Post by SILVER ISOLDE REED on Jan 5, 2010 18:36:26 GMT -5
full name • silver isolde reed
nick names • no, just no.
age • nineteen
grade • freshman, major in dramatic literature
job • so far work shy
hometown • london, england
sexuality • heterosexual
member group • college
height • five feet and six inches
hair • dirty blonde, though sometimes
eyes • brown. nothing special
play by • oh my emma watson <3
likes • flicking through travel brochures, autumn, spring, the smell of a coffee shop, balloon vendors, hot chocolate, peppermint, savoury over sweet, eating in restaurants, notting hill, her sister, friends, people who smile out of politeness, fruit juice, gothic literature, opportunities, her wardrobe, eyeliner, horses, English soap operas, exotic shower gels, massages, underwear, having lay ins, vegetarian sushi, acoustic music, sub sandwiches, pyjama days, cuddling, going out, small cafes, determination, being nosy, laughter, teasing others, being an annoyance, that maybe she makes someone’s day a little brighter, flat soda, inside jokes
dislikes • her middle name (it seems so out of place), people who eat with their mouths open, lack of hygiene, coffee, Bluetooth, when things have way too much packaging, those who don’t appreciate reading, forceful personalities, drugs, drug dealers, anyone who jokes about drugs, just drugs as an all rounder, laziness, having her opinions changed, waking up late, anything to do with tuna, people who drink too much it becomes alcoholic, cheesiness, complete darkness, her freckles in the summer, looking younger than she is at times, sometimes herself, having to wear a gazillion layers in winter, high school, her phone, having to watch herself at parties, horror movies, the fact her father lives in England, being out of the loop
habits/quirks • stares in confusion when using anything that has tech in it, curls up into comfortable couches even when they’re in a public place, will never order any alcoholic drink without anything fruity in it
fears • losing her little sister. that one day she’ll revert back to past behaviours. her father somehow forgetting her
dreams • to be brilliant at her course, to maybe one day write, that one day her parents will get back together
secrets • that it was she who persuaded her little sister to take the drugs that led to phoebes overdose
overall • determined, vivacious, resilient, surprising, irritable (if you fall into one of her pet peeves), charming, misleading
mother • charlotte kathleen branson; 41; interior designer
father • nicholas michael reed; 44; equestrian trader
siblings • phoebe morgan reed; 17; high school student
pets • nobody; nonexistent
other family •
step father • david charles branson; 39; heir to a shipping firm
step brother • jasper troy branson; 25; who knows
overall • See that little place called ‘London’ in Silver’s hometown information? That would indeed suggest that this darling was born In England, however she does have American roots since her mother is, funnily enough from New York City, just someone swept away by an English accent, gentlemanly charm and a considerably amount of wealth. Silver was raised in England, in the ever so fashionable Notting Hill, which means that her family is quite wealthy. Her father’s family, the ‘Reeds’, have been one of the most poignant players in trading when it comes to the expensive Equestrian circuit, giving her links to the more blue blooded in English society. Growing up she was always well off, though not spoilt so to speak. She used to think she was, since she and her sister, Phoebe never went without, yet school changed that opinion because private schools can be filled with all sorts of snobbery. In a sense school made her far more mature, tugging her to keep away from those brattier individuals. Silver always imagined life would be easy going that her family would always live in their Victorian townhouse without complication. But her mother had always pined for New York, she’d tried the ‘English rose’ stint and found it tiresome, but Nicholas didn’t want to move, but he did. For his wife and his marriage.
At fifteen years old Silver touched down in New York City and it unnerved her, the grandness of it all. She detested high school, since immediately she was fawned upon as being the ‘English girl’ and when making it quite clear she wasn’t going to be a part of any bitchiness (that was more than her old school had ever displayed) she suddenly became and outsider of sorts. But that changed. For the worst. She was seventeen and her parents were filing for a divorce, maybe she should have been able to cope, but she didn’t. How any of her classmates couldn’t see the wrongness in her overnight transition from study queen to bitch amazes her looking back, and yet they willingly were accepting her into their scornful crowd. And soon Silver Reed was drinking and partying and stupidly embracing everyone about New York she’d so sensibly chose to stay away from. To say she was spiralling downwards is undeniable, and at her worst she was taking drugs. That was the night her father told her he was moving back to England, and when he told her to stay with her mother who ‘needed her’.
In all this time Silver had a sister, two years younger. She shouldn’t have said yes, that night when her mother asked her to take Phoebe with her, but Silver had expecting everything to be okay. But it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t Silver poking a needle into her arm, it was Phoebe. Her fifteen year old sister injecting. Phoebe wasn’t to blame, she was drinking at insistence of her sister, to ‘loosen up’ and not ‘be a bore’, but it wasn’t stupidity that led to Phoebe taking the harshest form of drugs. It was Silver. High on a potent mix of alcohol Silver had been there persuading Phoebe to take drugs, saying everything would be fine, that she needed to relax. And then Phoebe collapsed, shaking in a few, seeming endless and terrifying moments before she just stopped. The rest of that night is a painful blur, filled with sirens and tubes connecting her sister body to machines and pumps.
Silver loathed herself. Lived in the constant fear that somehow everyone would find that the little Reed girl didn’t actually OD, but it was her older sister who made her do it. But Phoebe didn’t tell a soul, letting others believe she had taken it, and allowed herself to be placed into counselling for stress related to her mothers divorce. Silver was scared to admit her part, though when she wanted too Phoebe refused. This, she said, was to be a lesson. And that she wanted her old sister back, the one who would come running when she couldn’t open a text message, or the one who actually spent nights revising for tests, not leaving Phoebe to huddle under covers pretending she was Silver when really Silver was at bars and clubs. The shock tactic worked, but Silver found it hard to stop being a high school bitch, but slowly and surely she found the restraint to distance herself from a live style that had early claimed her sister’s life. She still wasn’t happy though, she wanted her parents, not one. And when her mother married David Branson she almost relapsed, but she didn’t. Phoebe wouldn’t let her.
Now she’s nineteen, having just moved out of her new families prestigious Upper East Side house, relieved to be away from shipping heirs and her mothers delight at being in the press. She had applied for Universities back in England, and though accepted found herself edging towards staying in New York to be close to her sister. She’d decided to go to NYU, taking up Dramatic Literature. God knows the dreary works of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde had somehow managed to help her cope through her darkest days, and one day she’d like to write, perhaps. Universities a big step in anyone’s life, and whilst Silver’s changed so much, there’s always the worry shell have one drink too many. And on top of that she has a little sister to look out for; one who the grapevine suggests is making her way up the social ladder.
your name • tilly!
your age • seventeen
roleplaying experience • probably less than 1y
how you found us • beauxbatons
roleplay sample •
Really, honestly and truly it could only be said that any library was there to draw only a certain kind of crowd. The scholars and the academics of the world, those keen to ponder over the latest vocabulary they did not understand, to search it up and leave with a satisfaction that a new word was now understood on their lips. It was, perhaps some unofficial reasoning’s that had many (or the simple minded) under a strict belief that the library, a world full of paper and ink was the only place for the less socially confident, the so called ‘swots’ of the world. Of course such an understanding was discovered to be quite false, as time had passed the library becomes a crucial cog in the ideals of a school, but even so there are some people who should never go into libraries, or appear to at least. Especially though who oozed with an appetite for the more reckless side of life. Those who had always thrown themselves into a world of sex, drugs and the so called rock and roll. Why would anyone like that go into a library, and more so to the point, in such a willing manner that they woke with the keen desire to just swan on in, without actually having books on their mind.
It was for this reason that Leighton Walker looked oddly out of place, striding into the library with a confidence that, even silent, seemed to strip the library of its silence. There was no change in her ordinary countenance, always head strong and assure din herself in any situation. But a change in settings seemed to make her stand out even more so. The way she strode, uncaring, eyes firmly fixed on nothing and no one, but to cast a careless glance round the bookshelves she passed. The Sournois had already faced the scrutinising stare of the librarian, an older woman who took in a far more youthful dress sense with a certain amount of disdain, for a loss of innocence, or fluffy jeans and comfy, woollen jumpers. Yet she was a girl, a burning, flaming girl, and if you had the attributes, well, it was only right to flaunt it surely? It was slightly ironic really, for if not searching for a book she was searching for her own secret. Secrets, if looked up in a dictionary, would hold a keen definition akin to the like of ‘known to very few people and consequently quiet and secluded’. Certainly she had the ammunition of a setting to fall very well into the secret category, yet thus far she hardly could be said to be under a pact of secrecy, since the girl hardly blended in, unfitting that preconceived image of the perfect library visitor.
She regarded the library not with an amused manner; silently mocking those she passed, the way book were held quite close to eyes, pages turning in a flurry of hastened need. On the contrary, and quite surprisingly for those who could ever know, Leighton Walker enjoyed a good book to quite a large extent. Even she, apparently from looks alone far more likely to be seen grinding at the latest party, picked up those bound treasures from time to time. Contrary to belief the brunette did have more reasonable past times. Any book was fine to her, the magical, the muggle, the gothic to the adventure. Never romance though, such books painted an unclear, irrational view on affairs, and all those little, girlish matters that it was slightly sad to say that she had never, even once, fawned upon. Fairytales, as a child, had never been understood. The Sleeping Beauty’s and Little Mermaid are glossed over in the muggle world in colour and music overturned in what she called a truth. That the Little Mermaid stabbed her own heart and became the foam upon the sea. Had she been a morbid child? Oh no, but even in the youngest of her youth, Leighton Walker had been detached from fantasies, uncannily focused on the truths of the world, rather than a sugar coated lie.
Even if she lived such a lie even now. For the seductively dressed girl was searching for a secret, and that, of course, meant that she had something to hide. Only in that sense, for if she had chosen to think on that thought, Leighton, cool and collected Leighton even would have faltered somewhat at the stark easiness she displayed in comforting her friend, only to throw herself into the arms of the ex. But what a pair of arms they were, brushing against her skin like the fiercest of fire, holding her, clasping her. All the girl could do was return such passionate affections. Passion. That was her secret, a dangerous love affair that could so easily fall apart. More than two people could get hurt here, the Sournois knew. And yet it wasn’t enough to make her stop, nothing could ever keep her away, even when it was so wrong.
Coming to a stop Leighton cast an appraising glance over a particularly fine figure of a boy, even with a book covering the most part of what she knew to be the most chiselled of features, Topher Dunstant certainly fit the bill of sorts to a higher calibre than any other in the library. The brunette couldn’t be sure if the boy knew she was there, it was impossible to tell just how engrossed he was by the book in his hand, upon which those steely eyes supposedly scanned with the keenest of interests. Undeterred by the possibility that the dearest Topher was, in fact, a busy man, Leighton walked quite assured over to the boys table, pulling herself onto its surface in front of him, leg crossing over, flashing a fair amount of laced thigh. With her index she traced the books edge, placing the smallest hint of pressure against its bindings, lowering it. If she hadn’t been seen before, at this point the beauty was unavoidable. “Well, isn’t this…. Academic,” her voice mused, lingering on the last word with a low trail. Kohl rimmed eyes swam with an expectancy as Leighton looked toward Topher, as though he alone should already know what she wanted, yet to be so attuned was inconceivable. And yet such a frustration graced her eyes so fittingly, only adding to her more elusive, untouchable nature. Past touches and kisses, anyone was hard pressed to ever see a glimpse of what lay within the girl. There was a truth that even she denied, though she was here, metaphorically, as a book. As was Topher. She’d never admit it, but the girl wished to read and be read in return. And that seemed so hard, even as a mere thought. Though Topher would never know that, for he didn’t know her, not realty.
It was for this reason that Leighton Walker looked oddly out of place, striding into the library with a confidence that, even silent, seemed to strip the library of its silence. There was no change in her ordinary countenance, always head strong and assure din herself in any situation. But a change in settings seemed to make her stand out even more so. The way she strode, uncaring, eyes firmly fixed on nothing and no one, but to cast a careless glance round the bookshelves she passed. The Sournois had already faced the scrutinising stare of the librarian, an older woman who took in a far more youthful dress sense with a certain amount of disdain, for a loss of innocence, or fluffy jeans and comfy, woollen jumpers. Yet she was a girl, a burning, flaming girl, and if you had the attributes, well, it was only right to flaunt it surely? It was slightly ironic really, for if not searching for a book she was searching for her own secret. Secrets, if looked up in a dictionary, would hold a keen definition akin to the like of ‘known to very few people and consequently quiet and secluded’. Certainly she had the ammunition of a setting to fall very well into the secret category, yet thus far she hardly could be said to be under a pact of secrecy, since the girl hardly blended in, unfitting that preconceived image of the perfect library visitor.
She regarded the library not with an amused manner; silently mocking those she passed, the way book were held quite close to eyes, pages turning in a flurry of hastened need. On the contrary, and quite surprisingly for those who could ever know, Leighton Walker enjoyed a good book to quite a large extent. Even she, apparently from looks alone far more likely to be seen grinding at the latest party, picked up those bound treasures from time to time. Contrary to belief the brunette did have more reasonable past times. Any book was fine to her, the magical, the muggle, the gothic to the adventure. Never romance though, such books painted an unclear, irrational view on affairs, and all those little, girlish matters that it was slightly sad to say that she had never, even once, fawned upon. Fairytales, as a child, had never been understood. The Sleeping Beauty’s and Little Mermaid are glossed over in the muggle world in colour and music overturned in what she called a truth. That the Little Mermaid stabbed her own heart and became the foam upon the sea. Had she been a morbid child? Oh no, but even in the youngest of her youth, Leighton Walker had been detached from fantasies, uncannily focused on the truths of the world, rather than a sugar coated lie.
Even if she lived such a lie even now. For the seductively dressed girl was searching for a secret, and that, of course, meant that she had something to hide. Only in that sense, for if she had chosen to think on that thought, Leighton, cool and collected Leighton even would have faltered somewhat at the stark easiness she displayed in comforting her friend, only to throw herself into the arms of the ex. But what a pair of arms they were, brushing against her skin like the fiercest of fire, holding her, clasping her. All the girl could do was return such passionate affections. Passion. That was her secret, a dangerous love affair that could so easily fall apart. More than two people could get hurt here, the Sournois knew. And yet it wasn’t enough to make her stop, nothing could ever keep her away, even when it was so wrong.
Coming to a stop Leighton cast an appraising glance over a particularly fine figure of a boy, even with a book covering the most part of what she knew to be the most chiselled of features, Topher Dunstant certainly fit the bill of sorts to a higher calibre than any other in the library. The brunette couldn’t be sure if the boy knew she was there, it was impossible to tell just how engrossed he was by the book in his hand, upon which those steely eyes supposedly scanned with the keenest of interests. Undeterred by the possibility that the dearest Topher was, in fact, a busy man, Leighton walked quite assured over to the boys table, pulling herself onto its surface in front of him, leg crossing over, flashing a fair amount of laced thigh. With her index she traced the books edge, placing the smallest hint of pressure against its bindings, lowering it. If she hadn’t been seen before, at this point the beauty was unavoidable. “Well, isn’t this…. Academic,” her voice mused, lingering on the last word with a low trail. Kohl rimmed eyes swam with an expectancy as Leighton looked toward Topher, as though he alone should already know what she wanted, yet to be so attuned was inconceivable. And yet such a frustration graced her eyes so fittingly, only adding to her more elusive, untouchable nature. Past touches and kisses, anyone was hard pressed to ever see a glimpse of what lay within the girl. There was a truth that even she denied, though she was here, metaphorically, as a book. As was Topher. She’d never admit it, but the girl wished to read and be read in return. And that seemed so hard, even as a mere thought. Though Topher would never know that, for he didn’t know her, not realty.
