CECAMORE, Mercutio

[Mercutio Cecamore]

MERCUTIO LEONA CECAMORE

" I know, by now you think I should have straightened myself out—thank you, drop dead "

t h e c h a r a c t e r

[/size][/font]

NAME: Mercutio Leona Cecamore.
AGE: Twenty six.
GENDER: Female.
BIRTHDAY: January eighth.
CLASS: Noble.
TITLE/RANK: None applicable, but if the circumstances truly require one, t'is acceptable to call her 'Lady'.
OCCUPATION: None.
ALIGNMENT: Montecchi, due to her friendship with Leonardo.
CANON: MAIS OUI.

t h e l o o k s

[/size][/font]

EYES: Green.
HAIR: Reddish blondish.
WEIGHT: One hundred and thirty six pounds.
HEIGHT: Five feet, nine inches.
VOICE: Drawling and wry, with a certain musical quality to its dreamy tones, until she gets worked up into a clipped, quick paced shout.
PLAY-BY: Milagros Schmoll.
GENERAL:

Merc knows she is not beautiful in the conventional sense, though this isn't detrimental to her well being in any manner. Her pale yet thoroughly freckled face possesses features too clever to be considered delicate, and dark eyes that dart about mischievously. She is tall and thin, with few of the feminine curves women of her age possess. Her thick, wild hair require far too much attention to reach a state to make them adequate for styling; consequentially, she most often displays fierce, unpinned curls. If anything, she resembles the sweet faery folk she so admires.

ATTIRE:

The Cecamore lass tends towards closely tailored dresses in dark, rich hues, styled rather simpler than the ornate gowns ladies of her class prefer. When she can get away with it, whether in public or a play, she will wear men's clothing.

p e r s o n a l i t y

[/size][/font]

LIKES:

• laughter
  
• children
  
• rain
  
• tricks
  
• music
  
• folklore
  
• literature
  
• theatre
  
• word play

DISLIKES:

• sleep
  
• manipulation
  
• tears
  
• boredom
  
• flowers
  
• thunder
  
• violence
  
• jewelry
  
• cats

STRENGTHS:

• literate
  
• devoted
  
• trustworthy
  
• entertaining
  
• skilled with weapons

WEAKNESSES:

• fluctuating mood
  
• distractable
  
• childish
  
• finishing projects
  
• ‘womanly’ tasks

QUIRKS/HABITS:

• giggles at random
  
• rather clingy with close friends
  
• sticks thumb in mouth when thinking/concentrating
  
• dances when the mood takes her
  
• rarely maintains eye contact

FEARS:

• being scorned/held accountable for her less than desirable birth
  
• losing Leonardo’s friendship
  
• being controlled
  
• responsibility
  
• marriage

GOALS:

• travel outside of her city
  
• eventually finish writing her play
  
• see the fae
  
• forgive/be accepted by her family
  
• avoid getting dragged into the Cappelletti/Montencchi feud

PERSONALITY:

For all of her age and activities, Mercutio is still a child. She is easily amused and easily distracted, and will tease and beg and pout to get her own way. Fascinated by glitz and glamour, her interests veer towards the fantastical, which is so easily found in this extraordinary city. An example of this is how greatly she delights in tales of the beautiful, damned faery race. Her judgment of people is abrupt and near impossible to alter. If she decides she likes you, then she’s steadfast and charming to the end. But if she decides otherwise, be prepared for a cold shoulder and thoughts on how to bring misery your way.

For what it is worth, the woman relishes and revels in her status as a bastard. Because it is not a characteristic generally known to the people of the Verona, she gets treated like the noblewoman she is, as opposed being spit on or yelled at in the streets. Yet due to the shame her family feels about her parentage, she is most often left to her own devices and can cause all the mischief she wants. Oh, how much mischief that is! There is no need for her to work, given her family connections, but every now and then one hears rumours of a woman consorting with any one of the numerous troupes in Verona, orating with the best of them.

Her wild mood swings are infamous to her peers. The Cecamore lass can be full of good cheer one moment, content to tease the night away; the next, she will growl at you to let her be, a heavy object held threateningly in her hand. This unpredictable element of her personality has made her pool of friends rather small, but those she does have she is fiercely loyal to. Yet Merc is more intelligent than one would think, and occasionally one can catch a look in her eyes that confirms this fact. But these are fleeting moments, for as soon as she notices you’re looking, she’ll smile a ridiculous smile that assures you whatever you saw was just a trick of the light.

t h e h i s t o r y

[/size][/font]

MOTHER: Concetta Russo.
FATHER: Zanto Aquila.
SIBLINGS: Valentine Russo—half-brother through Concetta.
Duke Aquila’s father—half-brother through Zanto.
OTHER: Duke Aquila—nephew “cousin”.
Matao Aquila—nephew “cousin”.
Luana Aquila—great niece “cousin”.
Alessandri—undetermined.
PLACE OF BIRTH: Verona, Italy.
CURRENT RESIDENCE: A small villa of her own, surreptiously located on the Aquila estate.
WEAPONRY:

Mercutio has a vast, rather masculine collection of weapons. At the last inventory check, the total was "nine daggers, five rapiers, two spiked chains, and one whip". She is respectably proficient in all five categories, though admittedly she is weakest with a sword. She tends to carry an average of half her daggers on her person at any moment—merely for amusement, and to see how cleverly she can conceal them. Though, granted, given the current state of violence in the streets, this tendency could be viewed as a necessary precaution.

HISTORY:

To put it bluntly, Mercutio's family tree is a bloody tangle of a mess. Her father, Zanto Aquila, was the most recent Duke and master of Verona, and the current Duke's grandfather. Zanto was not particuarly skilled in politics, intrigue, philosophy, or war; indeed, his reputation relies on two things only: his extraordinarily long life and his insatiable lust for women. For the half century that followed the time he ascended to the throne whilst still in his teens, his wife and family suffered silently through the tribulation produced by his numerous infidelities and stubborn refusal to die. His eldest son (the current Duke's father) bore the brunt of the misery—whilst his own father was and own son is the lord of this particular city, this was never the man's fate. Instead, he took on much of the grunt work—scheming and analyzing and all other things Zanto was uncapable of—with no greater glory than 'heir apparent'. He no doubt fumed at this injustice; perhaps he attempted to have the old man murdered as he became more addled, perhaps not. The fact remains the eldest son of Zanto Aquila died before his father's reign was over, making the current Duke the natural successor to the throne.

Zanto’s subpar yet prolonged rule took a turn for the sordid when, twenty six years ago, a common woman of the street was able to prove she had given birth to his bastard daughter. The Aquilas were scandalized by the illegitimate conception, and decided it was best to keep the details of the matter amongst themselves. The mother—Concetta—was given an allowance and a house on the outskirts of town, provided she kept mum about her affair with the Duke. Fortunately, the child was a girl; not only would her improper birth prevent her from laying a claim to the throne, she was not of the correct gender to do so. She was named Mercutio, and given a differing surname that, for all her family’s discreetness, only too aptly describes her origins: ‘Cecamore’ translates as ‘blind love’.

So the Cecamore lass was hidden away in a nursery, to spend her childhood distanced from her family. This was probably not for the best: in truth, she was rather spoiled, all due to the Aquilas’ desire it remain unknown just how closely she is connected to them. Her rather older nephews, if referred to it all, are called ‘cousin’. She was given freedom rather unknown to the fairer sex, which she certainly took advantage of, finagling her way into lessons in literacy and the art of weapons. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that when she was finally too old and too rambunctious to be contained indoors, Merc chose to associate with boys.

It was only following Zanto’s death, and the current Duke’s coronation, that Mercutio was permitted to interact with her family in any public way. To this day, her parentage remains a well kept secret unknown to even the closest of her bosom companions, Mister Leonardo Montecchi himself. The lass is content for information to remain at its current level of furtiveness—her family has gifted her with the marvelous boon of never having to truly grow up, now haven’t they? No telling how she might react, were that to be taken away.

o c c

[/size][/font]

OOC NAME: Edie.
AGE: Scheventeen.
EXPERIENCE: As the David Bowie song goes, "Five years".
CONTACT: PM, please and shank you.
MEMBER TITLE: Lady Grinning Soul
ANSWER: -admin edit-
EXAMPLE:

She was a lucky little wretch, in all honesty: if he had greeted her coldly, or bluntly, or in any other manner indicating their prior familiarity, then Theo would have though she could trust the Prince. If t’were the case, she’d undoubtedly have proceeded in making a fool of herself by coming right out with her reasons for coming to Regina at this precise time, thus losing any sort of advantage she may have over him in this instance. One was not to reveal the entirety of one’s plans at the slightest provocation—any conjurer of cheap tricks would tell one that. Lucky little wretch, indeed, that Rian had responded as courteously and distantly as he would to any other person he was less than willing to see. His courtly salutations were sufficient to chill her to a more manageable state of being, turn her from giddiness to cunning. And she’d require all the wits she possessed to persuade him into—well.

True, she smiled slightly when his hand clasped hers, but the threateningly sentimental expression was soon replaced by a smirk when his mouth ever so briefly pressed against her skin. The girl made no attempt to conceal the expression, as it was made up of detached relief and the security of secrets—security in that for all his theories and analysis, there was no way for him to determine the precise reasons for her smirk. How she was pleased to note she felt no sense of arousal at the sensation of his lips brushing ‘gainst her hand, and that even the thought of Rian ‘s lips on more, er, intimate parts of her anatomy was more likely to make Theo yawn in ennui than blush optimistically. Hence her relief: she already had a regrettably sensual relationship, and the whole point was that she was not looking for another. Lovely, really, to have confirmation her feelings for her half-brother were platonic, albeit in an altered way.

He stood, and the Countess rose with him; she would have needed to be some sort of deaf, dumb, and blind urchin not to pick up on his obvious disgust with her appearance. She touched her hair self-consciously, immediately regretting the action. It was her desire to avoid displays of weakness, was it not? But of course, seeing as there was little chance of having an equal conversation with the Prince if she revealed any. T’was his nature, to pick up on one’s flaws in order to rip one to shreds at the slightest provocation. So she did her best to pretend the fiddling was intentional, that she was not displeased with how she may appear but merely checking that all her bloody curls and hair ornaments had remained in place.

Besides. She had more pressing matters to take into consideration than fretting over how neither of them particularly liked her most aging hairstyle or justifying her reasons for wearing no more than her dressing gown. And what was it to him how she looked, what injuries would she cause him by not dressing like every other harlot found in this court or that? Did he honestly expect her to have maintained the same attitude and attire she’d possessed as a child, when she still stumbled over seven syllable words and trailed after him and Christian like the human equivalent of a misplaced mutt? He was no longer the same, and whilst she did not begrudge him that, she’d expect him to at the very least have the graciousness to grant her the same.

Ah. But that was the issue in itself, was it not? Rian hadn’t grown up into one particularly fond of manners, save for when interacting with strangers. Much as she might loath the idea she’d become one of those in his particularly narrow view of things, his method of expressing salutations at the very least hinted he might consider her so. It was in her best interest to make him realize as soon as possible that she was nothing of the kind, that they in fact knew each other, and she was not about to put up with any of his bloody nonsense. T’was apparent the best way to do that was to be cordial right back.

The Countess stepped back slightly, and adopted an exaggerated pose; with one hand pressed to her bosom and the other holding out the skirt of her robe, pale blue eyes wide and mouth in a simpering smile, she resembled nothing more than a player using the broad, stylized commedia dell’arte method of acting. “Why, Prince, how simply delightful of thee to inquire after mine own well being!” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. “Seeing as we have not set eyes upon one another in ever so endless a duration of time, I do fear my honest answer to your query would last far longer than you would have the patience to listen to; therefore, I do request that you permit me to simplify my response to a mere ‘Fine. And thee?’.”

She giggled, like some foolish maiden, and shifted her pose into one of girlish shock. Pouting, she continued, “Now, whatever am I to believe you to be implicating, given you’ve managed it far too subtly for my feminine wits to comprehend? Canst not a married woman take a vacation away from her beloved husband without the entire world wondering at her reasons for doing so? Would it have suited thine nerves better not to have been surprised, Prince? How silly of me, not to take them into consideration before planning my travels.”

Goodness, was she laying it on thick now; the girl could see Jemmy out of the corner of her eye, and the way the woman was trembling was the way she shook whilst concealing amusement. But that was her intention, was it not? To make him aware she was at the very least disappointed by how formally and unfamiliarly he had greeted her. And one couldn’t expect her half-brother to pick up on everything—he could be ever so dense, when he wished it. Yet ever so obvious, in how he had kept glancing over her shoulder and at her maid. So Theo swept round, placing a hand on the woman’s quivering shoulder. “Wouldst thou prefer I bid Jemmy leave us?” she asked brightly. “I am more than willing to do such a thing, though I will acknowledge the notion you may perhaps be thankful for her presence after a moment or two.

“Besides,” she added, with an attempt at thoughtlessness, “Jemmy won’t talk—can’t.”

The mute servant subtly—and rather painfully—pinched at her, where Rian couldn’t see. Looking up, the Countess could see the woman’s hardened face was fighting a smile. She’d always been a sadistic sort of creature, our Jemmy, and she most of all the servants understood her mistress’s humour.

Theo gave the woman’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, before stepping forward again. Quirking a brow—the first inclination of her true nature since she had opened the door—she said sweetly, “Furthermore. I doubt very much you’re up to helping me dress after my bath, so keeping my servant present would be in both of our interests, would it not, Prince?”

this application is copyright SHINOA !, please do not distribute without permission

[Lilliana Cappelletti]

A C C E P T E D
Welcome to the city of Verona!
Please remember to post in face claim.
You can also claim a House.
I'm thinking of making a "Palace" for the Duke . . .