Post by brighton cox on Mar 13, 2010 11:50:22 GMT -5
Brighton Ambrose Cox
[/b][/color][/size] A Mr. Brighton Ambrose Cox at the dear age of twenty-three has found himself upon the most curious of situations - entering into London's most tantalizing gossip. "[/i][/color][/font][/size][/ul][/blockquote]
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W R I T E R .
name: megan
RP experience: couple years
how did you find us?: already here
age: 18
gender: femme
P O R T R A I T .
eye color: blue-grey
hair color: dark blonde
height: 5’10
body type: lanky, not very muscled
distinguishing features: blue eyes
fashion style:
M A N N E R S .
profession:
adoration for:
distaste for:
dreams:
fears:
secrets:
main:
P A S T .
family:
main:
For six year old Anatoly, progrom was a powerful word. The meaning of the word never registered in his young mind but he knew that it had a powerful effect on his parents- being who he always believed to never fear a thing. The mere mention of the word caused his mother to suddenly fret over even the most mundane things while his normally genial father withdrew into the privacy of his thought, a far off look in his eyes. But it was still a word. A word that could never bring him harm or to his family. Or so he thought.
A scream, horrible and shrill rang through the small hamlet into the night. In the chilling air of the Russian hillside chaos ruled with an iron fist thrusting the world that ten families into misery and sorrow. Natasha Levine awoke with a start, the distant screams of her neighbors penetrating the thin glass of her bedroom window providing her with a horrible premonition of her family’s fate. Frantic with fear, she turned to her husband shaking his broad shoulders as hard as she could to rouse him from his restful sleep. “Isaac, wake up! They‘re here…the children!” It was all coming true- her nightmare had finally arrived.
Chaos ensued through the night leaving the charred remains of homes built carefully by loving hands who hoped to give their descendents a home to welcome dawn. Strewn about the street, in doorways, buried halfway in mud, corpses were left to decompose unless the animals got to them first. Like the ruins of Carthage it seemed unlikely that life would regain a hold in the eerily silent community that had long become a tomb for the men, women and child destroyed by a petty, illogical, dumb and blood hungry crowd.
For weeks Anatoly survived as best he could in the forest. Berries and the occasional piece of bread and cheese that he took from the homes of those who lived near the fringes of the forest became his daily meal. He tried to be as cautious as he could for the few times he ventured away from the safety of the forest. The voice of his mother resounded in his thoughts every moment he sneaked towards a home to snatch any bit of sustenance that he could. “Run and hide Anatol! Make yourself invisible-don’t let anyone see you! If anyone sees you promise you’ll run as fast as you can-the fastest you’ve ever ran. You have to promise Anatol!” He tried as best as he could to follow her instructions but was ultimately caught one afternoon after stealing a basket of food a distracted young man left by the side of the road. While the young man fooled around his friends in a game of sport, as quietly as he could, he crept towards the basket. Once his small fingers grasped the handle of twine and wood, he set off as fast as he could into the safe embrace of the forest. Before he was halfway to the edge, one of the young man’s companion called out to the rest of the boys, quickly spurring them into action. As hard as he tried to get away Anatol was no match for the longer and stronger legs of the adolescents boys that ran after him. Eventually they caught up to him, pushing him onto the ground with a force that knocked the wind out of his lungs. Stricken with fear, he looked up from the ground, dirt smeaering the white of his cheek, fearing what the boys would do to him next.
Meredith Cox always adored children, it had always been her dream to have a gaggle of children around her to dote on but eleven barren years with her husband taught her that it was foolish to wish for something that she could not have. Rather than dwell on her barren womb, she sought other distraction to fill her days from helping her husband with his political career to traveling to the continent-Meredith found many ways to momentarily forget of her curse. Mostly, her wish to have children stemmed from her need to give her husband a child for all he had done for her. “ Coming to bed, dear?” A smile, full of warmth and love beamed from her face as she turned to her husband. She was a fortunate woman to have married a man who was so loving and understanding as her George. Without him, she doubted she would have ever felt joy after her doctor announced in a solemn tone that she would never have children after her second miscarriage. “It seems nothing can be done. Accept my humblest apologies Mrs. Cox.”
In fact, it was her husband who had suggested they take her cousin’s offer to visit her in Russia. “Soon,” she called out from her place on the balcony. “It is just that the view is so breathtaking-I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” she said breathlessly, joy alighting her features as it would an awestruck child. She never expected the Russian landscape to be as beautiful as it appeared underneath the soft glow of the moonlit sky. “George what is that building on the edge of the estate? I don’t recall seeing it before.” Meredith found it slightly strange it was only now that she noticed the ancient but captivating building that stood near a clearing, not very far off from her cousin’s home. “I do recall Nikolai saying it was a boy’s orphanage at dinner this evening,” her husband replied. Returning her gaze back to the building, a faint smile twitched her lips upward while a minute flicker of hope sparked in her chest.
Smoked curled a twisting trail from the worn pipe of Grigory Anchev. From a far off distance, young boys played in the large hall of the ancient building-once a home but converted to an orphanage when the previous owners died without any heirs to inherit the once luxurious home. As grim as he appeared before others, Grigory was a kind man who by chance was appointed an orphanage director but grew to care immensely for the young boys in his care. For that simple fact, all the young boys respected and loved the ill-dressed man who’s features lent him a rather conspiring look of a petty thief. Taking a wickedly curved knife from its sheath, he began methodically cleaning the nails of his broad fingers at the moment Meredith Cox entered the entrance of the orphanage. Underneath the bushy brows, hard dark eyes silently appraised the woman as she made her way to his seat on the edge of the grand staircase. Slowly appraising the value of her clean, well-made clothes and the simple yet expensive jewels that lay at her throat and decorated her slender fingers, he concluded that a wealthy woman had came to visit the orphanage. "Good morning sir. I’d like to see your orphans,” she stated in Russian, her voice starting off weak and gaining more strength as she continued to talk. A bushy brow arched almost disappeared into his unkempt brown hair. Raising to his feet until he towered over her small frame, he silently motioned her to follow him as he slowly walked to the hall where all the boys gathered every midday before lunch. Making her rounds through the multitude of children that surrounded her, Meredith quietly made her through them- watching them for a few moments until she was off to the next child. She stopped near a group of boys who unlike most of the boys played quietly amongst themselves. Then one of the boys turned to her, curiosity in his large blue eyes, giving her a smile that caused her heart to swell with emotion. In that instant, she knew who she wanted and no one else would do. “I want him,” she announced forcefully to the director lest he try to convince her that there were better boys than he. No one could be better than that child she had already decided. “I shall be back in a few hours with my husband. Please make sure that he is ready to leave when I come back,” she barely managed, excitement causing her to trip over her Russian words-muddling the pronunciation and reversing the placement of the conjugations. With much pleading and tears, Meredith finally convinced her husband to agree to sign the papers that would officially adopt the small boy who captured her heart. A week later the newly formed family found themselves on a carriage which they would travel with to France, then take the Channel to their home in England.
“What shall we name you, my dear?” Meredith asked, stroking the small shoulder of the child constantly, as if she feared that this boy was a fragile machination of her imagination and needed the constant assurance he was in fact real. “Warren is a good English name. Or, Charles. You could even be George, like your father.” Across from them, George Cox silently watched his wife converse with their newly adopted son , absurdly content at the joy in his wife’s blue eyes as she chattered on and on into the small boy’s ear. “ Alistair? Astor? Barnett? Pierce? William? Clarence?” She continued the list of names, looking for an inkling of some agreement in the thin face of her son. “Caleb? Gregory? Frederick? Victor? Daniel? Brighton?” At the mention of the last name, the young boy’s face melted into a soft and shy smile. Beaming strongly, Meredith nodded in agreement. “Brighton it shall be then. And Ambrose after my father-you’ll meet him when we reach home. You shall be Brighton Ambrose Cox.” From then on, Anatoly Abraham Levine ceased to be, replaced in his stead by Brighton Ambrose Cox, the wealthy son of parliament member George Cox and his kind wife Meredith.
The ball was like all the others that Brighton had attended- young debutantes throwing themselves at the behest of their mothers in search of the perfect gentleman who was not only handsome and rich but had to have a bevy of attributes: charm, poise, connections, respectable, masculinity, prowess in conversation and business. As the target of many a overbearing mother, Brighton had learned to adapt to his situation which was suddenly thrust upon him when he reached maturity. Over time, he took advantage of this to see which young woman he would ultimately claim as Mrs. Brighton Ambrose Cox. After countless seasons of raising the hopes of so many young debutantes, he finally settled on the rich heiress of his father’s close friend, Simon Dudley-a fellow member of parliament. Not only was his daughter Victoria fair , she had the one thing that most of the girls lacked - connections to spur his future career in politics. A path he chose to follow like his father and his father had done before him.
“ Brighton, don’t you believe it is rather unpleasant of a woman to flaunt herself so?” The voice of his soon to be betrothed broke through his thoughts about the future, pulling him back to present where he held her in arms as the danced gracefully in tandem with the twenty or so couples that also occupied the dance floor. "What has you so distracted?” The incredulity in her tone revealed her disbelief that any man could be distracted in her presence. While it was true that Victoria was certainly beautiful, Brighton did not feel adoration for her features as he once did. As brightly as her silver eyes gleamed, it did not hide a terribly fascinating person or even a kind person. The gleam resulted from Victoria’s glee in her knowledge that she was the most attractive woman at the ball. No matter how much they aspired to, most young women could not compete with her striking coloring of scarlet hair and silver eyes. “Nothing, Victoria.” It was easier to allow her to think there was nothing amiss than tell her that his thoughts alluded to the future. He knew, without a doubt Victoria would begin as she always did to make hints to a future that involved them. At first, the mere idea of marriage to Victoria filled him with excitement but as the months progressed to a year, he realized that he now face the issue of marriage to her with dread. He glanced over to his parents who danced with same love they shared when they were first married thirty-four years prior. His feelings for Victoria hardly measured a minute percentage of that.
Suddenly, the music ended signaling the end of the dance. Wordlessly, he prayed to the fates as he bowed gracefully to Victoria, bringing her gloved hand to his lips as was his custom. Without much hesitation, he weaved a small tale of needing to talk to her father for a moment about “official matters,” leaning slightly forward as he spoke, his lips spread in a secretive smile. Without another word, he turned away from her, all semblance of a smile melting away leaving a grim mouth set in stern line. “Brighton,” his mother called out, suddenly appearing at his arm. “I’d very much like you to meet someone.” Allowing his mother to lead him, he followed her to where a very distinguished man and his wife sat in conversation, while a young woman, who he presumed to be their daughter stood with her back to him in spirited conversation with another young woman. “ Lord and Lady Mikhail , I’d like to present my son, Mr. Brighton Cox.” Stepping forward, Brighton grasped the lord’s hand in warm grasp, then turning to the plump woman to his right, to gently kiss her hand. “And this,” his mother continued, motioning to the young woman who now finished with her conversation turned to Brighton and his mother “Is there niece, Natalya Petrov. Miss Petrov meet my son, Brighton Cox.” With eyes as blue as his own, the young woman shyly met his gaze, offering her small hand which he took in his own without a second thought. Releasing her hand, he straightened his posture in the moment the musicians began another song. Prompting into action, he flashed her a smile which always made the other young woman flitter about in coquettish giggles. “Will you join me for a dance, Miss Petrov?” he asked assuredly, the answer in the evident way she returned his smile so easily.
As they danced, Brighton made attempts to make conversation but her grasp at English was elemetary at best. Nevertheless, an ease existed among them that Brighton knew would never be the case for the other young woman who stood expectantly, like figures on display, waiting for a young man to intiate a conversation. “I apologize if my English is difficult to understand. I have only studied it for a few years and I still speak like a child would.” Despite her accent, he still understood her words, giving her a half smile of assurance every so often. Russian, among other things came easily to him and it took little to understand her words blanketed by a decidedly exotic accent. “Please excuse me for staring so strongly at you, Mr. Cox. You resemble my younger brother very much. Maybe you resemble what he would look like if he grew up to be as old as you.” Hesitant to venture into a subject he innately knew was a hard topic for her, he simply nodded his head as if it were enough comfort for the young woman’s loss. “ I lost him when I was very young and seeing you reminds me so much of him. Your eyes are like mine-just like Anatol’s. You even have the silly little birthmark on your neck that he did. I always remember my mother saying Anatol would look like my father when he grew up , and for some reason you look like my father.” Strong emotion steadily overtook her voice until she finally could not utter another word. Through her speech, she barely noticed how the face of the young man in front of her became ashen with each word. “Mr. Cox?” Concern for him etched the pretty features sending a sense of unease into the pit of his stomach. He quickly cleared his throat, his voice weak as he began to speak. “ Miss Petrov, I can’t possibly be who you say I am. My parents are Meredith and George Cox and as I recall they did not have any other children. I’m sorry but perhaps it is only coincidence that I resemble your brother or your father. If you will excuse me.” Ignoring the polite rules of society, he ended their dance, leaving her alone and bewildered on the ballroom floor as he stalked outside past the shocked face of his mother and the jealousy in Victoria’s eyes as she glared intently on his passing figure.
Even while he spoke to Natalya, he lacked the conviction to convince either of them of what he had somehow known to be the truth. An onslaught of images assaulted his mind as the cool night air met his warm skin. For all of his life, Brighton was lead to believe that his parents were his true parents. The servants never once caused him to doubt his origin. His own parents quietly assumed the role of his parents to such a degree that he had always felt they were his blood relatives. Doubt only arose from the nightmares that plagued him as a child. He remembered the hazy dreams of greedy flames devouring the carefully laid wallpaper of a bedroom which he shared with other children, but the child he always recalled with alarming clarity was a little girl with crystalline eyes similar to his own. Various images of a different family came unbidden at the most inopportune times. They never made sense to him but he dismissed them as the results of an overactive imagination. Until now, they were never real but as he listened to Natalya explain his similarities to her younger brother, the doubt that reside in the dark of his subconscious grew stronger and stronger, threatening to drive him to insanity. He leaned forward onto the marble rail of the terrace, the countenance of the poised young man he was famously known as was gone. What did this mean? he thought miserably to himself, dragging a heavy hand over his face. Everything he had known was left forever askew.
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E T C .
play-by:clement chabernard
password:evening solace
rp sample:
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