Post by MARCELINE ABIGAIL BELLEFONTE on Jul 30, 2014 4:10:48 GMT -5
 Marceline Abigail Bellefonte Twenty-three Pureblood Dancing Dragon owner/dancer Thirteen inches, Dragon heart strings, Oak BIRTHDAY: 23, Apirl Patronus: Butterfly ABILITIES: Occulemncy, legillmency They say the senses are as vital as breathing, as your heart beat...and that's something that holds true. Taste, Touch, Sight, Smell, and Sound...they could save your life much better than breathing can, without them...breathing is irrelevant. Touch Everything feels different, textures...consistency and shape. Its tough to realize that touch is important until you go without. A small amount of contact is enough to keep a person in tact, it's surprising what the feeling of a soft tap on the shoulder can do. Rough calloused hands holding the soft hand of a three year old for the last time. Strong protective arms keeping a little girl safe for the last time, the sense of comfort gone in a blink of an eye. Its hard to forget the feeling of gravel under your feet as you run. Nothing is more imprinted in a little girls memory than the burn of a door that got baked on the sun. Or the tug on her arm as she's scolded for throwing a rock at the receding car, a car which she will only touch just as its about to drive away. Marceline was born into darkness, the night was stormy and the only light was those from the candle. There were so many you could feel the heat from the fire. The first thing that ever touched her skin, was heat...from the flames that would soon burn. The window blew open, the second thing that touched her skin was the bitter chill from the storm. Barely thirty minutes into the world and Marceline ready stored the difference between hot and cold. To bad she didn't exactly know this. At age two, she found how glass felt as it split your skin, like pain. She also learned to feel her way through the dark. Her mother's constant headaches had left house plunge in darkness. Her parents were too proud to see a healer. She could dance her way through the house silently, feeling every creak and crack in the floorboards of the Victorian style manor that sat on acre after acre of secluded land. Her feet felt callous and rough but the smoothness of the sand on the private beach remedy that. At age five her dancing got better, she was as quiet as the calm before the storm and she no longer just felt her way around the house she listened. Sound The speed of sound is sometimes faster than the speed of light. Sometimes there's nothing greater than the urge to run from sound, to cover your ears and block out screams, cries, gunshots and slamming doors. The doctor telling your father there's nothing he can do and that your mother is a lost cause. Sound can be piercing, soothing, frightening and redeeming, the most beautiful sound in the world is that of a woman. At the same time there's nothing more precious. She was six when her mother died, the sound of the screams caused her curl up on a ball and cry. The sound of her sobs sent the nannies running but her magic was too hectic. Floating objects ready to attack, until she calmed down, it should've been her. That bullet was meant for her, not her sickly mother...but Marceline had never been wrong, that bullet was meant for her father. At age seven she became familiar with the sound if owls screeching, the flapping of wings and the rip of letters. Her father won't be home again, he was busy...ways busy as if distancing himself would keep her safe. So she listened to the sound of gravel beneath tires, the sound of slamming doors. The hushed footsteps and phantom kisses she wasn't supposed to be awake for. She listened for the I love you, but it never came. At age eight she heard rage for the first time, she heard desperation, hatred and hurt. He blamed her, she had caused her mother's weakness with her birth. For the first time she had heard guilt. It echoed in her ear as if hers were an empty hallway in horror film. The scrams traveled and then bounced back. She blamed herself more than ever. At age nine she refused to talk, the sound of her aunt saying you sound so much like your mother, made her ill. Her singing voice was beautifully haunting, she couldn't stand the sound of it. Her father never said anything, Marcy loves the sound of his absence...why should he love a murderer? Taste At age eleven she discovered the copper taste of blood had an addicting twang to it. The smell made her blood rush. She swears to this day she can taste the adrenaline rushing through her blood. Being a mobsters daughter has its downside and self defense only got you so far. The taste if the stale bread and the tears from her eyes made her stomach uneasy. She could taste the fresh air once she was rescued by her father's men. When she was fourteen she knew what the inside of a boys mouth tasted like. It wasn't until she was sixteen that she realized that each boy was different had a unique taste. She had only kissed two and she was far too shy to explore the new knowledge. Sight She was fifteen when she saw him, cold distant and mysterious. Her feet paused their dance. Her twirl stopped, he wasn't a performing art student. Her instructor yelled at her to continue with her practicing. Leave the troubled boy alone, the quiet girl obeyed but only slightly...something about him made her bones chill. His eyes....they were too.....haunted. She was seventeen when he saw her, though it was completely by chance, she had wanted a tattoo. Something that would make her father turn red. She hated his job, the dead bodies that lined his closet, Skeletons of the lives he stile but she always stuck up for him. His name was Dante and he had given her, her first tattoo. She was nineteen when she saw the flames, trapped...every single one of them russian, spanish, and american. Things would never be the same as Marcy took over her fathers business only until she found he was alive. By then there was stains on her hand. She was twenty one when she stopped seeing their faces, after that it took five months to stop seeing blood. Smell At twenty-two the smell of smoke calms her way more than it should. The Sight of flames excites her and blood fascinates her. She keeps her obsession underwraps, its been 13 years since she's spoken more than her name. People are starting to think she's mute. The smell of the tattoo parlor brings her comfort, the alcohol and sterile needles. She's only spoken about five words to the owner but she's the only one he trust for a tatoo. At twenty-three, her dads cologne saturates the air in her apartment. Leaves the goosebump on her arms trying to erase themselves. He has a job for her, all the years she's spent handling things while he was "gone" has reached his ears. She smells the rust before she sees the blood. A pocket knife...her pocket knife embedded in the arm of the bodyguard who followed her all her life. The words get out echoed around the room. Her father wasn't someone you refused and soon she had another skeleton in her closet. Another tattoo, less words... She'd never have to help her father again. She was content with dancing, singing in her mind, not letting anyone hear the voice that haunted her aunt and grandparents. She was shy, she was guilty. Marceline touched her way through life. She followed the sound of her heart, of her mind warping at a thousands miles an hours. The smell of smoke had always showed her the way and the images had always caused her to run. Still the taste of copper in her mouth will always be better than the sweetest chocolate in the world. hey guys, my name is Marie! and I am rocking it at 17 years old, role-playing for roughly Two years - so i'm pretty chill with anything. i'm in the Easten time zone, and hail from America so how about that! currently my character looks just like Christina Perri or so i am told! I found y'all at Puddifoots Topsite and that's pretty awesome isn't it? I currently have other faces on here known as 25 OTHER CHARACTERS, so hit them up for plotting! anyways; peace my dears! |
