Post by Aldrich Beilschmidt on Jul 28, 2011 11:40:29 GMT -5
Character Name: Aldrich Beilschmidt
Country: Germany
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Camp guide or teen?: Camp guide
Appearance: Aldrich can appear a great deal older than he is; he’s contemplative and quiet; there are frown lines on his forehead; he rarely speaks, but when he does, it’s maturely and thoughtfully, as if every word counts; when he walks it is with a purpose, and his clear blue eyes are jaded and tired.
However, physically, he’s young, with long blond hair that reaches down to his shoulder blades. Often, he wears a small braid that frames the side of his face. He’s tall, (somewhere over six foot, he doesn’t bother to check) and athletic, with a very skinny frame, the extent of which isn’t noticeable until he’s naked, his skin stretched over his bones from periods of acute anorexia. But he has a rather sharp structure to his body; his cheekbones are high and he has a sharp jawline, his lips often pressed together in a frown, making his lips look thinner than they actually are and making him look stern all the time.
He’s a dedicated follower of fashion – he reads French vogue and any other fashion magazine he can – thought often, he confesses, he doesn’t understand the choices they make, and he always makes sure to dress fashionable, usually in black skinny jeans and light t-shirts with Afghan scarves and tanned leather pixie boots. He will never, ever admit it, but he sometimes wears women’s jeans, as they fit him better.
Personality: Aldrich is a jumble of stereotypes – at least in his eyes. He’s typically German; sensible, methodical and ordered, logical. When he speaks he’s straight forward, sometimes at the expense of other people’s feelings, and he thinks about everything in a very mechanical way, even the creative things he loves. He’s also typically gay (well, more bisexual); something of a bitch (which goes with being straight forward); a fashionista and, as he has professed himself, vain in his nervous self-consciousness; skipping between periodical bad habits like anorexia, mild self-harm or even bulimia.
He can be stern, it’s true. He has a tendency to lash out and be overly stern, particularly when he in a situation that makes him uncomfortable, whether that’s because of where he is, or when there’s people he doesn’t know. He doesn’t really know how to react in most social situations and ends up doing the wrong thing, sometimes upsetting people; it gets easier when he knows someone better, but until he does, he can be very awkward around people. He’s sometimes cripplingly shy and doesn’t like meeting new people, tending to push them away, but strangely, he likes teaching, likes passing on his knowledge.
One could say he’s a true renaissance man; dabbing in all forms of arts, from engineering to piano and violin; he has an eye for design and fashion; he speaks many languages; can hunt, fence and practice archery; is very athletic and can knows how to play a number of sports, however he finds watching sport dull; he reads philosophy – Sartre and Nietzsche.
He’s got a very strong but skewed sense of what’s healthy; the same part of his brain that tells him to jog every day, to drink water and rarely drink alcohol is the same that says he should stop eating, to lose some weight.
Likes:
Children; so innocent, he likes that they haven’t been jaded by the world like he has. Beer, though only in moderation Cooking, even though he doesn’t eat much, even when he’s not being anorexic Coffee. It keeps him awake and tastes pretty good too. Wurst and potatoes, basically most junk food, even though it makes him feel terrible about himself afterwards Music and fashionDislikes:
Cats; he’s allergic. Conversely, he quite likes dogs Situations he can’t control, usually large crowds Himself; major confidence issues Physical contact, if he doesn’t know the person very well Sweet foods. He doesn’t mind them, but doesn’t eat them often even though he likes to cook them.Fears:
Heights. He can stand them when he’s in buildings, but on cliff sides or balconies, he starts to feel sick. Rejection, seriously afraid of it, desires approval and needs people to notice him.History: A child sits at a piano in a large ballroom, light spilling through the grand windows and bathing everything in a golden glow. He sits on a number of pillows; he’s only six so it’s the only way he can reach the keys. His hair is short, shaved close to the head and his clothes are fine and tailor made, his clear blue eyes focussed on the music sheet in front of him, a look of serene concentration on his face as he plays. The music, simple and sweet, echoes around the room, and it is obviously well rehearsed – precise and beautiful in its perfect simplicity.
It finishes, the echo quickly dying from the space. His teacher claps, ‘Excellent, excellent.’ She says, placing a hand on his shoulder and he beams, ‘I couldn’t expect more from you at your age,’
‘At his age,’ Comes a deep voice and the boy whips around, bouncing happily in his seat.
‘Papa, papa,’ He says, ‘Were you listening – did you hear me? Was I good?’
His father frowns, ‘You didn’t achieve the full range of the song, your timing was off for fifteen seconds in the middle section and you missed three notes. Chopin must be turning in his grave.’ The boy’s face falls.
‘M-Mister Beilschmidt,’ Says the piano teacher nervously, ‘I mean no disrespect, but Master Aldrich is only six, he can’t even reach most of the keys, it’s a wonder he’s as dexterous as he is.’ She says earnestly, ‘He has a gift; you have to encourage him,’
His father raises his head, making the teacher flinch in fear of the imposing man, ‘It should be perfect. Try again.’ And he just walks out.
The teacher looked around then leaned in, ‘listen’ she says quietly, ‘you don’t have to practice just yet, we’ll take a little break and have a biscuit.’ She smiles but he shakes his small head determinedly.
‘No.’ He says, ‘Must be perfect, perfect for papa.’
But it is never quite perfect enough. No matter how much Latin vocabulary he knew, or French, it’s never enough, there are always more words. There are always more symphonies or more books to read. Anything less than 100% on any test isn’t good enough, he is never good enough.
The little boy in the ballroom grows up, thinking that he can’t be good enough, craving, needing, some kind of approval from his parents. He throws himself at them, begs shamelessly at him, but they want too much. He is a good boy, a good strong German boy, beautiful and athletic. He does everything for attention, even cuts his wrists, just so they will see him. He lies on the floor covered in blood, but the maids clean him up like he’s just another piece of furniture to be cleaned up. The man that Aldrich Beilschmidt has become is not the one his parents wanted him to be, for all their pushing. Certainly, he can kick a ball, play the violin, speak perfect German and argue politics, but he is not the confident man they wanted. The eighteen year old they wanted is now pale and sickly, desperate for love from anywhere, deathly thin and scared of the world, a serious inferiority complex weighing on his shoulders.
This eighteen year old stands in the bathroom of a downtown motel. His hair is still short, as per his parents’ wishes, his blue eyes are bloodshot, and the only sound for a moment is the sound of the tap that won’t stop dripping in to the rusty sink. He looks down at his wrist and places his hand around it, over the bruises that fit perfectly around his fingers, and even the feeling of his own hand gripping his wrist makes him feel sick. He squeezes his eyes shut, begging the tears not to fall but they’re already falling. He’s choking on his sobs and crying hysterically, unable to keep it in.
‘Aldrich, are you okay?’ comes a deep voice from the other room, ‘Aldrich, I’m so sorry, god I am.’ He says. Aldrich says nothing. ‘You know I’m not like that, I just… god, I just lost control.’ He smells of alcohol, a smell he tries to wash out of himself in the sink, but there’s no trace of drunkenness left.
Shakily, he starts to pull on his clothes. He feels so vulnerable and scared. ‘Don’t talk to me, go away.’ He hisses.
‘Please, Aldrich,’ He says again, obviously leaning against the door, ‘Just hear me out,’
‘I said go away, Frederick!’ He screeches, near hysterical. He feels so dirty, so sick, he just wants to be clean; to wash and wash until he can be clean, please. He pulls on his shirts and some of the buttons are missing, and he remembers clutching at the fabric, feeling it rip and the buttons pop, screaming, begging.
‘Okay, okay, you’re right. I’ll go.’ The sound of a door, and relief. He knows that Frederick is regretful, but it doesn’t change what happened, he know that he won’t be able to look at him without the bile reaching his throat in fear.
After that, he runs home and confesses everything to his parents, admits to them about the fact that he had secretly dated other men, and, in a shaking voice, he recounted what had happened that night, tears running down his cheeks. They give him a handkerchief to wipe his tears and his mother rubs his back. Although her rings dig in to his back a little bit, for once, for the first time in his life, he feels like they love him. The next day they kick him out on the streets.
He is there, lost and confused with nowhere to go; he can’t even go to his boyfriend now. There is only one place he can think to go; to the one person who has ever shown him support – his old piano teacher. She had always had a soft spot for the boy, the little prodigy who was never enough, and, seeing that little boy in him as he turns up on her doorstep, alone and so very scared, she really could do nothing else but let him in.
She had always amazed him. When he was little and he heard her play, he used to think, ‘this is what perfection sounds like’. He thought that if he could play like her, his parents would be happy. Even when he surpassed her, he still loved the way she played; with such life and emotion. There was no room for emotion when he played, technical ability was all that mattered. She thinks, as she listens to him play now on the piano in the back of her sitting room, that he sounds just the same as he did when he was a small boy playing the piano in a grand ballroom.
She still amazes him. Somehow, she manages to magic up a music scholarship to a rather prestigious American university, just reinforcing his childish assumptions that she is the embodiment of perfection, and he realises that he had looked in the wrong place for affection, for the first time in his life, staring at that acceptance letter, he realises the damage that has been done to him, and he weeps.
He sells his violin and his phone, anything of any worth, for the plane ticket, his books and the first few months of rent on a small flat-share with some other university students. He gets to university he works hard, god he does. During the day he works hard on his engineering degree and through the nights he works, three jobs, so his work schedule is absolutely packed – there is never a free hour. His roommates are amazed at how he can do it, but he doesn’t understand; he’s had this habit since he was thirteen.
Now away from home, he grows his hair out. He had always hated it short, but his parents told him it was proper, so he always kept it that way. But now he had the chance to do what he liked and he seized it, growing it down to his shoulder blades as he has it today, earning the nickname around his roommates of the ‘barbarian’. They thought it was hilarious, he doesn’t really care, he just works, works hard, harder than he had ever worked before, in a way, because now he’s working for himself, not his parents.
He graduates in the top 5% of his class, but then there’s a little trouble with his visa and he spends months trying to get US citizenship so he could stay. After that, he found it hard to get a job in engineering. Suddenly, he’s spotted by a model agency, and it’s work, and pays pretty well too, from which his compulsion to follow the world of fashion stems from. He hates it, being constantly touched and moved about, but it pays. This is the way he lives, through a number of temporary and seasonal jobs, recently (i.e. the last two years) he’s worked at Camp Fox.
Journal Sample:
19th July.
Weather: Warm, 25°C, mild north-easterly wind.
Travelled back to Camp Fox today; ate breakfast and lunch on the cross country train from LA. Croissant with strawberry jam and a coffee for breakfast; tomato salad sandwich and a green tea for lunch. Dinner at the camp; 50cl diet Coke and a salad.
The road leading up to the was just as bumpy as ever and I got stones in the Christian Louboutins, the weeks here will probably be very hard on my clothes, though I expected no less; I can already see a rip forming in my jeans. Not: Repair jeans (Levi, navy) tomorrow after breakfast before the children arrive.
I arrived at the camp itself approximately 15:30, and it is mostly empty, as the children arrive tomorrow. Did the inventory on the swimming equipment and spent the majority of the day filling out health risk assessment forms. I know from experience that I should savour the peace, but it hardly feels peaceful, as the crickets are whistling loudly in the heat. It is, however, quieter, and cleaner, than LA.
Altogether, very peaceful day, plan to finish reading Les Miserables tonight then retire by 20:00 hours.
Roleplay Sample:
(Taken from a Harry Potter roleplay. The other speaker is Aldrich's telepathic dragon companion.)
Aldrich pulled himself up using the stick, wincing when the muscle in his leg burned, being stretched. Sometimes he wondered why it was him who had to be inflicted with this, it wasn’t fair. But... then he remembered. It was his own fault, he’d known what he was getting in to by taking up questing and since he had made his bed he would have to lie in it. Except... he was getting up now. He took a deep breath and clutched his leg, shakily standing straight. He had to be brave.
He picked up his suitcase and began rolling it down the holiday of the inn. He didn’t care about trunks, particularly since he couldn’t carry it and hold up his own weight. Of course the day the wound swelled up from the bad day it would be the day he was travelling to his new job in Scotland — It was just sod's law. He didn’t want to seem weak in front of his new students; he knew what the students were like, he’d been one.
He reached the end of the hall and stared down the stairs that were, for the moment, his mortal enemy. Emery flew around the hall as if mocking him and down the stairs. Aldrich just glowered at him, in something of a bad mood.
’You need to calm down, Master. You’ll give yourself an ulcer.’ Emery thought to him. Aldrich gave a dry look back, not in the right mood to play games with the young Jhereg. Later, when his leg was feeling better or he’d taken a strong pain relief potion, but not now. ’Oh fine, give me that look’
“For someone who calls me master, you’re very insolent.” He said, gritting his teeth together and pulling up the suitcase, dragging it down the stairs. Half way down he paused, wondering if anything would break if he simply rolled if down, but... it probably would.
’You wouldn’t love me as much if I wasn’t so insolent, master.’
He sighed, “Just get in the carry cage. And remember from n-now on,” He lifted the case again, “You’re a cat.”
’I hate the cages’ Emery said sourly, but sloped in anyway, folding his wings back and curling his tail about himself.
“I don’t think anyone likes them.” Aldrich replied, pulling the case down the last stair. He gave a look back at his enemy, proud that he was triumphant over the evil staircase. There was no enemy he couldn’t defeat, even now, half crippled.
He picked up his suitcase and began rolling it down the holiday of the inn. He didn’t care about trunks, particularly since he couldn’t carry it and hold up his own weight. Of course the day the wound swelled up from the bad day it would be the day he was travelling to his new job in Scotland — It was just sod's law. He didn’t want to seem weak in front of his new students; he knew what the students were like, he’d been one.
He reached the end of the hall and stared down the stairs that were, for the moment, his mortal enemy. Emery flew around the hall as if mocking him and down the stairs. Aldrich just glowered at him, in something of a bad mood.
’You need to calm down, Master. You’ll give yourself an ulcer.’ Emery thought to him. Aldrich gave a dry look back, not in the right mood to play games with the young Jhereg. Later, when his leg was feeling better or he’d taken a strong pain relief potion, but not now. ’Oh fine, give me that look’
“For someone who calls me master, you’re very insolent.” He said, gritting his teeth together and pulling up the suitcase, dragging it down the stairs. Half way down he paused, wondering if anything would break if he simply rolled if down, but... it probably would.
’You wouldn’t love me as much if I wasn’t so insolent, master.’
He sighed, “Just get in the carry cage. And remember from n-now on,” He lifted the case again, “You’re a cat.”
’I hate the cages’ Emery said sourly, but sloped in anyway, folding his wings back and curling his tail about himself.
“I don’t think anyone likes them.” Aldrich replied, pulling the case down the last stair. He gave a look back at his enemy, proud that he was triumphant over the evil staircase. There was no enemy he couldn’t defeat, even now, half crippled.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
OoC Information
Name: Lauren
Timezone: GMT (Currently on DST, so GMT+1)
Experience: Alltogether about 7 months. Admin on three forums, play on a couple more.
Contact information: I have skype and MSN, if you want it just ask me. (I’m always willing to do private RPs~)
Anything else? Ah, I forgot to mention fishies, didn’t I!
