Post by isla littleton on Mar 27, 2009 15:33:52 GMT -5
isla morgaine littleton
[/b][/color][/size] A Miss Isla Littleton at the dear age of twenty-four has found herself upon the most curious of situations - entering into London's most tantilizing gossip. "[/i][/color][/font][/size][/ul][/blockquote]
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W R I T E R .
name: lala!
RP experience: lots!
how did you find us?: loves!
age: 22!
gender: lady!
P O R T R A I T .
eye color: between emerald and hazel
hair color: wheat blonde
height: five foot four
body type: curvaceous
distinguishing features: titled cats eyes, round face, heart-shaped lips, knowing expression
fashion style:
M A N N E R S .
profession: widow living off her deceased husband’s wealth; reads tarot cards for pleasure, but charges nothing
adoration for:
distaste for:
dreams:
fears:
secrets:
main:
P A S T .
family:
main:
By the age of sixteen Isla Morgaine was a fully bloomed woman, pale and golden, self-assured and fancy-free. Like any sixteen year old, she had ambitions and drive, dreams of true love and ideas of adventure. There was an entire world ahead of her.
And then there was nothing. Upon the entrance of an older, fine-looking gentleman who parted the curtains of the small, candle-lit tent, Isla’s life came to a halt. A new existence began. She read him his fortune, a bit warily, as he had a certain gleam in his grey eyes that she’d seen many a time before in a man, and had always avoided. He was quite merry, and talkative as well –a very kind, yet clearly upper-crust gentleman. It was not completely uncommon that upper-class folk, and rarely royal gentry, might come across their merry band of entertainers; they would find it oh-so risky and wild, something they would never normally do. Those people relished being here more than any commoner. In Isla’s eyes, this gentleman was clearly of that nature.
That night her mother was quite queer, tearing up for reasons she refused to divulge, and hardly touching her supper. She chose that night to pass on the few family heirlooms that she kept in an old trunk at the back of their caravan. Grateful for the gift, but senses and concern on high-alert, Isla graciously accepted and slept not a wink that night. There was foreboding in the air.
The very next day, in the murky dawn of morning, a carriage with a pair of finely-groomed horses approached, the ruckus awakening several members of the troupe, including Miss Isla herself. Peering suspiciously through the tattered lace curtain that veiled their tiny porthole window, Isla snuck a peek at the visitor. It was the gentleman from the night before, no mistake of that. A chill ran down her spine, warning bells ran in her ears. Dragging the delicate curtain into to place, Isla spun round on her heel, panic-stricken eyes closing in on the dejected expression of her mother. Both women opened their mouths to speak, and yet the room remained devoid of words. Only the pregnant silence of guilt and rage clogged the cramped space.
It was not until half way towards London did the weight of Isla’s situation fully dawn on her. She’d been sold. Sold like some young filly that had been groomed to be broken in. What had she meant to her mother in the first place? Their relationship had always been tumultuous, but they’d always been there for each other in the end. And who did she have now? The aging man who sat before her, his top hat leaning jauntily towards the left, his pale eyes both patient and merry as he silently studied his prize.
As any person used to freedom, Isla rebelled strongly for the first several months. She refused to wear London’s uncomfortable fashions, left her curtains wide open so that the sun shown down on her pallid skin, and refused to take part in the speech classes which were designed to rid her of her course Scottish accent. When she finally realised, to her horror, that the wedding would commence whether she fought or not, a piece of Isla’s spirit broke off, left to float aimlessly within her. Her mother hadn’t written her –no one had come looking for her. Mr. Thomas Littleton –she refused to call him simply Thomas at this point- was bizarrely kind to her. He put up with her nonsense, her tearful rages, her eerie and unexpected pronunciations of what year he would die or when a maid was likely to quit. He gave her everything she asked for, essentially. Aside from freedom.
People rarely saw the couple, even after they were married, so there is little known about the relationship between the Littleton’s. Within the first year of their marriage, Thomas seemed to take his young wife to the theatre quite often, and to other such wholesome entertainment venues. Isla Littleton appeared quite polite, if not a bit detached, and most always radiantly healthy-looking. They attended few social events and teas, though, where conversation and endless chatter would be inevitable. It is unknown whether or not this was Isla’s choice or Thomas’.
One year into the marriage, Isla produced what any man would dream of. A boisterous and healthy baby boy. Morgaine Thomas Littleton was the miracle of Isla’s life, and she recognised that from the first moment she looked into his eyes. To her own shock, the baby managed to bond Thomas and herself together, to some extent. She’d been wary and unforgiving towards him all this time, but with the gift of their child, the hostility she’d kept so close to her heart seemed to melt away beneath the overflowing warmth she experienced when in the company of her son. After all, Morgaine was not created by her alone. Without any personal realisation, Isla was slowly maturing and slowly forgiving. Some essence of sadness would always lay heavy on her soul –the knowledge she’d been pawned off for money, that the man she’d married loved her body and not her mind, that the rest of her life would be nothing like the dreams of that sixteen year-old girl so far gone.
And yet, this life hardly seemed as foreboding as it once had. There was new life, and new hope.
Four in the morning, two years ago. Isla Littleton awakens from a fitful sleep, eyes clouded with dreams. Fingers clutching the downy comforter in the pale moonlight, she sits up shakily, angling towards the sleeping figure of her aging husband. Clear as the stars on a winter night, she knows that Thomas Littleton will die tomorrow. An arrow of fear stabs at her heart, her blood the regret, the dull pain remaining was relief. With what could have been a laugh or a sob, she turns over in her king-size bed and returns to her dreams. Freedom at last, and loneliness once more.[/ul]
E T C .
play-by: elisabeth harnois
password: admin edited
rp sample:
see LUCY MERRIWETHER[/blockquote][/size]
