Post by Celes Chere Hopeful on Nov 14, 2008 16:29:55 GMT -5
Good afternoon. I hope against all hope that I'm doing this right, because the last thing I want is to make an ass of myself right off the bat. My name is Beth, and I would like to apply to play Celes Chere in this highly intriguing roleplay board you have going on here. I was referred by your Vincent Valentine. Should I win the part, I would think that, despite her natural magical ability, Celes would fit the category of Knight most perfectly. I can be reached at ebwatson@gmail.com. Let me know if there is anything I need to change. It's dark, but I assure you I have no intention of making her a permanent emo.
“Have another one on me.” The slurring voice belonged to a very, very old man who lived in a gutter on the other side of town, and he’d become Celes’ permanent drinking partner. She never asked him how he got the money to drink, and she’d never asked him why he came all the way across town when there were at least four pubs between here and his “home.” She didn’t ask because she didn’t care. It was just nice not to be alone.
She gripped the tiny glass that was placed in front of her and lifted it to eye level. She squinted slightly, staring at the honey-colored liquid intently as she pondered that most stupefying of queries: Had she had too much already? What effect would just one more shot have on her body? Her unsteady gaze and weaving hand answered that question fairly efficiently. But the effect that the liquor would have on her soul outweighed any negative physical repercussions. Here’s to the numbness. She placed the lip of the glass against her own lip in a cold, hungry kiss. Down the hatch.
She grimaced as the liquid made its way hotly down her esophagus. She knew what Cid would say. No, she didn’t. She’d never gotten drunk over a man in front of Cid. To her knowledge, Cid had never gotten drunk before in his life. She tried to get an image of him holding a beer, or perhaps the glass of champagne he was said to have consumed when they made their final breakthrough. Well, that would have to change soon. As soon as she got her hands on an airship, she’d fly back down to that island with a case of whisky for him. Might make the fish more tolerable.
After that, she’d fly to Narshe, or Jidoor, or Zozo, or whatever garbage dump Locke had found himself in and give him the old one-two. How understanding she’d been when he’d tearfully left, blaming his departure on his insatiable need for exploration. How sad but encouraged she’d been when he promised to write, and to return before a year had passed. Neither had occurred. For all she knew, he was dead. But she’d take that airship and fly around the world looking for him if it meant she could look him in the face again.
She laughed out loud, startling the old man seated next to her. He whimpered a little. “It’s ridiculous!” she cried, staring at him as though the answer were clearly written on her face. “I’ll never ride an airship again!” She stood with finality, as though that were the answer she’d been looking for in all these bottles, and lurched toward the door of the pub, trying to ignore the overwhelming nausea that suddenly assaulted her.
“Thanks for the drink, Gramps.”
“I have an airship!” the old man feebly cried out as the door slammed shut behind her.
“Have another one on me.” The slurring voice belonged to a very, very old man who lived in a gutter on the other side of town, and he’d become Celes’ permanent drinking partner. She never asked him how he got the money to drink, and she’d never asked him why he came all the way across town when there were at least four pubs between here and his “home.” She didn’t ask because she didn’t care. It was just nice not to be alone.
She gripped the tiny glass that was placed in front of her and lifted it to eye level. She squinted slightly, staring at the honey-colored liquid intently as she pondered that most stupefying of queries: Had she had too much already? What effect would just one more shot have on her body? Her unsteady gaze and weaving hand answered that question fairly efficiently. But the effect that the liquor would have on her soul outweighed any negative physical repercussions. Here’s to the numbness. She placed the lip of the glass against her own lip in a cold, hungry kiss. Down the hatch.
She grimaced as the liquid made its way hotly down her esophagus. She knew what Cid would say. No, she didn’t. She’d never gotten drunk over a man in front of Cid. To her knowledge, Cid had never gotten drunk before in his life. She tried to get an image of him holding a beer, or perhaps the glass of champagne he was said to have consumed when they made their final breakthrough. Well, that would have to change soon. As soon as she got her hands on an airship, she’d fly back down to that island with a case of whisky for him. Might make the fish more tolerable.
After that, she’d fly to Narshe, or Jidoor, or Zozo, or whatever garbage dump Locke had found himself in and give him the old one-two. How understanding she’d been when he’d tearfully left, blaming his departure on his insatiable need for exploration. How sad but encouraged she’d been when he promised to write, and to return before a year had passed. Neither had occurred. For all she knew, he was dead. But she’d take that airship and fly around the world looking for him if it meant she could look him in the face again.
She laughed out loud, startling the old man seated next to her. He whimpered a little. “It’s ridiculous!” she cried, staring at him as though the answer were clearly written on her face. “I’ll never ride an airship again!” She stood with finality, as though that were the answer she’d been looking for in all these bottles, and lurched toward the door of the pub, trying to ignore the overwhelming nausea that suddenly assaulted her.
“Thanks for the drink, Gramps.”
“I have an airship!” the old man feebly cried out as the door slammed shut behind her.
