Post by jaclynwhitaker on Jan 30, 2012 1:40:10 GMT -5
( Jaclyn Olexsa Whitaker )
[/color][/font]the real story
[/center]( please state your name and who you're here with )[/color][/font]
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( so how old are you and when's your birthday? )[/color][/font]
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( where were you born and where do you live now? )[/color][/font]
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( what about your family, do you have any? )[/color][/font]
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( any other important people in your life? )[/color][/font]
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( now on to the stuff about you. what do you look like? )[/color][/font]
( any special talents or crazy abilities we should know about? )[/color][/font]
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( what do you love? )[/color][/font]
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( what do you despise? )[/color][/font]
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( what are some of your goals? )[/color][/font]
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( tell us a bit about your personality? )[/color][/font]
I guess for being not the most intelligent I’m still very determined. Once I set my mind to something – like alchemy – I really don’t stop until I finish it. I don’t half-ass anything. I still have my fathers textbooks with me, I try to study every night but half the time it doesn’t work out. I try to keep the alchemy under wraps. I’ve had to use it, but I don’t want to advertise it. It gives me an edge. I’m very proud of my alchemy though, it gives me a feeling of power and accomplishment. It’s one of my downfalls, I suppose.”
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( tell us a bit about your history now )[/color][/font]
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( finally, a bit about the player now )[/color][/font]
ideal contact method: PM is good
other characters played: None
how you found us:Tori gave me the link!
roleplay sample: When Pat was six and playing in his fathers woodshop he thought the wood varnish in its clear jar looked very much like the molasses his mother put in cookies. Without much thought he had stuck his hand in the glass and pulled out the sticky gel, sucking on his fingers for a few seconds before realizing that what he had in his mouth was definitely not molasses.
Decades went by and Hurricane Michael passed over the Connecticut coast without much hassle. Pat had kept the TV on mute and now and then glanced at the weather channel. It seemed that besides some minor flooding and a few downed power lines there wasn’t too much damage done to the New England coastline. It seemed exceptionally mild to Pat, holed up in his house with a pinewood fire and five gallons of deer park bottled water.
He went to the marina a few days later.
It began to drizzle. His father, he remembered, always loved the natural look of the wood. The direction of the grain, its whorls and imperfections and the way the different slats had formed delicate patterns on the bottom of the boat. Pat stood up from being crouched over and took his hand off the broken bench of the drascombe. The inside of the boat had been beautiful, the ribs lovingly bent into careful curves. Pat walked around the boat, mud sucking at his boots as he trailed his fingers along the delicate taper of the bow that was painted a dark evergreen, lightly scratching away at the coat along the ragged edge where the hull had been split in two.
He had chosen the color. That was when he was five, before the boat had even begun, before the design had been carefully picked out, when it was just barely an idea in his fathers mind like his sister was an idea in his mothers belly. “Son,” he had said, “do you like the color in your room?” Pat shook his head no. “It’s blue. I get lost.” His father nodded. “What would you paint your room” Pat was pulled onto his fathers lap, “if you could do anything you wanted?” Pat had thought carefully about it, sucking on his pinkie and ring finger, a habit his mother hated. “Green.” “Why?” “It’s like the bottom of a crab when you pick it up.” His father laughed. “Green, huh?”
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( credits )[/color][/font]
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