so much. When I 'ave my free time, I generally enjoy wearing more what would be considered 'manly' clothes... Which would consist of petticoats and pants. Do not get me wrong, I do enjoy showing off my feminine side and I will try to look pretty when I feel like it... that is when you would see me in a dress, willingly. But I don't like any of that nonsense frilling stuff, just a light summer dress. Simplicity carries a beauty of its own, I think.

࿂ WHAT GIVES YE PLEASURE?
Independence. It ez hard to believe sometimes that it can really be all zat simple... but it is only that. Everything that comes with independence is a pleasure. Being away on my own, allowed to make my own decisions... It truly is a dream that I wish to have realized one day. Aristocratic life isn't all what it iz build up to be, especially when your family 'as become financially bankrupt and will do whatever iz in their power to build a lively'ood again...

But if I must break it down into simpler things, it really comes down to two fundamentals:

One iz my petite soeur, Emma. She iz the light of my life, and if I could run away I would take her with me and raise her as my own daughter. As ze only other girl in my family, I realize the fate that she will one day be forced to succumb to. I do not wish that on her. I wish her to be free like I wish I could be. Perhaps one day I can offer that freedom to her. Until zen, she stays firmly at my side and I will love her until my dying day. If anyone were to 'urt 'er, they would be 'urting me too. And zat is not a smart thing to do.

The other is my love for all things that are the sea and are related to it. It iz unproper for me to say, but pirates are some of the most dangerously facinating people I 'ave ever heard of. And while it may be a foolish thing to say, I envy them. I know zeir life iz full of 'ardship and constant paranoia and fear; but they retain the very thing I desire most of all in this life. Free will. Zey do as they please, and live a life of their own fancy and splendor. If there was one thing I would wish for, it would to be as free as they are on the open sea... To sail on the ocean, our mother, and thrive solely on adventure.

It is almost like something you would read in a book of wondrous stories...

If it is any token, I also enjoy my sketches, paintings and drawings, since, besides my singing, they are the only things I am truly accomplished in and have been commended for.

࿂ WHAT MAKES YE ANGRY?[/color]
Oh,where do I start?

Well, first off, my parents anger me most of all. Do not get me wrong, I love zem dearly. They are my parents, after all. But as of late, they 'ave slowly begun pulling in ze reigns. What little freedom I 'ad before is slowly slinking away... and for what? Money. It is almost as if they no longer see me as their daughter, but merely a conduit to financial security. Zey are now willing to give me away if it means we can remain living the way we are now.

Another thing that angers me deeply iz sexism. I am very put off by ze idea that because I am a woman that I cannot do much. Zey only assume this because I have not yet been given the proper opportunity to develop or show off my talents. As a lady of noble birth, I have been classically trained in the arts... but that is not enough for me. I 'ave so much to offer, in skill and 'ard work, that I am willing to give, but cannot, since I am only "a woman." My brothers say I am an accomplished fencer, and 'ave passively taught me the ways of light swordfighting. I know it isn't much, but it is something. It could be so much more if I were given the opportunity.

Another thing I hate are small, secluded places. I am afraid of small, enclosed spaces. I hate being trapped, and whenever I am, I am overcome by a feeling of restlessness that drives me absolutely insane. It iz 'ard to keep me in one place all the time, since I am constantly moving. I always need to be doing something. Being cooped up in a tiny room causes me such displeasure, and I cannot stand it.

I also dislike military men. I know it iz blasphemous and even disrespectful, but I cannot help my animosity toward them. They always make eyes at me when I am out shopping with my mother. It scares me, to be 'onest. I do not trust myself, or any other female, alone in the presence of a military man. At 'eart, I know they are scummier than the pirates that they so desire to capture and slaughter.

I 'ave a minor annoyance with anyone zat makes fun of my accent... I know it sounds silly, but it 'as always bugged me, the way some people gawk at the way I speak. I 'ailed from France for many, many years, and I grew up in a country home between England and Paris for most of my life. I retain british and french accents. I cannot 'elp that zey mix. I know more often than not, people find it endearing, even adorable, but I hate 'aving the way I talk become such a big focus when I converse for people. I 'ave tried for many years to just try to learn how to talk like a proper English woman, and it 'as never worked... Maybe one day.

࿂ WHAT DO YE HIDE?[/color]
It iz something hard for me to admit, my fears. But zey are quite easy to guess. Oddly enough, I am most afraid of being forced into marriage with a man I do not love. It iz hard to believe that I would not only be forced to deal with zis man, but I would also be forced away from my family and my 'ome. If I ever get married... I want to be ze one to choose the man, and for my own reasons. Frankly, I do not even know if I am ze marrying type. I 'aven't had any deep desire to bind myself to someone... ever. But maybe zat iz only because I 'aven't found the "right person," as they say.

As far as regrets go, I 'ave none yet to speak of. But, if I 'ad to name one, it would be that I have not yet run away from my home and tried to live on my own. But I 'ave so much here to take care of - Emma, mostly - and I cannot stand the idea of abandoning her until I know that she will be safe without me. Freedom can wait. I know I will get zere eventually... I hope.

࿂ WHAT SKILLS DO YE POSSES?[/color]
I am smart, and I am brave. I am willing to stand up against anyone who would do me or anyone zat I care about harm. This is probably my downfall also, since I can sometimes stand up against things that are too strong for me to handle. But I would be willing to go all ze way for those that I love. So my loyalty is undying if you were to earn it. I 'ave no weapons in my possession, but I have practiced many years of fencing with light rapiers. I have been told I have an arduously developed grace when it comes to handling swords, but I 'ave yet to really test how skilled I am with it.

Another double edged trait I 'ave is my compassion... while it leads me to care for and help those I know are in need, it sometimes is 'ard for me to discern who really deserves help. And sometimes, I can become so attached to someone that, even if zey are doing wrong, I cannot make myself 'ate them. It is... a strange thing; but I 'ave always created and held undying love for those I become close to.

࿂ HOW DO YE ACT?[/color]
As rebellious and off-put as I sound, I am actually quite nice and pleasant to be around. People 'ave described me as being lovely company, and I try to retain that reputation. However, I do 'ave my tomboy side. For as long as I can remember, I always loved rough'ousing with my older brothers. My mother always chastised me for being improper, but I always loved the adventure and games my brothers could partake in so freely. My brothers even consider me a brother... and sometimes 'ave a hard time seeing me in girlish way. And, in some ways, I am happy with that. Pierre, my eldest brother, always told me I 'ave a fierce spirit. Honestly, I don't even understand what zat means myself... but he always told me it was a good thing. I 'ave the ability to stand my ground, even when beaten to submission, and I've always refused to go with ze flow. But even zen, I have always easier thought about the wellfare of others and will sometimes put them before my own. I've always felt zat sometimes those we love are more important than the things we want.

I know it will sound wimpy, but I am easy to cry when it comes to people being in pain... It iz 'ard to explain, but I cannot stand seeing people who do not deserve to be hurt in pain. It is almost as if I can feel the pain inside my own heart, and sometimes I will break down myself... I suppose it is a girlish wile, a weakness of mine... and I do try to be brave; but, we all have our moments, don't we?

࿂ WOULD YE BE MISSED?[/color]
Oui et non. Ze only people that would truly miss me are mes freres et ma petite soeur. They are the only reason I hestitate runnng away from home and into a new life. But I know if I were to leave, I could trust my brothers to take care of Emma the way I would. I love them all dearly, and the thought of separating from them even now breaks my 'eart...

But as for mes parents? They would miss me, but for ze wrong reasons. My presence means zey have a chance for more money, to send me as a dowry to a noble family - as I 'ave been informed, it was a relative of the Czar in Russia... "'is name is Victor," my mother told me - which is something I do not desire in the least bit. And although I would miss them a little bit, I am not terribly adverse to being taken from them.

But, sadly, I have no love left in zis place. As embarrassing it is to admit as a lady of my standing, I 'ave had many affairs with people I probably shouldn't have in ze first place. It was always with ze older men, ever since I was a little girl. Do not get me wrong, I rarely raised my skirts for these men... but I always thought I was in love, until their fickle fancies broke my heart. It is probably for the better, though. If I were attached to this place, it would be much 'arder to tear myself from it.

࿂ YER STORY![/color]
I was born in a beautiful townhouse in gay Paris, to my mother Emmeline (an Englishwoman) and my father, Laurent (a Frenchman). My childhood mainly consisted of moving back and forth from our home in Paris to Port Royal, and I always found it unique that I 'ad two beautiful places I could call 'ome. But it was always so sad for me, when I was a curious and adventurous child, to be locked away in the manors and estates, and forced to sit in with mother and father as they visited with other noble families. When I could, I would sneak out during the day and play with the other kids in the city... Until I was caught, and my parents put stricter restrictions on where I could go. Since zat time, I developed a strong bond with all my brothers. It was easy for zem to take me in, since I could 'andle their games, and wrestle with them for hours at a time...

But playtime never lasted so long. Eventually my brothers were old enough to go to school in Paris, and I was left in Port Royal with a tutor to learn things like the piano, singing, and artwork. Art had always been a great conduit of my self expression... And for hours at a time, I would stare out my bedroom window and sketch the people that walked by. But my favorite thing to draw 'as always been birds... Since I always wished I could be one and fly away.

When I was sixteen years old, my parents began to realize that they were beginning to run out of money... and so zey decided that it would be best to marry me off to a rich family so zat our estates could combine, and our families would prosper from it. That was when I met John. Although 'e was a lovely boy, 'e never was my type. I really did try to love him... but he never liked to do the things I wanted to do. Sadly, the poor boy developed consumption a few weeks before our wedding day. It was unfortunate for him... but it was Godsend for me. My parents gave up on ze notion of arranged marriage for a while. Pierre got married to a girl from Austria and their estate brought in some well-desired income that was enough to sate my family's financial needs.

But ze well began to dry again, and on my twenty-eighth birthday, I was told I was to get married to a duke from Russia, a close relative to the Czar.

"His name is Victor," my mother said.

"I don't care, I don't want to live in Russia..." I protested.

"You're twenty eight now, Genevieve. Well past the proper age to marry - all the other girls you grew up with have husbands and children of their own. You'll be considered an old maid and no one will ever want to marry you if you don't take this opportunity now..."

It was almost as if she were trying to convince me she was doing me a favor. But zey do not know what is in my heart... and how I wish to soar. I can no longer stay in my home. I know that I have to get away from here before time runs out.

But I don't know where I can go... maybe, soon, I will be given zat chance...

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/ul]

Eighteen࿂ Nicole Kidman ࿂ Eight years [spelled out]
Lile, Gene

RP SAMPLE. <3

The world around her was moving at a rapid pace that Anya couldn’t conscientiously keep track of, so she refused to. All she could really focus on were the certainties of the present, which were two things: The fact her baby was coming, and the excruciating pain that had followed suit. And even those two things were difficult to focus on as her head was rushing and swaying in every which way to register her location, and who was with her. Kenny seemed to have disappeared entirely, and she could only manage to spot Severus only once or twice betwixt the chaos. The only person that had registered long term was Madame Pomfrey, and despite the fact she was a lovely woman, she wasn’t exactly the person Anya had wanted at her side.

In fact, she realized with some horror attached, she had never really decided who she wanted with her when she was birthing her child.

Anya always knew this would be a private affair, but she always imagined at least one person at her side when it was time. Now she felt utterly alone, and hard pressed to find someone to hold onto as all of this was happening. Severus Snape managed to flit through her imagination for a brief moment, and Anya even considered calling out to him; and she probably would have if it wasn’t for the pain she was experiencing. All she could manage was a small hiss before falling back against the bed, flooded by heat and sweat, her head lolling to the side as she tried to regain some sort of composure amidst the hot flashes and throbbing.

Eventually she had calmed and the contraction had subsided, and Anya was overcome with relief. She knew reprieve was merely temporary, but she was grateful for it nonetheless. And in that moment of calm, she could hear Madame Pomfrey informing her that she was going to invoke some sort of charm that would make the pregnancy painless and quite easy to deal with. Something along those lines. Language was at a loss to her. But “pain free” managed to lock onto her brain, and Anya could only think of her mother. Her mother had given birth to Anya alone, no mediwitches or midwives, with no help but her husband’s hand a few soothing words. Ever since Anya had heard the story of that stormy and excruciating night, she had made a promise to suffer through childbirth like her mother had. It was a strange pact to make, but she was very certain to follow it. As she watched Pomfrey began to mutter the words to the charm, she raised a weak hand to stop her and shook her head. Anya swore she that she had said “no,” but she couldn’t be too sure. Either way, Madame Pomfrey was staring at her curiously with a tilted head.

“You’re not in your right mind,” was what she heard the nurse say, in dull hum and continuously repeating with increasing clarity before it settled in her mind like a blanket of snow.

“I… don’t give my consent,” Anya said. “… I don’t want it… I want to do this… with the pain…”

And after that another contraction came, even more excruciating than the last, but the stoic Anya stood her ground, and kept completely still. Her chest rose and fell in an evenly kept rhythm, but even she couldn’t help it as her eyes began to roll into the back of her head, and small whimpers of pain escaped her now suddenly chapped lips. She heard Madam Pomfrey say a few things about how she was only a teenager and it was possibly her body couldn’t withstand the pain without going into shock, but Anya continued to shake her head like a stubborn five year old. Pomfrey seemed to give in and mutter something about how if she noticed something going on, she would immediately use magic. Either way the issue was settled and Anya continued to ride the waves of pain and alleviation without much to say, other than the occasional exclaimed word that was either nonsense or irrelevant to the situation at hand.

Time was at a loss to her after the first hour of delivery. Time seemed immaterial and meaningless at that moment, either way. When Anya had mulled on time, it was only to consider how tortuous it was to have to go through labor for this long. Why it couldn’t just be cut and dry, she didn’t know. But the powers that be willed that all women suffer through a long and agonizing labor until they deemed it time for the baby to make itself known into the world. That moment, for Anya, couldn’t come soon enough.

In her times of release, Anya noticed only Pomfrey walking about, and checking on her beddings every so often. There wasn’t much she could do in the in-between, and Anya could tell she was just as anxious for the baby to come as Anya was. Occasionally Snape meandered in to check on the status of the situation, to which Pomfrey would only give a one or two word answer to before he was on his way. Anya still desired to ask him to stay, but couldn’t gather the courage to. Instead, she stared at him with a sort of quiet desperation in hopes that he would notice and consider staying at her side. But that was merely a capricious fantasy. She didn’t consider that she was in high enough regard to him for him to even think about staying at her bedside for a few minutes.

Anya was later told that four hours had passed when it was finally time to deliver. Anya was lying on her side in one of the calm waves of labor when suddenly she was racked with ache that was worse than all the other times before. But this time, this throbbing was accompanied by a force in her abdomen, and a feeling like her body was trying to force something out of her. Mentally, Anya could feel that this was it, and she weakly called to Madame Pomfrey, who rushed to her and checked on her dilation. The look on the nurse’s face was even more confirmation, and Anya rolled onto her back and braced herself for the inevitable. Poppy began flitting about with natural grace and she seemed more than prepared for this very moment. It was like she had waited all her life for this. When everything was in place, she looked Anya very sternly in the eyes and told her to begin pushing.

It was a lot easier than Anya had expected, and even more painful than she had imagined. She could only manage one or two pushes before laying flat on her back and crying softly to herself. Her hair was messed, beads of sweat were dropping from her temple, and her eyes and nose were bright red from her constant weeping. Poppy urged her to continue and Anya tried to comply, but kept failing at every attempt.

Anya whimpered something that she thought was “I think I’m going to pass out.” Whatever it was, Poppy wasn’t having it, and informed her tersely that if she thought Anya couldn’t handle it, she would put her under and let nature do its thing. But Anya was overcome by stubbornness, and with newfound determination she sat up and began pushing with the contractions.

The moment when the baby started coming out was a blur, and Anya could only remember a few fragments – such as when Poppy’s excited squeal as the head began to crown – and could only clearly remember the sudden departure of heavy pressure, and the hot wet of relief. Before she knew it, Poppy had set the baby onto Anya’s chest as she ran off to get a towel to wipe the fluids and blood off. The memory of seeing her child for the first time was something she would always remember.

The bright blue eyes of the child were staring right up at her, as loud cries elicited from its blood soaked lips. It was so small and tender, so much so that Anya could barely believe that the child was even real. It all had to be some sort of fantastic dream. This being had come from her, and that was something she could barely fathom. The sudden feelings of maternal love were intangible and impossible to measure, and fresh tears came from her eyes as she delicately cradled her baby against her chest.

Poppy emerged a few seconds later and wrapped the baby up in a warm towel. She cleaned it, and did all the proper processes that came with checking if the child was alright. Eventually the child was returned to Anya’s trembling arms, and she was sobbing still, a wide grin spread across her lips as she looked up at Poppy. She almost felt like screaming, “I did it!” and she knew Poppy wouldn’t hold it against her if she had.

Poppy gave a motherly smile and chimed, “It’s a girl.”

Anya nodded knowingly and wiped her eyes. “I knew it would be,” she whimpered through sobs. “She danced.”

The baby was calm now, eyes slowly blinking as it seemed to survey the world about her for the first time. Anya leaned forward and kissed the child’s comfortably warm head for the first time. “Didn’t you, my little Nataliya?”

The babe merely cooed contently as she closed her eyes and fell into sleep. And Anya, breathing to the rhythm of her child’s heart, understood the meaning of life for the first time.

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