Post by ember poppins. on Sept 1, 2007 20:12:46 GMT -5
&______the player
name;; mary.
age;; withheld.
experience;; two - three years.
graphic ability;; six.
route;; through manda; we've role played on other sites before.
&______the puppet
appearance
full name;; ember ann poppins.
age;; seventeen.
grade;; eleven / junior.
height;; five' six.
weight;; one hundred fifteen pounds.
general appearance;;
Anyone with a heart condition should be advised not to look in the general direction of Miss Ember Ann Poppins. There really isn't any other way to explain it; she's beautiful. She's the girl that every woman wants to be, and the girl every boy knows he can't have. She's the kind of lady that'll turn a straight girl gay; a taken boy single. Everyone's so busy looking at the pretty face and courageous curves, they miss the scars her past has left on her heart. And this unmistakable beauty can only be described in a predictable trio of categories.
I'll start with her face, seeing that's the place where your eyes will most likely find themselves glued first. It's easily recognizable in a large group of ladies, seeing that her absolutely electric green eyes set her apart like a pair of Miu Mius in a heap of Crocs. She, of course, isn't too happy with them. Ember finds them overrated and ugly, because only she can see the blankness behind them, and the way they pretend to be interested in something; the way they pretend to not notice other's stares. I guess you could say it's easy to get lost in their glare, but don't get too comfortable before Miss Ember's cold expression shoves you out. And the same goes for the rest of her face. Her thin eyebrows are arched almost afflictively, like a set of unstable bridges to break under pressure. They're set tenderly above a thin nose, that flares slightly at its end. It's pretty standard for a nose - nothing interesting, just ... a bit cliche. Her lips are one of Ember's best features. Their fullness act as a light at dawn, and every bug is attracted to them. A pink tint is usually covered with a shimmery gloss or vibrant red lip stick, but the brunette doesn't mess around with them too much in terms of makeup. No, all her face needs is a little eyeliner, a load of foundation and a modest bit of blush. Its a wonder she even owns a eyelash curler, because her natural looks appear so ... natural.
But Ember has some not-so-pretty features, too. Her complexion, for example, isn't something she's so proud of. It's blotchy without a thin blanket of foundation, especially around her cheeks and forehead. Passed down from her father's Irish side, it's less about the break-outs and more about a consistent mottled look. It's always been that way, and she's convinced herself it'll never be clear, like they guaranteed on the Proactive commercials. Damn that Jessica Simpson. The frizzy hair is what really gets her, thugh. Ember would give anything to flatten her cowlick, to clip the wings of her annoying fly-aways. Luckily, though, she owns a straightener, and is sure to keep her tresses relatively short, so that using it is quick and painless. Too, the deep ebony of her locks is especially admirable. Her scrawny knees and elbows are awkward and boney, which leads us proudly into our next category: her body.
Ember's five-foot-six frame is slender and petite, with courageous curves that tell you, loud and clear, that she means business. The majority of her physique is taken up by a pair of slender legs, defined in all the right places, that act as two pedestals for the work of art she calls her abdomen. It isn't exactly chiseled, but its flat. She knows every girl wants one like her's, but she doesn't see why theirs are so different. She hadn't done anything to keep it that way, it's just always been ... anti-pot-bellied. Her breasts, if I may, are plentiful, and there's enough to go around. But I won't get into that. Let's just say she isn't flat-chested, and leave it at that. Her hips are obviously wider than the her narrow waist, and give her bum a shy little waddle when she walks. The boys drool over it, but she's oblivious to their stares, that fail to peel themselves away before she's lost around the corner. It's safe to say she's sexy, and she doesn't know it.
personality
specific traits;; conservative, shy, smart, &a bit hostile.
likes;;
- men - tall, dark &handsome.
- sophisticated parties.
- having power.
- lying.
- dancing - ballet.
- bad weather.
- her siblings.
- &good friends.
dislikes;;
- immature guys.
- out-of-control crowds.
- intoxicated people.
- lies.
- vulnerability.
- her over-protective parents.
- fake friends, that try too hard.
- one night stands.
- excessively loud noises - music, not so much.
fears;;
- death by drowning.
- being raped.
- carnivals &fairs.
goals;;
- to get a tattoo.
- to attend an ivy league, preferably harvard.
general personality;;
It's almost immediately apparent that Miss Ember isn't a lovie-dovie kind of gal. The saucy brunette is just about the most hostile person you'll ever meet - like a wall that's impossible to knock down; the glass to block your bullets. She'll pick you up and throw you down. She'll swallow you whole and spit you out. Anything, absolutely anything, to keep you away. See, getting close to people hasn't really worked out in the past for this blue-eyed beauty. I mean, sure, she has friends - always has had friends, always will have friends - but there's that line that's absolutely impossible to cross, and it's set unusually close to wherever said friend's relationships begin. The price of her heart is firm. Unless, of course, you listen to the following.
Ember Ann is extraordinarily conservative - slightly cautious, too. She isn't the type of teen who would strip to her bra and panties and leap into a party host's pool. And she definitely wouldn't 'fool around' with any boy's in said host's basement. No, she'd rather not attend such parties in the first place. Staying at home or going to the library is more ... her thing. Why, you ask? First of all, it isn't dangerous - danger is Ember's absolute worst enemy. And second, it keeps her out of the spotlight. You'll never, ever, find this girl grabbing for attention or desperate for a kiss. The only way to cure her curse of lonesomeness is to take things absolutely, possitively slow. Her motto should be, 'friends first', because you won't find this barren beauty accepting your invitation to the movies if all you've made is eye contact. You have to work for her - work harder for her than anything else. And if she rejects you: so what? At least you've gained a friend, right?
Aside from her shyness, Ember is eminently smart; top-of-her-class smart. But not in the way you would think. It's not that she receives immaculate grades, and consistent praise from her teachers - which, believe me, she tries to get - but her common sense is off the wall. You won't find her going off with some random guy just because he's lost his puppy. She always locks the door. She'll get your jokes, even if they're not meant to be funny. I guess you could say, she's been told not to talk to strangers enough, to avoid them all together. So, just keep in mind, she's not stupid, and she'll see your scheme coming before you do.
Good freakin' luck.
history
family
father;; michael poppins.
father's occupation;; anesthesiologist.
mother;; maria {fusco} poppins.
mother's occupation;; plastic surgeon.
siblings;;
- bella rose, twenty two, graduate.
- michael paul, nineteen, undergraduate.
- patrick mario, fifteen, sophomore.
- nicholas brett, fourteen, freshman.
- griffin matthew, six, first grade.
general history;;
Ember was the third born in a family of six children, and two very busy, very regal parents. Michael Poppins, her father, was an infamous anesthesiologist. He was a through-and-through Irish man, and by Irish, I mean he came from Ireland. The handsome medical student was the oldest of ten, and he was sure he wanted to marry at a young age, and make as many little babies as he possibly could. He met his wife, Maria, in Italy, on an annual trip that lasted two years. They were inseperable, and they followed each other around from med school to med school, until they day they graduated. And on that same day, Michael proposed to Maria Fusco, youngest of nine children. The baby-making began not two months later.
Ember Ann Poppins was born in Milan, Italy, on May fifteenth, 1990. The family of five moved to the United states only two weeks later, but almost immediately, she was the most responsible child in the family. While her only sister, Bella, five years her senior, grew into a brave young woman that would rather drive drunk than drive sober, Ember stayed home and studied. She babysat her younger brothers while Bella was off with another boy. The brunette helped them with their homework when both mom and dad were at the hospital, fixing another face, tucking another tummy. Even the little ones had more fun than she did. By her age of fifteen, four-year-old brother Griffin had already kissed his first girl, and Ember hadn't even winked at the opposite sex. She'd always been the up-tight one, the girl that watched out for everyone and never took a damn break.
By sixteen, though, she'd lapped Griffin around the track of love. His name was Bradley, and he'd been her first love, her first kiss, her number one everything. Until her father found out about their little rendezvous, and sent her on a plane to Colorado that summer. Her mother, of course, protested his attempt at sperating her from Bradley. But of course, Maria knew just as well as Ember that, in Colorado, he wouldn't be able to keep his eye on her. Her mother didn't know whether to keep her trap shut or to be worried, but luckily, she let her onto the plane, and out of their lives for God knows how long. Ember sometimes wondered whether Michael was really worried about their relationship, or if he just wanted a break from the madness that children brought him.
So here she is now, in the middle of a ranch in Colorado, unsure of herself or what this new adventure will bring. She knows, though, that no one's watching, and that she can do whatever she liked. Maybe this will change her. Hell, I know it will.
other
keyword;; -admin edit-
rp sample;;
someone turn me around
A door had never looked so inviting. Here Holly was, in a less-that-roomy dorm, where she'd been attacked two times in less than an hour; once by a severely obese stranger, and a second time by Grady - the boy she thought she could trust with everything. Well, not exactly everything. Holly still couldn't find the courage to tell him about her father, and the fact that she was a millionaire - although, he'd probably already figured that. If only the girl could translate his complicated language into something she could remotely make out, maybe only then would she feel one hundred percent comfortable with him. She'd wanted their relationship to last, too. She'd wanted to kiss him a million times and still get that tummy-flopping feeling, goosebumps on the back of her neck, satisfaction. But now, she wanted to call every expensive-as-hell lawyer her family had, and press charges so hard, he'd be crushed by his own stupidity. The fire-eyed girl wanted to write a two-thousand page book about her troubles, and make it in the literature books between Steinbeck and Dr. Seuss. But worst of all, she wanted to tell Nick. Everything. Holly wanted to see the look on Grady's face when her brother kicked down the door, some form of a weapon in his hand, a look of complete and utter madness on his face. Nick would definitely kick him out of the university all together, and buy Holly all of the tissues she needed to wipe her tears. She wanted him to hurt as much as she was inside.
Holly could taste blood, and she knew he'd probably split her lip with that forceful kiss. For a moment, the brunette had the urge to touch the cut and make it sting until it went numb, but she grasped the pair of field boots in her hand a little tighter to suppress the want. She needed to get the hell out of there, for she could feel the after-math of the hit her heart had taken when Grady raised his voice to her. And plus, if she didn't, Jarred the chunky rapist would return, and only God knows what the two of them would do together. The grip her tiny hand had on the door handle made her knuckles white, setting a strong contrast against her tanned body, and she twisted it open with such a gusto, the wood cracked. It had felt cool and refreshing on her hands, and as she left the brass of its surface to lean on the frame, her sweaty palms ached for its comfort. And then she looked up.
Jarred looked fatter than he had when he'd left. He was pale, sweaty, and out of breath. His belly swelled out and fell over the elastic waste band of his pajamas. They were striped, which made him look taller, too, but his face had the same dazed, slightly skittish, why-am-I-here-when-I-could-be-playing-Dungeons-and-Dragons expression. There were fine crumbs trailing down his chin, scattered like a cemetery on his baggy t-shirt. For a moment, Holly's heart stopped. It literally stopped. Her face turned a tender shade of blue, and they both stood stock still, staring at each other wide eyed. She moved her head back, he moved his head back. The mirror effect was enough to shock her heart back to a sputtering life, and she swung the door back in to place. The wind in it's wake sent her hair flying backward, tickling her bare shoulders, brushing the nape of her neck in its return. Her breath was dangerously choppy, and her complexion as blotched, but she turned to face the room once more as smooth as possible.
Holly saw a curious, confused face peek out from behind a curtain of tawny bangs, and Grady's voice came scratchy and stern. "Didn't I tell you to get out?" Something shattered inside her.
{ "Daddy! Daddy!" Holly spoke to her father's strong back, rounded and sweaty. She could smell the all-too-familiar scent of horses, that trailed through the house and all over the furniture, no matter how hard the maids tried to arrest it. He was hunched over the kitchen table, clearly interested in something other than the fact his daughter had just burst through the door like a wild animal. "Daddy, guess what!"
Her father was in better shape than she was. Holly had run all the way from the barn to the mansion, in a thick pair of breeches and heavy field boots. She could feel the perspiration soak further into her pants when she moved her legs, but now, she stood stock still. This made it worse. The air wasn't moving through her matted hair, that'd been cut just a little too short by her sister the night before. Her bangs were uneven and plastered to her forehead. Emerald eyes had been droopy and tired, but now they were beaming.
Holly waited, but her father failed to turn his attention to her. She'd already seen it coming. "Da --"
"Rosalina? I mean, Holl --" her father stuttered, eyes glued to a stiff stack of papers on the table in front of him. His brow furrowed. "Bella? No, no, HOLLY!" He burst, and his daughter could visibly see him scold himself for failing at something. Although, he didn't care what everyone else felt, and for Holly, it was hurt and confusion. "Didn't I tell you to get out?" He hadn't. But somewhere between calling her Rosaline and calling her Bella, he'd said it in his head. So that's why she nodded, balanced her crop on the coat hooks beside the door, and scurried upstairs. }
"Yes," Holly said, a new found confidence in her voice. "But I forgot ..." Her words escaped her control, and she found herself running them through her mind like songs would on juke box. Think, pregnant dog, think! "Oh, what was it?" she said, and a fake-as-hell grin grew fast on her face. "See? I forgot what I forgot!" She mentally stuck her finger in an electrical socket. "I'll have to look," she spoke again, scanning each bed and counting the seconds it took for Jarred to leave. Two minutes later, and she could still feel him at the door. Holly stepped to the other side of the mattress, and she was so close to Grady, they could have performed the Heimlich. Which, hopefully, would have helped her breathe again, words were so choked up in her throat. They came out in little spurts, like, 'Okay, let's see here ...' and 'No, it couldn't be there!' and 'Oh, is this it?' She'd be holding Grady's sock.
Her bare feet made subtle padding noises on the carpet as she crossed the room to the computer, and when she stubbed her toe on the base of the desk, she twisted up her face and tried to ignore it. And that's when she realized she hadn't even gone near the computer long enough to loose something there, and she knew her actions were beginning to look suspicious. "Maybe ..." Holly's words whispered to herself, but she couldn't find any more excuses stored in her mind. Instead, she hoisted herself onto the desk, legs dangling, and sighed. "Oh, I don't know, Grady." She played with her hands, and noticed for the first time that the manicurist, Anastasia, had missed a spot on her nail. For a moment, she wanted to get up from that desk, breeze by her rapist, and scream at that woman. Holly wanted to shove a whole cake down Anastasia's hasn't-seen-a-carbohydrate-in-three-years throat and laugh. But she remembered that Grady liked the nice Holly. And then she remembered she wasn't supposed to care what Grady thought of her. And then, well, she was fatally confused.
Even Holly hadn't seen it coming. Her hand leaped out from under her gaze, and she looked up quickly to see it colliding for the second time into Grady's cheek, in the same spot, where it was red and visibly stinging. She hadn't smacked him as hard as before, but she knew he'd been even angrier. Thoughts chattered through her bones. Blame it on somebody else. No, no, run. Run for your life. Her hand stung, too. Hit him again. Holly stopped breathing. Hit him again. She had to admit, the feeling of hurting him was a rush beyond any other. So, instead of blaming it on someone who wasn't there, and instead of running like the coward he'd called her, she hopped off the desk and shoved his chest away - hard. He staggered backward, and she took a step forward to make up for lost space. Hit him again.
"I hate you," she whispered, and each syllable was like a ball of fire, sent first class from hell. She shoved him again, harder, but this time, she knew he'd retreat a couple steps back, and she strutted forward in time with them. "You're a," she smacked him. "Stupid," she smacked him again, but he dodged her palm. She shoved him, grunting. "Overrated," her fist tightened, and she punched him as hard as she could in the gut. When he doubled over, she cupped his chin and brought it upward, until she was staring her right in the eyes. The pain on his face was delicious, and, much to her confusion, utterly sexy. "Gorgeous," the words slipped out, and she immediately wanted to rewind, and take them back. But it was true, so she shoved him even harder into the wall behind him. "Stupid," she repeated, but even this wasn't enough to hide her feelings for him. He looked so lost, so completely bewildered. But somewhere behind his sapphire gaze, he was the tiniest, most microscopically microscopic bit turned on. Seeing this, Holly lurched forward like a tiger would to its prey, and grabbed both sides of his face, palms on his neck, thumbs on his cheeks. She didn't let a moment pass - not even enough time to look him in the eyes - before she shoved her lips onto his own. Her split lip stung deliciously, and she told herself he could taste the blood. She told herself he hated this, but she knew they both wanted it. Bad.
can i start this again?
anything else?;; no, thank you. :]
