E L S E W H E R E C H I L D
CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Robin Meyer.Gender: Female.Age: 7 January 1923.Bloodline:Muggleborn
Parents/Guardians (Are they currently played characters?): Mr and Mss Mathieu. NPCs.
Residence: Rue Dolo 5B, Moncontour, Côtes-d'Armor, France.
Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the daycare)?No.
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason? No.
Please list any other characters you already have at the site:None.
BIOGRAPHY: Act I--ExpositionRobin Meyer was born to her mother Francis Meyer (née Bellamy), a hobby ornithologist, and her father John Meyer, a handyman for an old lady’s family estate but with sailor’s blood running in his veins as well. Due her mother’s interest in bird watching, Francis named the only daughter she would ever give birth to, Robin, after one of her personal favorites.
John was a restless temperamentful man and he could be lost for days without giving one signal of life. This time, three days after Robin had been born, he packed his things to wander about. The seas and the forests were the only places on the earth that knew his paths, the little tracks that he had set out on the waves and the hard lush earth. Sailing, walking, disappearing to only retreat at times when the crew ran out of provision, Robin pretty much grew up without a father.
(The forest harbored more stories than any history book would ever dare to hold. The leaves of the tall and strong trees held the fragments of stories, concealed for no living person’s eye to behold. The birds were safely tucked away in the shadows of the low branches, there where they timidly sang their songs. About times that had long gone, about things Robin doubted she would ever know. Her feet carried her to the one open place she could think. The blades of grass had grown taller than the height of her knees, the wild purple flowers that adorned their stems. A brave butterfly fluttered past from time to time, carried by the wind that preserved people’s stories.)
But still, Robin waited. Because in the naivety of her youth, he was the man who could build bridges and everything if he wanted to. He was her hero, even though he might have never known that she looked up to him so much. Later, she would often wonder, if he ever knew what he left behind when he set foot outside the house again.
She would never know.
She never got the chance to ask.
(The slate blue water at the roots of the cliff, was smashing itself with immense force against the chalky white walls. The heads of the waves were a less creamy white than the chalk, poking out like in an inventive search for their final victim, their final target. They prepared themselves as they rolled back and then let out a deafening roar before they died against the undefeated wall. The sky had turned a depressing grey, clouded with heavy clouds that smelt like rain and had traveled far to get ashore here. At least, they got ashore. Robin could almost smell the foreign scents and stories they brought with them like omniscient beings, baring their secrets in every teardrop they let drop from their foggy embrace. But they didn’t bring her the stories they wanted to hear. And still, she loved the sea.)
Her mother would tell the young girl the stories of Homer, the stories of Odysseus and his cursed crew, the stories of the Iliad and Aeneid, the flying Dutchman and Davy Jones. The stories of Baba Yaga and of Robin Hood. The last ones were her favorite.
If those stories had been true and her father would have faced one of those doomed souls, he surely would not have survived. But survive, he did not anyway, leaving Francis with a young daughter who did not understand the principle of death yet.
So Robin waited.
Act 2--Rising ActionFrancis remarried with a local wealthy man who came from a noble heritage. Robin was nice years old by then. Her new steppa was a sophisticated man, someone Robin did not like too much and could not stand to have around her because he was so uptight and stuck in his own firm rules of Muggle etiquette. Still, she had the decency not to immediately fire insults back at his head when he commanded her like a puppy dog to straighten her back as well and pant happily whenever she got a pat on her shoulder.
Chased by his attempts to transform her into the lady he wanted her to be, he failed to the extent that she would never fully comply to the rules of etiquette. She would not become the woman who would sit up and sip a dull flavored tea while talking about the weather and small talk. The dresses that he forced on her, she would wear, wrinkling the fabric when she ran around the estate or went inside to sit with the old owner for a long time, hearing her out about long gone times and people.
(There should have been dust in the room to complete the picture. The picture frames that hung with nails by the wall were still as golden as they used to be, their pictures only hazed by some ash that had settled there because of some heavy cigarette smoke. Chairs and tables had legs with curled feet made out of dark wood, polished and shiny. And in the floral sitting chair by the window, a woman with grey hair would be sitting. Watching the outside world pass by like it was nothing but some sort of theatre she was looking at. Something she was no part of. And in all her age, and in all her grumpy character, Robin could still see the beauty that had once graced the features of that face. Could still see no hostility in the words woven together to a personal history.)
When Robin would be found sitting on the ground near that chair with her legs drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees, she would be sent to her private tutor to save her possible etiquette. Never showing her steppa any progress she made, she remained stubbornly the unpolished gem he could not work with.
Her interests, other than sewing and knitting, gossiping and petting animals, annoying her steppa and finding her ways in the forests and on the cliffs, had always been more in stories she would find laying about. They were more in the books that she read with their dog eared pages and yellowed edges. The words telling the stories of the men lost in due an unfortunate wind from the east billowed blatantly from the pages.
(The stories that the wind had brought her resonated in the air, and she greedily listened to the whispers of the wind to take it all in. To remember the exact words they had told her the stories with. Her hands were dug deep into the pockets of her jacket as her hair was lifted by the tentative fingers of the wind in a futile attempt to carry the dark locks away and to make her ears easier to reach. Her hair swam around her head and she had to squint to make sure none of those hairs would find its way into the light blue of her eyes, a clear contrast to the shade of the sea roaring at her feet.)
At the age of eleven, Robin got a letter from an academy she had never heard of before. A school of magic. Her eyes had narrowed to mere slits as she looked at her steppa and her mother across the table, thinking it was all a joke. Until the moment that her steppa slammed the spoon with babyfood to feed little Finn, out of Francis’ hands and reached for the letter. Robin didn’t let him take it and jumped up from the table like she had been burnt.
There were reasons for everything. Reasons that Odysseus had been trapped on the sea, reasons that the Flying Dutchman wanted to sail, reasons that Davy Jones had lost his heart to the depths, that Robin Hood had fought for things no one else dared to even hope for.
And those were hers. Her reasons that she had been trapped in this house with this man as a steppa, her reasons that she now wanted to run away from them to only come back to get little Finn and Francis with her and take them away, her reasons that there was another place that she could truly call home.
Act III--ClimaxSo she went and she still regrets her impulsive act because she left Finn and Francis alone with a wolf in sheep's cloak in their midst. Yet, she did not dare to look back when she still had the chance.
Robin could find her ways in the academy, she could find herself capable of things that she had never thought she would ever make happen. If only it was one little thing that could have made her father happy, could have made him smile.
Although his face had faded from her mind’s eye.
Time Warp affected her more than she would ever put in words when it had fully dawned on the wizarding society and its everlasting changes made itself clear in Robin’s social landscape. Robin was taken in by Mr and Mss Mathieu whom she had met accidentally on a summer holiday. They are now also the ones that try to teach her magic to their best abilities.
The new environment, however, made Robin shut down, turn more quiet and secluded. She has turned more shy and has trouble to make profound and close friends. Still, sometimes, Robin blossoms again and turns into the happy child she has been. Prone to mood swings, Robin is flippant and unpredictable.
And Merlin knows where it will lead her to.
Roleplay:Reply as your character to the following:Godric Park.
Overhead, the sky was a crisp blue, for once clear of the ever-pervasive spongy clouds and rain. The sun was a lemony-yellow presence, high in the Eastern sky, and in front of it zipped three broomsticks in a straight line, or something very like one. One... two..... three... the boys passed, their shouts of excitement echoing as they chased the snitch, a tiny shimmer reflecting the sunlight.
Far below was another, much smaller broomstick.
It trugged along the ground, hugging close to it like a sluggish choo choo train and occasionally shuttering in protest. This was because said stick was currently being occupied by a very small girl who was tugging upward on the front of it with all her might, trying to coax it into doing what it had been expressly designed NOT to do.
"John, I said
wait up!" The tiny girl squealed, giving the broomstick another tug.
Begrudgingly, it drifted upward a foot, and then sank, depositing the troublesome girl safely on the ground. Janey Hurst was not pleased. In a huff, she hopped off the toy safety broom, grabbing it firmly and thrusting it handle first into the turf.
Her brother was such a beast. He NEVER let her play! She folded her arms, seething blue eyes fixing on another figure nearby. "You!" She barked, much more sharply than she meant to.
"...Do you want to play?"
Role Play Response:Maybe she had wanted to respond to the question of the girl who had just discarded her broom like it was just another twig that she had lost interest in because it did not work out for her, if her attention hadn’t been with the young men in the air. They were flying around like acrobats, finding their ways in the air like some sort of hummingbird. They were barely visible against the stark blue of the sky, blurring together with it in their own velocity.
The sunlight outlined their contours of face and body and made the Snitch glitter in fearful anticipation of getting caught. There had never been a draw from Robin to Quidditch in particular, but she could thoroughly enjoy the gracefulness of it. She could understand why people loved it.
It was probably the freedom that people wanted to get out of it. The freedom of not only the breeze in your hair, but also the freedom of doing whatever what you wanted to do in contrast with the winters that limited the things that you could do. Not that Robin had never bothered with snow much. It covered the floor of the earth and the crowns of the trees like it was trying desperately to wash away their sins of existence and keeping quiet as they witnessed the most horrible things happen at their roots.
This was limitless.
When her eyes finally averted towards the young witch at her feet, heat flared up her cheeks in the realization that she must have been ignoring the girl for a while now in her intrigue of what had displayed itself in the air. Carefully, she cast a tentative look over her shoulder to see if the girl could have been addressing someone else, but the young curious eyes were definitely focused on Robin’s face.
Would Finn have been like this?
A pang of guilt jabbed her in the chest and she brought a hand up to push the dark locks of hair out of her face and to give herself something to do. To distract herself from the overwhelming thoughts that blossomed up in her chest.
“I don’t even know what to do...” Robin managed to blurt out hopelessly.
Which was true, when it came down to foreigners, she was quite clueless.
OTHERHow did you find us?
On accident. Google.
