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du Rosseau, Alfonse
Topic Started: Sep 19 2010, 11:51 AM (237 Views)
Alfonse du Rosseau
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ALFONSE du ROSSEAU

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* Caught red handed in the biscuit tin!
Cost you to keep me quiet! .

HEY THERE. THE NAME IS Mooni, AND I AM 20,102,029,233 ;D.
I'VE BEEN ROLEPLAYING FOR ABOUT 5 - 6 YEARS
AND MY OTHER CHARACTERS WOULD BE NONE DEARS. I FOUND FKAC AT RPG-DIRECTORY. OH, BY THE WAY, I READ THE RULES. WANT PROOF?
THE CODE WORD IS PUMPERNICKEL
WANT TO REACH ME? HERE'S MY IM: JUST PM DEARS

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  • - - - - Full Name, Alfonse Nazaire du Rosseau
    - - - - Title, The Honorable
    - - - - Gender, Male.
    - - - - Sexuality, Terribly straight.
    - - - - Age, 33.
    - - - - Place at Court, Son of a Viscount
    - - - - PB (Play-By), Jeremy Irons
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  • - - - - Loves,
    proper etiquette ,
    red wines ,
    winter months ,
    violin music ,
    piano ,
    ballroom dancing ,
    champagne ,
    books ,
    libraries ,
    daggers ,
    birds ,
    power, although he has little
    - - - - Loathes,
    idiocy ,
    feeling vulnerable ,
    losing all which gives him power or control ,
    not being able to handle a situation ,
    being wrong, or others telling him he's wrong ,
    the women who throw themselves on him ,
    relations with no actual meaning ,
    his younger, insolent brother ,
    stubbornness ,
    improper etiquette and ridiculous language
    - - - - Strengths,
    his handsome looks ,
    noble bloodlines and ties ,
    strength and regal attributes ,
    long limbs enable long strides ,
    has good birthing and healthy blood
    - - - - Weaknesses,
    becomes a bit too controlling of the people around him ,
    often thinks he has a bit of a higher rank over people ,
    feels himself truly better than the people about him ,
    is a right good liar and a cheat, and turns many against him ,
    puts himself before others, making him a horrid teammate
    - - - - Dreams,
    convincing himself he's better than his brother ,
    becoming Viscount in place of his father once he dies ,
    marrying one day ,
    become elevated in Court ,
    become acquainted with the higher-ranked .
    - - - - Fears,
    becoming an idiot when it comes to love ,
    madness or insanity ,
    forgetting himself in the caring for others ,
    being over-come with lust or rage ,
    putting someone before himself ,
    the taunts and flirts of a woman making him give in
    - - - - Overall Personality,
    There have been many a name bestowed upon this man to mar all opinion of his real personality; a barbaric, slovenly fool who takes no time for seriousness, or a refined gentleman that any woman should pray to marry. Alfonse, is, perhaps, neither a gentleman nor drunk, or anything the tongue may claim. But let us start with the simpler pleasures and guilts.

    Being a man of obvious noble birth, Alfonse has the highest opinion for, of course, himself, and that of his superiors. He is a studious man of many subjects, with known languages of French and Roman, and the capability of playing the violin and piano, as a proper gentleman should. He was open to many a luxury since birth, and with the forced appraisal of the house maids and masters of his education, and such high expectations of both his governess and parents, the fact that he was the most important young man in the house was brought to truth, through even his younger siblings for whom he shared a distaste that went beyond the earnings and inheritance of their parents' titles. He has never been told better, even by others in the present time, and the 'truth' simply stuck to him for the thirty years since it came to light.

    Having the teaching of a young noble upon his head gives him a studious air, but this is only to feed the massive beast that is his ego. He regally introduces himself, has all the graces of a man of honorary quality, and treats those high above him with the utmost respect. But this is all a facade to form into the good-natured parts of people's minds, so to propel himself further in a light of higher respect, for both himself and people tied to him. He is not obnoxious once these ties have been bonded, and will still hold his noble air when in company of the person's closest ties or the individual him or herself, but the fact is still the; he tricks people, seduces them with his lies and thick will of tongue and locks himself up in their minds for them to think of later in a time of dire need or nothing at all. And yet, to this day, he remains a single man, with no arranged marriages knocking at his door or higher ladies of single quality giving him attention at that.

    He remains a romantic figure, with a thin French accent that bled through his English father's, in fact it comes from his soft-spoken mother and the sharp wit of his governess that formed his way of speaking. He is not the handsomest player of piano, but he is adept with the violin and has no trouble playing it for the women or men alike. He fancies dancing only on intimate terms, and the finest of wines and drink. He is not one for avid reading, alas poetry is an exception, as he appreciates the beauty that flows through words onto paper, and paintings also fascinate him. The curve and stroke that goes into every piece overwhelms him with beauty.

    On intimate terms, he doesn't find marriage a suiting place at the moment, as he believes he still has quite a good time to live before being married off. Although he is not very young, he still holds a rambunctious air with the ladies and simply loves teasing them and making them smile, although he really just enjoys the ways their frames are held as they walk; he doesn't hide his staring, of course, and finds it a compliment to lavish a woman in affection, whether they think it to be or not.

    Alfonse has a manner of speaking far above that of his younger breed, heated with the tone of a regality long lost in the caverns of the simplicity of tongues. He is a gentleman in the finest, purest caliber, bringing storms upon his heathen temper which account to no simpler madness as to be disrespected for thinking so utterly highly of himself.
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  • - - - - Family Members,
    Latimer Dulac du Rosseau, 64 , viscount, alive,
    Antoinette Corine Moreau-du Rosseau, 57, viscountess, alive
    Aimeric Dulac du Rosseau, younger brother, 19, alive
    Marilee Sacha du Rosseau, 23, younger sister, alive
    - - - - Overall History,
    Alfonse was born on the eve of a long dusk in the year of 1478, with a timely birth and a tired mother to look after him. He was the first-born of a line that would soon grow to three, and when the Viscountess Antoinette du Rosseau named and gave her newborn son the title of Heir to his father's title, expectations for the child were formed immediately as the words fell from her worn lips. The child was cared for by his mother's nursemaid, a pretty young woman he didn't care enough for to remember her name as the years past, and rarely saw much of his father, only knowing he had business outside of the country and that his mother would keep to herself in her parlor, a small room in the house in which he was not allowed. It was winter that year when his father returned from travels, a stoic man of the age of 31, and when presented with his three-month old son, he praised the Lord for a healthy heir.

    Alfonse grew a with a wide knowledge of books and song, with teachings in the finest extent that his family could afford, and with a new younger sister, he was taught at the same time as she the way to act about a proper lady of society. His fortune was great; he received the best the family could afford, a horse at the age of thirteen - a wonderful stallion with whom his father taught him to hunt - and was shown to others of his father's caliber and as high as he could get in hopes of arranged marriage proposals for the young heir. Alas, his manners could not save the temper balanced on his head, and he gave off the most unpleasant feel when he would bring himself to get antsy or whine whenever attention was not stock-still on him, around the clock. Growing in a household where he was the perfect child with great expectations brought the fact upon the child that he must be of some massive importance to the world around him, if not his family. His ego grew with age, and was only fed more when his Governess left them on strict business of her own personal matters. The woman had always been sharp with the young Heir, and her departure allowed him more free room to be the pompous animal he was.

    When the young heir was but fourteen, his sister Marilee ten, his mother gave birth to a young male, named Aimeric. The third and final line to the blood of the du Rosseau's was born under the same circumstances as his eldest brother Alfonse; if Alfonse did die without an heir of his own, or if he was still young while his father in position, all inheritance would pass on to Aimeric, and therefore he must be skilled and coveted as much as his brother. But to no avail did Alfonse's vain attempts to show that he was far superior work; Aimeric was a good-hearted young man with a handsome face and seemingly perfect personality, not at all like his egotistical older brother, who was equal in looks but no judge to attitude. Something more than sibling rivalry began to burn between the two, unbeknownst to Aimeric. Oh, how Alfonse loathed him. Loathed him for taking everything that was rightfully his away; the attention, the love. All their servants simply adored the youngest du Rosseau, and even his sister favored the kindness that shown off him like a ray of pure sunshine. But Alfonse, with his nasty humor, dark and mysterious air, and studious quality could hold no flame beside the blaze of Aimeric's personality.

    And so came the truth; the servants had put on a facade for himself, as did everyone else. He was about as liked as a pebble to his family, and although he was eldest, there was rumor of how even their parents wished that Aimeric had been born before the Heir to the Viscount title. In learning this, Alfonse withdrew himself from his family, staying for hours in the study and appearing only when summoned. He grew a silent young man, with no suitable wives coming to call, and no real attention other than his own. This feeling of detachment was furthered when Marilee was engaged to be married at the ripe age of twenty, leaving her eldest brother Alfonse at the age of twenty-four and her younger brother at the age of ten. By leaving the household, it provided Aimeric more time to spend with his brother, although Alfonse rarely enjoyed however much his brother truly loved his company.

    As time progressed, with fewer a tie between himself and his brother, Alfonse was almost without contact with his family when Henry the Eighth became king. He was thirty-one, and at that age, his inheritance was solid when Aimeric was engaged to a woman outside of the country. His father is not yet deceased, so he is still in waiting for the appointing role.
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  • - - - - Roleplay Sample,
    (( This is not from a Tudor-era RP, but a post for the Knave of Hearts on a RP Forum elsewhere ))

    It was no pondering matter that the knave obviously had an advantage over the tiny woman; his gloved hand gripped her forearm as he dragged her down the stairs. As she begged him in an awfully annoying tone, he lifted the dungeon's keys off his belt and slid a singular iron, rusted, thick key into the lock, turning it with a loud clunk. Something in the bowels of the dungeon hissed and scurried in the darkness as many a lock on the door clinked and spurred from their closed holds, leaving at least twenty a bolt unfastened for the leisure of the guard who dragged his prisoner at the whim of his strength. Her pleads fell on deaf ears as the assassin pulled her across the wet stones, the content of these puddles unbeknownst to him as his boots splashed in the darkness. Water dripped somewhere far off in the darkness, and a shatter and rustle of chains echoed after a moan and cough. The dungeons were as normal as any would seem, but something seemed more animal about them, something he could not quite grasp. A torchlight, near to death and wet with oil at the base, rattled in its holster as the knave closed his grip about it, pulling the thing from the metal cage and posing its flames towards the slitted, rusting, foul walls of a cell, smirking as a rat or two scuttled around their feet in escape from the sudden warmth.

    The knave's grip tightened on the arm of his prisoner as he tossed her in, not caring or seeing how she landed as he slammed the ancient door closed. The sudden slam woke a captive in the next cell, and with a startled cry his dirty hands thumbed the cell walls, only to be withdrawn with a shriek and blubber of pain as Stayne slammed the sole of his boot on the metal wall, causing the filthy hostage to curl in a corner of his cell. His face, marred by the dark shadows that danced about from the torch's firelight, showed no emotion, his lips unmoving as he locked the newest convict's cell door, leaning down to peer at her from between the bars. "You tell me I shouldn't do this, do you? I am merely doing my job; surely you should know that the rules of such a higher leader would come before my own personal feelings, no?" Then he chuckled, a wheezy, hiss of a laugh that slithered from his lips like acid. "And it is not as if I personally care for anyone or anything that is sentenced to rot away inside here." He stood and rounded the farthest wall, sliding the torch back into its holster and reaching over the sleeping guard, grabbing the freshest tray of a meal he could find and placing the sentry's mug of ... water, it seemed, onto the corner, turning back around and kneeling before her cell once more.

    "This," he snapped, pushing the tray under the slit of her door, "Is all you will eat for today, and the next twelve hours of the next day. Make it last." Standing once more, he pulled his gloves off and fixed the latch of his cloak at his throat, circling the table to the opposite left of the cells. A lone candle flickered in its pan, giving off a warm white light splayed onto the papers that lay on the rotten wooden table. Everything seemed to be dirty or filthy in this place, and yet he didn't hesitate to slump into the chair and flip through the newest report logs, completely oblivious to anything around him. It was normal for him to stay for at least an hour before the Queen would call him from the dungeons to aid her, and he savored the moments he didn't hear her shrieking voice. His eye wandered towards her cell wall, staring past the slits in the walls and straight at her. He didn't know why she had been there, or how she had gotten there, or why he was so curious as to who she was. But he figured this was as good a time as any to log her in. Slipping from the chair, he returned to her cell wall, speaking over the timid whimpers of a prisoner far off in the dungeons. Flipping through his papers, he looked down at her. "Might I have your name, then, and... how exactly you got here?" It wasn't a question.

    His tongue wet his lips as ink dripped off the quill and onto the paper, blotting out a particular death date of a random prisoner. He had died of plague, many a year ago. The whole castle had to have been cleaned and exterminated of rats afterwards, and yet the things still managed to live. They no longer carried the disease, they simply scurried around, left, and came back in the mornings. As if they were running a job system or something along the lines. Odd creatures, really. He stared down at her, awaiting an answer. A cough and plead distracted him for a moment, but he did not answer the pitiful cry, narrowing his one good eye as the beg came again, and again, before it was drowned in coughs and a sniffle. The ignorance of prisoners amused him, but only for a while. Suffering was one thing he couldn't watch for long.
[align=center] THIS TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY THATSNOTMYNAME ! @ CAUTION EDITED BY LANIE OF FKAC [/align]
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Catherine Willoughby
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vérité sans peur
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Want to join in threads with others, but not sure what to write first? Hop on into the THREADING EXTRAVAGANZA.
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Catherine is in 2 threads.
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