Post by Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy on May 25, 2013 3:10:28 GMT -5
MR. FITZWILLIAM DARCY
FULL NAME AND TITLE: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
GOES BY: Mr. Darcy. Darcy.
AGE: 28/Twenty-eight.
CLASS: Upper Class/Landed Gentry.
OCCUPATION: Gentleman. Master of Pemberley.
POSITION IN FAMILY: Head of Household.
FINANCES: £10 000 Year
FACE CLAIM: Colin Firth.
EYE COLOR: Dark hazel.
HAIR COLOR: Dark brown.
HEIGHT AND BUILD: 6'3"/Rangy. Strong. Moderately masculine.
DESCRIPTION:
Fitzwilliam Darcy is the sort of man immediately noticeable upon his entrance into a room, and it's not just because he boasts a well known ten thousand pounds a year to his name. While not tall enough to be considered gargantuan, he most certainly cuts a figure above the majority, and quite literally so. His build does little else to dissuade such a notion, either -- a strong jaw and high, haughty cheekbones, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and rangy limbs from the tips of his slender fingers to the contours of legs kept muscular and hard by frequent, long horse-riding and slightly less frequent walking. There's not a thing about the gentleman that would suggest weakness upon first observation, and considering the sort of closed off creature he is, you would likely have to look very hard indeed to discover it.
When it comes to colouration, Darcy is indeed the sort of man one might imagine fits the role of the dark stranger in a gothic novel. Of course, don't tell him such a thing, as he likely will not appreciate the sentiment overtly much. However, it's very much the truth. Though for the majority of the year he is pale of skin, summer time and the time he spends outdoors (of which he does a great deal) will leave him with the lightest of tans, though the rest of him will remain little changed. His hair, for example, is absolutely adamant in it's refusal to change shade; it won't even lighten or darken with the weather, and remains a stubborn dark brown that may appear almost black throughout the year. As to it's appearance, well, that's another matter entirely; it's a thick mop of curls and little ringlets intent on never staying where they should, and it's not uncommon even under the severest of hairdressing for the thick locks to curl back over his eyes and fall across his forehead and occasionally, his eyes.
Which, of course, brings us to said eyes. It's often said that the eyes are the window to the soul, and though t'is a romantic notion, never does it ring truer when applied to Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. For while his entire miens can remain stoic, the expression of his face drawn and impassive, his eyes are absolutely incapable of hiding his emotions. In short, they're very much alive. He's gained enough control over the years to perhaps dim the ardency of emotion that might pass through them, but that's all he can do. Otherwise, everything he might feel at any given moment will pass through them, and pass vividly. Be it the black shadow of hurt and anger, the stifled green twinkle of silent laughter or the glimmer of a playful challenge all too rarely witnessed, the glint of suppressed fury or the smoky honey brown warmth of affection and adoration -- nothing can ever be missed and is rarely ever missed by that hazel gaze.
Another feature worth noting, though one that is often missed in the face of other more obvious pleasantries, is Darcy's lips. Not because they're particularly full or exotic or whatever word you might apply that sounds different, but because...they just are. There's just something about them, if you take the time to look once he's stopped pursing them in discomfort or displeasure, which is unfortunately not all that often in company. Thin rather than full, yet somehow expressive in their own right, they appear almost gentle when in repose, and even when they're not, there's just something thoroughly eye-catching about the tilt of them, the slightly lopsided curl of them upwards in one of his rare, slight smiles -- smiles that are somehow as giving in their expressiveness as the widest of smiles would be. As if he's somehow hiding something a great deal more than what his usual miens suggests, and if you just so happen to notice that...as if he's daring you to try and figure it out.
PERSONALITY: Darcy can be something of a contrary man at times, and combined with the generally judgmental nature of society, it can make him a very difficult personality to both fathom and deal with at the best of times.
First and foremost though is this; he is Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley, and you would do well to remember that. He is absolutely and utterly a product of his upbringing -- given good principles to follow, which he does, but at the same time, led by an example that was more formulated by pride than anything else. Pride in ones self, pride in the achievements of those closest to you, pride in your birthright, pride in your family's breeding, pride in your very bearing...pride in general, really. And pride is certainly something Fitzwilliam holds in leaps and spades, something no doubt encouraged by what was already a strong-willed nature in a strong-willed boy. He's been brought up to believe he's someone important, and more so, he's been taught from a young age just who is what and what's expected by the society he lives in.
Unfortunately, it's not the best combination when put together with Darcy's other vices. For one, it can make him rather harshly judgmental at times. He's a very clever man, quick to make decisions and weigh the options in either hand, but at the same time, he's quite quick to jump to conclusions; it makes him quite hypocritical at times, admittedly, considering he's absolutely adamant in his unforgiving nature, and yet he rather scorns the fanciful notions and slapdash judgments of others. He also comes across as quite aloof, even cold, on first impression, giving one the perception that he considers himself quite above you and everything around him, and if not that, then certainly the impression that he'd rather be anywhere but where he is. Especially around crowds and all manner of things crowds bring with them. Understandably, he can appear to be quite the snob in polite company when he's in a particularly foul mood.
It doesn't help that he's also very introverted. Even without the all too frequent prospect of having women thrown at him for his fortune and status and the need to distance himself from that, Darcy is naturally quite private by nature. In fact, one might even say he's downright shy, though he'll never admit to that. But it's not far from the truth at all; he really is in fact highly uncomfortable in crowded, social situations, and he struggles a great deal when it comes to meeting new people. Partly because he doesn't quite trust them, partly on occasion from social prejudice, and partly because he's really quite a literal man, and as such, he actually genuinely struggles with finding the point behind the sort of frivolous and light-hearted conversation so favoured in polite society. He finds it...well, shallow. And he doesn't like shallow.
To own the truth, if he's going to rattle on about anything, he wants it to have substance. His mind is sharp and his disposition is that of a curious, surprisingly inquisitive nature; he gets bored and distracted with surprising ease if the topic at hand doesn't interest him or provide him with a challenge. Unfortunately, a great many of the topics considered appropriate in light conversation are topics that bore him at best, and frankly, irritate him ferociously at worst. However, more unfortunate still is the fact the topics he might enjoy are those that most people would either find discomforting or a little too in depth themselves. Most people understandably don't like to be challenged, after all, and especially not at a social gathering. Hence, another reason for Fitzwilliam to keep his mouth shut at any gathering or convention, even if it's to the detriment of his standing amongst others.
That being said, though...well, there goes a saying. Or many sayings, actually, when it comes to discovering things underneath the surface. And that holds absolutely true with Darcy. He's proud, yes, but so too is he extremely proud of the achievements of those close to him. He's very stubborn, of course, but in it's own way, this is merely an extension of a nature that is quite possibly one of the most devoted, dedicated natures you will ever meet. Darcy doesn't give much of himself away because when he does decide to, he gives his absolute everything. His generosity of spirit borders on the point of ridiculous at times, but he won't think twice about it if he feels the cause to be worth it. He is unfailingly protective of what he holds dear, and he'll quite readily do all the wrong things if he thinks it's the only way to keep his dearest and most beloved safe. His faithfulness and his loyalty is unshakable once earnt -- never again will he look elsewhere or so much as consider a betrayal of trust, and he finds it absolutely abhorrent to those who do such things. He is actually surprisingly soft-hearted, hard as it is to believe, deeply moved by the plight of the truly unfortunate. Very easily hurt if you somehow betray him (or through someone he cares for, such as his beloved baby sister, Georgiana), is Darcy, and as a result, entirely unforgiving if such a transgression occurs against him.
RESIDENCE: Pemberley, Derbyshire.
FAMILY MEMBERS:
Miss Georgiana Darcy - Younger Sister.
HISTORY:
It was with no small amount of trepidation and with no joy greater the day Fitzwilliam Darcy entered the world. His mother had been ill frequently throughout her pregnancy with him, and before then, had struggled through much heartache to so much as conceive successfully. But conceive she did, and survive to give birth she so to did with typical Fitzwilliam tenacity. And thus came strapping little Fitzwilliam into the world on the morning of June 30th, 1773.
From a young age Fitzwilliam was made clear on two things -- that he would never, ever and should never, ever lack for love (his beloved mother's influence), and that he should and always would be proud of his name. The clever little lad took to both with alacrity, and he never lacked in good principles, a generous heart or a sweet nature. However, nor did he lack in the pride his father so staunchly imbued in his firstborn. Needless to say, the young Darcy Jnr. was given good principles to follow, was taught never to begrudge or resent the fortune of his world, but at the same time, developed rather an all too frequent tendency towards pride and conceit. And his parents, rest their immortal souls, indulged it even as they showed him what was good and right in the world, and what wasn't. However, despite this, it would be a stretch to say that he grew spoiled -- far from it. He learnt from a young age the burden of responsibilities he would one day take on as the firstborn and heir to Pemberley...something made all the more obvious by the lack of said things imbued into his childhood playmate, George Wickham.
If Fitzwilliam ever resented George, he did his best not to show it. Solemn lad that he was, he did his best to simply accept his station in life and the reality of it, preferring to focus on that and his studies over anything else, though he showed from a young age both a talent for and a great delight in horses and horsemanship, something he would carry through to his adulthood. However, that's not to say that George did not have something of an influence on Darcy Junior; he had quite a surprising amount of it, in fact, almost as much as Fitzwilliam's real cousin did. If not more. For even as 'Will' sometimes struggled on occasion, perhaps even sensed something in his playmate he did not quite like, he was his favorite playmate regardless, and where Darcy might end up in trouble or on some wild boyish escapade across the greens, it was one that usually had Wickham Junior right behind him.
Georgiana's birth ten years on was both a source of joy and deep sorrow for Fitzwilliam. He gained a baby sister to dote upon, but in the aftermath, lost the mother whom he loved so dearly and devotedly. To own the truth, the heartbroken little boy did his best to shun his new sibling, even hate her. He became somewhat of a sullen little thing, shutting off and introverted himself a great deal -- something no doubt exacerbated by the fact that his grief-stricken father did essentially the same, leaving Fitzwilliam a very lonely little boy in his own anguish. Ironically, it was perhaps this that led him to bond with Georgiana, so lonely was he and so desperate to escape the pitying eyes of those who already knew him that he found himself in the nursery with her. Initially, just as a means to hide from the world, and he spent that first and second time hunched up across the room from her, resentful of the little creature that had taken his Mama. The third time, though, he let loneliness get the better of him, and even as he stayed where he was did he speak to her when he couldn't others, solemn and quiet in response to any sound she made. Then the fourth time she cried, and curiousity (not to mention a deep dislike for loud noises) led little Fitzwilliam to crawl his way to the side of her crib. Whatever possessed him that day, he could never tell you, but whatever it was led him to quiet her, and it was the moment she curled those frighteningly weak little fingers so staunchly about his own that both led him to weep his anguish when he had not and to make a promise.
To protect her at all costs.
It was a promise he would hold to for all the years to come...and a promise he would blame himself relentlessly over in the coming years for failing to keep.
Cambridge University was eye-opening in all the right and wrong ways for the then teenage Darcy. He learnt more of the world than he ever had at Pemberley, soaked up the knowledge like a sponge...but so too did he discover the reality of his childhood friend, the reasons why he had never quite been comfortable about something in George. The true degeneration of the other young man's nature was fully revealed to Fitzwilliam without the hovering presence of his father, the man whom had doted on Wickham so dearly even as he grieved his wife, perhaps even more so than his own all too alike him son. It was this which led Darcy unable to convince his sire of the reality of the situation. And to this day, Fitzwilliam is guiltily thankful of the time when his father chose to pass away, for while it was a great source of grief and left him with the crippling responsibility of Mastery of Pemberley and the protection and guardianship of his baby sister, it also meant that Darcy Snr. would never have to suffer the intense disappointment that might come if he had ever become knowledgeable of his favorite's behaviour and actions.
Darcy Snr's death and Fitzwilliam's subsequent inheritance of the estate meant, of course, dealing out what it was his father had wished for George Wickham. However, George made it clear from the outset that he possessed absolutely no desire to accept the church living Darcy Snr. had intended for him. Rather, he expressed a desire to study law at the time, and in a last nod to the friendship they had once shared, Darcy acquiesced to his wishes, signing off to him the fortune he had inherited from Darcy Snr's death, eager to be rid of him even as he grieved the childhood they had shared.
The time ensuing was relatively uneventful, if busy. Somewhat annoying, too, for it was around this time that his esteemed Aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh, made it more than a little clear that she wished for a union between he and his sickly cousin, Anne...something which caused Darcy almost as much headache as the other hopeful young women he would find tailing him wherever he went and whenever he went out, if not more.
However, not all was bad, for Fitzwilliam would find himself ultimately acquainted with, and to even his own surprise, enjoying the company of one Mr Charles Bingley. For while Charles's father had made his fortune in trade, trade was in fact something that intrigued Darcy enough for him to forget any prejudice towards such a notion. Even despite that, it was impossible to dislike the younger man...literally impossible. Over time, the reticent Fitzwilliam forged a strong friendship with the outgoing Charles, essentially taking him under his wing and including him in that small fold of those he was most protective over, even if he could barely abide the younger man's sisters.
However, it very nearly became unstuck all over again last year. George Wickham returned in a last bid to get in on the Darcy fortune and punish Fitzwilliam and his good name, and did so by attempting to woo the impressionable young Georgiana and by doing so, thus elope with her and finagle the fortune owed her out of her brother. At the very last moment and purely by chance did Darcy discover this plot, and Wickham was thrown without ceremony from their circle for good. And while he did indeed save his sister and the family name, Darcy still blames himself for what damage it did do to this very day, particularly to his sister, whom he had always sworn to protect with his life...and had very nearly failed in doing so. It was far too close for comfort, in his opinion, and something he would likely never forgive himself for.
Thankfully, Darcy found his sister a far more trustworthy companion in Mrs. Annesley. It was this that enabled him to move about more freely when he needed to on business, and as such, led him to keep company with Charles and follow his impulsive friend when the time came to inspect, and, much to his wry amusement and extreme annoyance, purchase the country estate of Netherfield. Regardless, Netherfield is where he resides to date, enjoying Bingley's company even as he attempts to avoid the company of others...both the company of the local society and the company of his friend's all too devoted sisters.
YOUR NAME: Spooky.
YOUR AGE:
YOUR RP EXPERIENCE: 10 years...I think.
YOUR SAMPLE: Even with his elven ears, it was Anarore who took note of the intrusion. Celeborn was just engrossed enough in his work that he did naught more at first bar register dimly the all but inaudible sound of bare feet on frosted grass. And a good thing, too, for when the filly snorted, blew out harshly, bunched her hindquarters under her even as she attempted to eyeball the vision of gold that was this new addition to her surrounds, Celeborn was alert. Unyielding, he took a firm step forward, and his tongue clicked with a surprising pointedness through the morning air. A movement more obvious than what he'd been doing prior, but the effect was immediate -- ears curved forward in surprise, and silver hindquarters bunched under before surging forward into a canter. Not entirely what he preferred her to do, but now, in the least, her attention was back upon him once more, her head tilted in just so, an ear turned to the centre of the clearing where the tall elven prince that was master and carer and even friend. Listening, watching, still young enough to clamp jaws together in apology in that foalish way.
Not that it stopped her from being impudent, and though it was clearly a credit to the male elf's calm, unshakable will that he had not reacted himself to the now identified vision of gold and white -- Galadriel. Galadriel. Galadriel. It repeated over and over like waves on the shores of his mind. -- he still could not quite stifle the quiet huff of amusement when Anarore chose that moment between strides to offer the most playful of little bucks. Still, she continued on as he bid her, watched him rather than the distraction, and for that, Celeborn could forgive her for youthful hijinks. Though youth was rather a non-definitive term; if he had been more of a dreamy constitution, he could have sworn that the filly paid him more attention than usual. Almost knowingly, even. As if she knew. Knew the inner workings of her master and friend even as there was nothing to be lost or found in his outer miens.
As if, even youthful, she knew how his heart hurt.
Horses know the way past the gates to our soul, son.
However much time had passed since his audience had arrived, Celeborn did not know. Time was an immeasurable thing even in it's shortest moments. Regardless, it was the echo of his sire's words in his head -- welcome or not they might have been -- that had him decide it was finally time to call it a day...or a morning, at the least, just as much as the shiny film of sweat on dappled silver hide did so. He knew Anarore could run and run and run if he so wished her too, but this was not and had never been the point of teaching. Elfling or filly, colt or child; you could not foist upon them more than they could manage. It would only ever end in the breaking of one or the other; he'd seen it before. It was best to stop when one was at the highest of notes during the course of a lesson. Let them absorb then what they had learnt, and let it be a positive thing worth reflecting on.
A breeze had long begun to blow gently through the trees, and it rendered Anarore's tail a silver and grey banner even as she slowed. Slowed, eyed Galadriel, kept going, then finally drew back to a walk that would grow progressively slower as she gained back her wind. Her breathing was a deep, comforting rhythm in the silence of the clearing, and when finally did Celeborn's hands lower to his side, when finally his back was turned to her and his dark eyes did not follow her unflinchingly, Anarore let out the loudest of huffs. Ridding herself of the butterflies, as Luthien teasingly liked to call them. Slowing more so until finally, she stopped. Eyed the tall form with his back to her with a look that was not quite caution nor concern; she simply seemed to be waiting a moment. As if, perhaps, to seek permission?
If that was indeed true, she seemed to finally find it somewhere in his stance. Another soft huff, and Celeborn heard the soft clip-clop of hooves draw steadily nearer him. Of course, he did not move bar the slow inhale and exhale of breath, the movement unbidden of hair known only within the House of Thingol in Middle Earth in the morning breeze. Though for the briefest of moments, even as his head did not so much as tilt to the side, his dark blue eyes slid leftward to find crystal clarity set in a fair face where they watched him as a spectator, and for a briefer moment still, thin, gentle lips seemed to curl upwards slightly. Just as quickly though did it still, and as if it had not diverted at all did the elven prince's attention turn back to his four-legged companion and the warmth of her breath on his back.
A slender neck not quite matured enough yet to carry the muscle it soon would arched out, breath huffing in soft little gasps against the gossamer thin material protecting his back. Moving progressively up as the young one grew more confident in her belief she would not be sent off again, finding the hem of tunic and the softness of long hair. Another huff set the silver locks ruffled, and Celeborn very nearly had to bite his lip to stop laugh and shiver escaping him when a silky muzzle found playfully the back of his neck. Inquisitive, nuzzling, sweet and warm; he had no fear of her biting him, for he knew even young was she a lass of manners, like her dam had been. She would nip gently, perhaps, in reprimand, but only once had she ever broken skin on him through impatience, and had learnt since quickly the rudeness of such actions. Still learnt, on occasion, though now, she only nudged and blew, and when Celeborn finally drew a hand back to touch gently deep chest and wide whither, Anarore sighed, content enough that all was well and done and she would not be sent away.
Of course, this did not put a stopper on play -- Celeborn knew, should have known better than that. It was affectionate play, regardless, but there was just...rather...something very disconcerting about it, the idea of the elleth you had pined for, watched across a room or from where you knelt before your King for some time -- averyveryverylongtime -- witnessing what had once been amusing which now seemed suddenly an incredibly intimate sight. Not that the other female present, the culprit, seemed to care in the slightest -- Anarore had moved her ministrations from neck to hair to...well, ear, exactly as Galadriel was no doubt witnessing. And before he could quell it, the unbidden shiver borne of having one's delicate, pointed ears (for elf ears were as sensitive as the very creatures they rode) nibbled upon, lipped at, made it's way down Celeborn's tall form for all present to clearly witness.
If he'd been the adolescent he'd once been, the princeling would very likely have stuttered and blushed, and likely stared in embarrassment and startled the horse now calm and curious at his back. Thankfully, he did neither, though a soft huff of weak amusement escaped him, and though he did not feel that he blushed, he lifted a hand to Anarore's cheek to guide her about and away. Not hiding his face, of course (or so he told himself); it merely served the purpose of guiding his soon to be mount in the direction he wished. And thankfully, she did so without halter nor lead, content bar the swish of an impudent tail as she followed him about the exterior of the circular arena in that way that gave away still the foalish youthfulness of her. Followed trustingly an older figure of authority and calm, even as she once more grew progressively curious (better curious than startled, though) by the figure of white and gold, and watched her with bright dark eyes for every step they took about the clearing and for every step that drew them closer.
Celeborn was thankful for the diversion, though it was somewhat less calming to his mind and body than the rigorous work of before had been. It was enough, though, to consider what might be said...though that was of little help either. For Celeborn of Doriath was not an elf of many words and pretty placations, though when he did speak, there was never anything less than that of import in his words. He weighed his words, measured his phrases, and thus spoke with no lack of wanting. It was this, perhaps, that made him e'er wiser than his years. He was not afraid to speak, for his mind was sharp and his conversation e'er witty; he simply did not rabble on like those many other young men. Not that this seemed to be the case with the elleth now watching him; she had a way he was not even sure she was aware of of stalling words in his throat lest he trip over them like a fool, and while he enjoyed and treasured dearly the conversations they had had time and time over in the passing decades, he had found that lately, it had become increasingly more difficult. Why? He knew why, though it frightened him a great deal more than he wished to see.
Both elven prince and young horse passed Galadriel once, twice, thrice in the quiet of the morning before he finally spoke. Quiet and soft-spoken and just enough warm to be understanding rather than condescending. As if he merely wished to preserve the quiet serenity of the early dawn before the ruckus of the day. Speaking in a manner that was not quite removed from the soft mannerisms adopted with the horses Celeborn so loved, though whether this was meant or not and was simply a carry on from the work he had been doing so recently was difficult to guess. Most likely, he did not realise.
"Did your dreams chase you too from their embrace into that of the waking world, milady?"
