Post by Mr George Wickham on Mar 19, 2012 22:16:54 GMT -5
MR GEORGE WICKHAM
FULL NAME AND TITLE: Mr George Wickham
GOES BY: Mr Wickham, Wickham
AGE: 29
CLASS: Regiment
OCCUPATION: Militia
OF THE --- FAMILY: Wickham
POSITION IN FAMILY: Old Wickham's only son, outcasted "relation" to the Darcys
FINANCES: £150/Year, Militia pay. Otherwise there is no longer any money to his name
FACE CLAIM: Adrian Lukis
EYE COLOR: Brown
HAIR COLOR: Brown
HEIGHT AND BUILD: 6'1", tall, strong. His recent military career keeps him fit, luckily counteracting his rather heavy drinking habit.
DESCRIPTION: Wickham is by no means considered "plain," but calling him outright "handsome" would be a bit generous. He has a pleasant, strong face framed by dark, rakish, curly hair, which he keeps passably short out of necessity more than style. His eyes are dark, surrounded by what pass for smile lines, but the amusements that give Wickham cause for smiling are not necessarily the types to bring up in civilized conversation. His smile itself is usually closed-lipped and a bit tight unless his is genuinely pleased, though more often than not his expressions are a touch on the cold side.
That said, Mr Wickham does not cut an unimpressive figure; he is not repulsive or easily dismissed. What he may lack in true expression and openness, he more than makes up for in lively, stimulating conversation, the appearance of honesty, and the air of responsibility his regimental uniform lends him. His long face and upright, easy posture make him appear wise and dignified as a result of good breeding, though in fact Wickham worked hard to achieve this "natural" sort of grace. His body language and personable face do him credit and ease his way into acquaintances' favors, and though Wickham of course realizes he is but acting, he does so with no tell-tale signs. His eyes are appropriately both calculating, alive with wit, and somber as necessary; his mouth smiles and laughs as easily as it frowns and broods.
PERSONALITY: Primarily, Wickham is a man out to please only himself. To this end, he sees fit to drink as he likes, carouse as he likes, gamble, flirt, fight, and wholly give every trait deemed "ungentlemanly" a fair match. He thoroughly enjoys his creature comforts, and does what is necessary to obtain them, damn the consequences. He is a man nearly uninhibited by morality, society, and knows only that that which gives him pleasure is to be pursued until captured. Wickham is shameless to fault, and what is worse is his incredibly aptitude for deceiving.
Motivated by both base needs and superfluous pleasures, Wickham can mold his persona into whatever is needed for the situation. Though his core would be considered "rotten" by those of natural good breeding or societal rank, Wickham keeps it carefully hidden under layers of mimicry. He has seen and lived with nobility and affluence and abundance for long enough to know the subtle differences in various forms of manners, culture, and conversation. He committed such subtleties to memory and is now able to call upon them at his leisure, allowing him to adapt smoothly to society as he comes across each.
Wickham has a genuine talent for conversation, which aids his purposes. His wit is appropriately both clever and restrained, only the twinkle in his eye betraying the coarser intentions of his rhetoric. He is charming, well-mannered, and capable of all from polite remarks on the weather to deeper confidences into his carefully constructed "past." His vivacity and intriguing appeal deem him "interesting," able as he is to appear both courteously polite and unfathomably deep at once. This adaptive Wickham, this second Wickham, is the sort of man society expects him to be, though which he could never truly become--nor would he want to.
RESIDENCE: Meryton
FAMILY MEMBERS: No blood relations alive, was once connected to the Darcy Family
HISTORY: Old Mr Wickham was the steward to the late Mr Darcy, of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Old Wickham's son, George, and Mr Darcy's son, Fitzwilliam, thus grew up together on the estate, the two of them eager childhood friends. The late Mr Darcy considered George the same as a son to him, and the boy was never wanting for anything. He was educated, looked-after, well taken care of, and loved by the family at Pemberley. He lived a happy childhood, privileged in every way--but where Fitzwilliam grew to know and accept his eventual responsibilities, George had no such future as heavily burdened. This freedom spoiled the child, and George had acquired a taste for the lifestyle of nobility.
If George had been left to his own devices when his father died, nothing would have come of him. "Son a steward" did not lend itself easily to opportunity, even attached as he was the Darcy family. George would have had to work hard to secure himself a decent living, but Mr Darcy took him in, raised him as a son and quite likely his favorite, thus ensuring George a respectable future. Through the means of the Darcy family, George was able to attend university at Cambridge, though by the time George had reached that stage in his life, Mr Darcy had passed, and George was not the same affable young boy.
Deemed proper to be called now by Mr Wickham, Wickham grew into a less than stable young man. He had an insatiable thirst for life that was not mirrored in the same manner by his now former childhood friend, the current Mr Darcy, and Wickham's pursuit of pleasures soon consumed him. He blatantly disregarded the fine manners and culture bred into him during his life at Pemberley, acting instead on crasser instincts fueled by his delight in drinking, in women, and especially in gambling. It was for this last vice that Mr Wickham took special interest in--it was his greatest downfall. Greedily he appealed to Darcy for the entire sum left to him by the late Mr Darcy's death, and, obliging, Darcy awarded him the money with the mind that Wickham was now no longer due his inheritance. The money was quickly gambled and drunk away, and Wickham was left penniless.
Wickham now had to adapt to survive. In a last bid attempt at getting in on the Darcy fortune, Wickham wooed and tried to elope with Georgiana, Darcy's younger sister. He was found out, however, and thrown unceremoniously from Darcy's acquaintance, considered a stain on his otherwise unsullied reputation. But Wickham was not discouraged--he would find other ways to continue living in the manner to which he was accustomed. He was obviously not above seduction and elopement, and occasionally the passion he felt was indeed real, if short lived. Staying in one place, however, was getting him nowhere.
Joining the militia brought Wickham and his company to Meryton, where the country manners were more relaxed and the people more vulgar. Wickham adjusted easily to the society of the town, and his naturally bred elegance made him something of an interest to the young ladies there. His penchant for conversation amuses them, his stories as well. Wickham does not yet know Darcy attends Hertfordshire with his friend Mr Bingley, and until then, Wickham has many plans to lay.
One such plan Wickham has had formulating in his head for months now. He intends to work the angle of sympathy, evoking feelings of pity for himself from a lady or ladies yet to be decided. He has discovered that sensitivity and emotion are quick ways to earn a young lady's affections, and Wickham's story is particularly pathetic. He will make as if Darcy had refused to honor his good father's wishes and leave Wickham a poor, hopeful fool whose only wish was to join the clergy. Militia, sadly, will have to have been his only resulting option, and with this story Wickham will hope to smear Darcy's good name while boosting his own. Freely admitting to his status as a steward's son, his humble story has all the parts to make a young lady positively swoon with mercy. What will become of Wickham and Darcy when they again meet after many years, however, remains to be seen.
YOUR NAME: Rin
YOUR AGE: 21
YOUR RP EXPERIENCE: 11 years
YOUR SAMPLE: Simple today. Relaxed. George for once in what felt like too long a while had nothing on his plate - nothing immediate, pressing. After a busy summer and hectic settling back in, George finally felt like he had room to breathe. Take a moment to get a way from the day tripping head spin of it all and fill his lungs with thick city air. Peace and quiet and a chance at solitude, a chance to be away from his bandmates, clear his head, and just -- oh sod it, like he was going to relax.
He found himself, before long, tramping his way towards the Kenwood door, guitar slung over his shoulder in a manner to which he was nearly no longer accustomed -- when was the last time he had to really carry his own instrument? He'd admit it was nice to have his guitar about his person again, evident in the slight quirk of one of the corners of his mouth, a sort of smile. "Hmph," he laughed to himself, smacking the body of the guitar with the flat of his hand just to hear the strings reverberate. Oh, naturally. Out of tune.
George resolved to tune the thing inside, though, as he stuck out his index knuckle to rap four times on the door. "John, you 'ome?" he sort of shouted, peering unabashedly into the windows for signs of movement. When there were none immediately, George took this as his rightful cue to go in anyway. "I'm comin' in," he announced halfway over the thresh hold, added "Still comin' in," as he wiped his feet on the inside mat, and, closing the door behind him, finished with "In."
Still nothing. Well, that was fine, too. As he'd ruminated before, it wasn't as if he had a million things to do today, though as he kicked off his shoes at the door and made a beeline for the tea kettle, he's hazard a guess that before long he'd miss the rush and excitement, the girls screaming so loud it didn't matter what they played. The gentle thud of his guitar against the wall as he propped it up only reminded him of how decidedly not hectic the last few weeks have been. George paused, looking at how small his guitar looked, leaning crookedly as it was against the wall, sad and out of tune. He reached for it slowly, fingers stretching towards the bridge...
"I'm makin' tea," he called abruptly, to anyone who might be listening. The moment had passed when his stomach rumbled, bringing him back to real life. "Fuck all, John," he muttered to himself as he peeked and peered into cupboards, looking for a hidden biscuit or two. "Prob'ly forgot I said I'd pop in today," George continued to mutter to himself, complicated now, however, by the shortbread in his mouth (found behind the coffee tin). Ah well. It was only midday and John'd be round eventually to mischiefize the brain-pressuring, mind-numbing, blasted peace. George may very well be a more subdued man himself, but that didn't mean he didn't crave the antics of the others. Especially since Pattie was away -- her muse possessed her, she'd said, and she'd be out of town for the weekend taking photographs and no she wouldn't be back any earlier and no he couldn't come with her.
His mind continued to drift down this path as he filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove, biscuit caught between his teeth, bare toes tapping to the beat of "I Need You," head shaking to get the fringe out of his eyes. He set the kettle on the burner and fished out a teabag from the array of blends Cynthia kept in the cupboard by the spoons. Incredibly handy, that. George turned his back then to lean against the counter top, hands on either side of him bracing the ledge, ankles crossed as he waited for the kettle and hummed the tune stuck in his head. "You don't realize how much I need you... Love you all the time and never leave you... Please come on back to me, I'm lonely as can be. I need- JOHN," he replaced with John's name, singing the syllable loudly instead humming. Though he was pretty sure at this point the house was empty.
