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diveronarpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, GABE! You’ve been accepted for the role of ARIEL. Admin Julie: Imagine my delight and surprise to see an Ariel application in the inbox after having them on the masterlist for such a long time, desperately hoping, wringing my hands --- and here they are! Gabe, your application blew me away. Your ability to pin down their mysticism while also humanizing their loneliness and their distance from their own identity was something I really connected with in a way that had me incredibly emotional. I cannot wait to see where you take them, and am eager to watch as you go! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Gabe

Age | 29

Preferred Pronouns | He/They

Activity Level | I can reply at least once a day, excluding weekends.

Timezone | EST (GMT -5)

Triggers | My triggers are already covered in the blacklist.

How did you find the rp? | Alexei told me about it.

Current/Past RP Accounts | None

IN CHARACTER

Character | Alva Fae - Ariel

What drew you to this character? | In The Tempest, Ariel is rescued from entrapment by Prospero, who then presses him into service. If Ariel wants to be free, he has to serve. However, he is not a weak creature, as he can command gales and has “fearful power”. Alva’s history, thus far, only goes through the phases of getting out of “entrapment” ie the arranged marriage, unhealthy filial dynamic and subsequent use and abuse by the men they choose to be with. Their rescue by Mona, although seemingly altruistic, still has the tethers of servitude to it. Alva has a place because they are useful.

This sort of dynamic and backstory resonates with me. Over the years I’ve had several characters with similar issues, and I find that I enjoy their arcs; the meek becoming bold, the downtrodden becoming frightfully strong. Sometimes these characters can get lost in their own flaws, becoming weaker, desperately clinging to their savior, doing anything they can to stay alive and to feel alive. For Alva, I feel like if they survive the current gang war in Verona, that they could become a stronger, more powerful force than they are currently.

I can see how they learned from their mistakes, and how they could fall into the same traps. They strongly desire a life of freedom, a life that is their own, but they’ve never actually had to be in charge of themself. They ran away from a highly structured environment right toward a group where they could have a place, from structure to structure, from patriarchal figure to patriarchal figure. The only difference in their current situation is that they were offered to join a matriarchal figure’s structured environment, and they’re jaded enough to know to keep some secrets in case they have to run away yet again.

They desire freedom, but I think it actually scares them. Having no one to fall back on, having no one around them to guide them, no one to consult, having to just go out there and make decisions; it’s not something he really thinks hard on. If he was in charge, what would he actually do?

Who is Alva. Even Alva doesn’t know. They’ve done some things they aren’t proud of, but those things don’t truly define them. They were once a forgettable son, then a runaway, then a bedwarmer, now a lounge singer. They are an information gatherer, but that’s a job, that’s not Alva. It took them a while to get used to social media, having had a rather basic phone, and an interest in pleasing those around them. Now that they have a little time to themself, they can see how people their age act, how they see themselves, and they wonder if any of this can inform the person they are supposed to be. But is it worth it to be the kind of young adult that is growing up these days? They don’t know, in this life they are just trying to survive.

Also, growing up in a religious environment gives them a complicated relationship with God and the tenets of their religion. While they might renounce their beliefs, or their participation, they now have all this niche knowledge specific to their childhood religion. I wasn’t raised Mennonite, but I dealt with this at younger ages, having never really fallen into believing, but being raised by and around believers. It’s complicated when the people around you believe in something that doesn’t seem to have mercy or love for someone like you, even if you aren’t open about who you are. It makes you somewhat cynical, as you learn to read the behaviors of those around you and see what they choose to believe and practice, and what they conveniently ignore. This can influence what Alva chooses to do, how they interact with religion and how they interact with others.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?|

Wisdom of the Naive

Naivete is what led Alva away from their constrained position in New York to a wandering soul in Europe. They believed that they could run away and that the people who took them in would keep them safe and would allow them to be their true self. As was evident, they were only a ragdoll to the leader, and they ran away again. Alva thought a name change would change themself, but they still ended up in bed after bed, with men who didn’t deserve them. After being rescued by Mona, have they learned not to be too trusting? Yes, perhaps. However, they’re still so young and there’s still hope buried inside of them. They are still looking for something. Alva won’t believe the sweet words of a suitor, but what of a friend? They don’t exactly have the life experience necessary to navigate the dark underbelly of Verona. They could befriend the wrong type, and end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. It would take every bit of wisdom they’ve learned, all the wariness they’ve adopted to keep from being the victim yet again. They are good at coaxing information out of others, and have realized their ability to draw others in. Their experience with people has been one of use, thus Alva knows they have to remain useful, but they yearn for freedom. If they can connect with the right people, they could build a network which would free them from servitude and carry them over the minefield that is Verona under the Montagues and Capulets.

Killer Consequences

Alva had to escape a bad situation by killing a man, and it weighed on their soul. While they would do anything to live, they don’t want to ever have to take another life again. This may or may not be possible with the way Verona is rapidly becoming a war zone. Being neutral won’t save them from random violence. Knowing that, they also know that they can and will protect themself if they have to.

If they’ve learned anything from the relations between the Montagues and the Capulets, its that killing has far-reaching repercussions. Alva is still looking over their shoulder from what happened in Spain. While nothing has yet to reach them, that doesn’t mean nothing ever will. They have to guard their secrets closely, no matter how friendly they may get with Verona’s people.

One slip-up and they can find themselves drowning in dark waters.

No Place Like Home

Alva is terribly lonely. Despite feeling so constrained in New York, their family was always around. It was a comfort to know that there were several people they could hide behind, or blend into. They feel exposed in Verona, with only the lounge affording them the business that was like his home.

Alone in their room at night, they feel a terrible weight crushing them. That weight led them from bed to bed and it takes everything in them not to succumb to it again. Nightmares wait behind their eyes, ready to torment them. They know, in their heart, that going home is not an option. They are probably disowned for running away, and that guilt; the guilt of leaving their mother; threatens to steal their breath. It’s hard to stay focused, but it gets easier if they stay in the present, working towards a future only they can see.

If someone were to offer them the building blocks of their future, and not just a safe haven to dart in and out of, they could very well realign themself. He’s left one mother behind, and he could do it again, it’s his nature to change for his own benefit.

Identity Crisis

Alva, although born and raised in New York, doesn’t have the authentic New York experience. Nor do they have more than a taste of their Vietnamese culture. They haven’t remained too long in any one place in Europe to really absorb the “citizen of the world” mentality. Their only strong tether is the religion they were raised into, and they recognize that the tenets were used to shape them into what their father thought they should be.

Having such a complicated set of identities, they often feel like no one among others. Having to keep their own secrets to avoid consequences, they also feel inauthentic when socializing with others. This feeling of being nobody has been with them since they were a child, and it was a defense mechanism to keep from being the object of their father’s ire.

They have an identity right now, as Mona’s lounge singer, but that’s just a hat they wear on their workdays. They are trying to craft their own identity, browsing social media for inspiration, and trying to keep themselves well-informed.

They desire to really, truly, be someone and this feeling of being no one often leads them toward people with strong personalities, for good or ill.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Sure, you can’t always walk the line of neutrality and remain safe.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Interview:

What is your favorite place in Verona?

“The Cathedral,” they say, the answer coming off their lips in a rush. It’s embarrassing how easily the answer– the true answer –is gotten from them. They smile, an expression that comes with practiced ease; a slight lift of the corners of their mouth, a softening of their gaze. “The acoustics are just lovely, and the architecture… simply amazing.” Which is not the full truth. The church means more to them than the way sound travels around its marvelous walls. There is the comfort of being within it, the way it dwarfs everything with effortless grandeur. Everything is small compared to the church, everything is simple, nothing but worship matters within its walls, and it doesn’t care who you are. If they listened closely, if they closed their eyes and stood very still, they could even feel the presence of God. But this lounge singer isn’t known very well for being religious, and so they sigh and tilt their head into their hand, curling their fingers against their cheek. “It is the most beautiful building in all the city, don’t you think?”

What does your typical day look like?

They chuckle and lean back a little, crossing their legs under the table. “Oh you’d be jealous.” They make a show of thinking about their particular routine, touching a finger to their lips, eyes tilted up to the ceiling. Wake up sweaty from a nightmare, bathe, pray, practice their vocals, dress, go out to eat, linger to observe others, browse social media, eat again, window shop, maybe actually shop, go back to the Dark Lady, get ready for work, perform, coax secrets out of others, that’s their routine. “I work as a lounge singer, right? Well, work doesn’t start until the building opens, so I get to sleep in. Sometimes I go out with friends, sometimes I stay in and entertain myself. Then it’s singing, socializing, and going to bed when I tire of it all.” They make it seem like they make their own hours, but they know they have to be in the Dark Lady before she opens, and they have to be picture perfect before the first patron walks through the doors. They only leave when they have enough information to justify leaving the lounge. It’s not a mandate, but the last thing they want to be accused of is taking advantage of Mona’s kindness. If they can’t offer her up whispers, then all they are is a singer, and singers aren’t that hard to come by.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Several things come to mind, all of them decisions they thought they made. Running away, running away again, getting involved with this or that man, killing a man to run away again. “I think there are many little errors I’ve made, but perhaps the worst of them all was leaving my family with no way of contacting me.” It’s a lie, but Alva sounds so remorseful. They regret it all, but leaving their mother still makes them weep on their darkest day. They should have taken her with them, but would she have even gone? With seven other children to look after, would she have chosen to leave with them? Their mother’s welfare often keeps them up at night. How is she? How is she doing? Would things be different now if they’d gone to her, proposed the idea of leaving? Would she have come? Would she have? The frown on their face is small, and their brow is furrowed. They are making a concentrated effort not to emote as strongly as they feel. “But in order to live in my dream city and sing for a living, I had no choice but to go. Perhaps I should have had a proper farewell.” They sigh, a sad puff of breath. Then they reach for the carafe on the table and pour two drinks. Gone is the wilted lily, and a wide, playful smile spreads across their face. “Let’s drink to that, what do you say?”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

Their brows lift, an expression of surprise. “I don’t think anything too difficult has ever been asked of me.” They gesture, as though there is a raised stage on their left. “Perhaps singing in front of important clientele? It does make me more nervous. I want to make a good impression, you see.” Nothing exists outside of the microphone when they sing, but there have been difficult secrets they’ve had to learn. They’ve had to decide between keeping secrets or telling them, and the consequences often keep him paralyzed on the subject. “I have it pretty good here, all things considered.” And while not a harsh end to the conversation, their words have a finality to them. That is all that will be said on that subject.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

Ah, time to play a vapid young adult. This is done easily, as they’ve experienced the love of gossip and vapid words from people their age on social media. They know far too much about what’s going on between the Capulets and the Montagues. So many have died, so many dangerous plots enacted, territories lost and gained. Their biggest fear is the Montagues and Capulets choosing the Dark Lady as yet another site for their feud. However, instead of concern, or even a minute amount of trepidation, they lean forward, lowering their voice, necessitating their guest lean forward in turn. “Things are so dangerous, are they not? You can’t have been in Verona long without hearing what has happened?” It’s like they are fishing for information they do not yet have. “Like with Alvise Vernon, or that crazy day in October? They say that you couldn’t walk the streets without seeing ghosts or apparitions. Then there was that day in November, I stayed inside, but the noise. I heard that someone blew up the bridge.” And tried to kill Cosimo, but they only have to know the silly fluff-headed things that seem important to the youth of this age. All these young ones care about is clout and money and looking smart, but not actually being smart. Besides, straying to the far more political side of the youth is asking for it, here in Verona. When it seems like they won’t get anything out of their guest, they lean back with a pout. “Ah well, it’s all very dangerous, I only know bits, but I know enough to stay inside if things seem a little off.”

In Character Para Sample:

Alva sat on the edge of their bed, their head resting heavy between their hands. Sweat beaded on their bare skin, rapidly cooling clammy skin. No sound but their breaths, no light save the neon glow of their clock; it was two in the morning. Their eyes were open; too afraid to close them and replay the lurid tableau they’d woken up from.

There had been a man with a black hole for a face, but he recognized those hands; the gold pinky ring with a scorpion motif and jet inlay, the expertly manicured nails, long fingers and wide hands. He had been a big man, the Spaniard, and the hole in his face… Alva had put it there. Those hands had reached for them, grabbed their wrists with a grip like iron. That awful black-hole yawned in front of them and just before the Spaniard leaned toward them, displaying the gore of the inside of his head, Alva woke.

They could hear the beat of their pulse, feel it shake their body with its strength. “God,” they whispered, pausing to lick the salt from their lips. “God forgive me.” There would be no lengthy plea tonight, no monologue for the Lord to listen to. Alva could barely put their thoughts together, let alone a paragraph of poetic prayer to a deity they were sure was consumed with busier things.

For a half hour they sat, paralyzed by paranoia, unable to move for fear of small noises, creaks and groans. Finally, too cold to ignore their discomfort, they reached down and pulled the sheets around their shoulders. Standing was an exercise; a long, drawn-out stretch that left Alva wanting to lie down again.

But, they couldn’t go back to sleep.

Sighing, they padded to the kitchen, the sheets gliding across the floor behind them. Eyes half-closed from weariness, heart settling in their chest, they reached laboriously for the lightswitch. The light would be blinding, but it was a well-known and oft-recieved pain. Their hand swatted the wall, missing twice before snagging the switch.

Alva’s eyes narrowed to slits in the brightness of the kitchen and they grudgingly draped the blankets over a chair so they could move about the kitchen unhindered. Everything was too loud, but it was the small routines that kept him from coming undone. They put two slices of bread in the toaster and put water on to boil, lurking by the sink, watching, waiting. Their gaze was fixed on nothing, and they drifted from the sink to the chair, to wrap themself up.

Alva’s mother used to do this, sit in the wee hours of the morning watching water boil. The coffee was for their father, the toast too, but they liked to imagine that their mother sometimes did this for herself. One time, they’d wandered into the kitchen and she was there, whispering a prayer they couldn’t hear. She’d heard them, stopped her whispering and got up to usher them back to bed, but not before they’d seen the tears in her eyes. What had she been crying about?

The toast made them jump, coming out of the toaster so suddenly. Annoyed, they stared at it as they waited for their heart to settle again. Alva let the sheets go, rising from their cocoon of warmth and took a plate down from the cabinet. They fished their toast out with their forefinger and thumb, only burning themselves a little. The butter was too cold to spread, so they cut two thick squares and let it melt atop the bread while they went to tend the water, switching the burner off.

Coffee was a luxury, one they were still meaning to indulge with some kind of fancy machine. As it was, they made do with instant; a capital sin in Italy, but who’d catch them? They stared dully into the pot as they stirred in the coffee, watching as it turned black. Black like– they tore their gaze from the pot and reached up to grab a mug from a hook.

This one was yellow, bought in a street fair. It was in the shape of a bear, and always made them smile. Even now, they could feel a tug at the corners of their lips as they looked into the yellow bear’s face. They poured themselves half a mug and set it on the counter, taking the can of sweetened condensed milk from the fridge. The poor thing was on its last use, and Alva was on their last can. The bread was down to the ends, and there was only a tablespoon of butter left.

Honestly, when had they forgotten to do a little shopping? The inside of their fridge was sad.

Alva leaned on the counter top, pouring the last bit of condensed milk into the coffee, watching as it swirled into the deep, and idly reached for a spoon from the drawer beneath. They poured and stirred until their coffee was an orangey brown, until all they wanted was a sweet sip and a bite of crispy toast.

They tossed the can into the recycling after washing it out, and adorned themselves with their blanket, arranging it so they could carry a plate and a mug without becoming a tragedy of spilled breakfast and twisted sheets.

When they settled, their breakfast on their nightstand, curled comfortably in their bed, it was three in the morning. Oh well.

Extras: I was wondering if, perhaps, Alva could have an anonymous online persona. Perhaps they use that to gather even more information than they would talking to people in the lounge. Although having had to learn social media, he’s become pretty fluent in it, and can comb through social media to gain bits and pieces of important news.

Vietnamese Food Guide, as I think he might be very into “home cooking” being a runaway and all.

#accepted #accepted: ariel #sorry for the delay my loves!

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