#so expect to see a lot more of those handrolled ‘cigarettes’ from here on out ;))

[bloodinhershoesrpg]

Congratulations Lia, you have been accepted for the role of Elijah Granville! In all honesty, without trying to falsely flatter you, I would have handed both of my sweet summer children you have applied for to you with pleasure and a kiss as both applications captured them wonderfully. But, alas, as you asked to only be accepted for one of them, Elijah felt ever so slightly more refined to me, with your writing drawing me in to an extent that I found myself snorting aloud to his remarks which I reckon might just be the very essence of bringing a character to life! I’m ecstatic to have you join us as everyone’s favourite poison garden owner! Please send in your account with 24 hours and have a look at the checklist before you do!

REGARDING YOURSELF

Name / Age / Pronouns: Lia, 21+, GMT Activity: Honestly, a lot of my time at the minute is taken up with the investigation into Katerina’s murder, so I’d put myself at about a 6 if I am accepted and get a spy on the ground. 8 once I realise I’m the murderer. Realistically I’ve been quite sluggish with activity online lately because of my fulltime job and being ill, but am hopeful such obstacles will calm themselves from this point on. Additional: If I am to be accepted for any I’d like to just be accepted for one at this stage (restrain me in future). Thank you.

REGARDING THE STAR OF YOUR SHOW

Character name and faceclaim: Elijah Granville, Theo James

CHARACTER DISSECTION

Picture a man with effortless access to all of the luxuries and comforts this world can offer. Picture that man devoid of nurturing elders and lessons in morality. If that man were to look in the mirror he’d recognise himself as Elijah Granville, profess himself as a god among mere mortals. It’s not because he’s truly that arrogant, but because he doesn’t know any better, doesn’t care enough to look and see. Maybe if his parents had been warmer, the staff that raised him more forceful and less subservient, peers more varied in circumstance, maybe then he could have been better. Only now he believes he is the best. There is nothing he wants for, or knows well enough to realise he is lacking, and there’s certainly not enough passion in his heart to stir and crave a different path. For everything he is; he is nothing, vapour, coasting through life with momentary flickers of association to other humans, to his own heart. Utterly numb to the beauty of art and people, mechanic in the taking of all that is named sinful, named debauched, sedated to the buzz. Poison from an errant tongue coiling slowly around the mind.

Arm outstretched along the line of the chair, a tumbler of whiskey settled to the side of it, some gauchely pretty young blonde in the seat to his left. The usual appearance of Elijah Granville as he seems to encompass the entire box reserved solely for his use. Even the way his eyes practically glaze over as they roam the stage for appearance’s sake, all too familiar. The blonde makes the mistake of speaking, of assuming that is her use. Some pathetic wonder expressed at the dancer’s, a quick admission of insecurity. “You’re right, darling, you could never look so graceful.” It’s unusual for him to respond to such futility, preying for his attention, but the bite of the words are enough to humour him for just a moment. He thinks so litte of those on the stage that her dismissal as even lesser seems a stunning indignity, punishment that she has opened her mouth in a way that doesn’t service him. Maria, or Louisa, or Emilia, settles back in her chair, deflated against the velvet. It is then, just after he strikes, that he moves. Forcing her to follow suit by expectation. Only when she has risen does he shake his head. No, no. “Stay here. You have lessons to learn, do you not.” The experience is surely soured for her, but he makes no note of it, is not intentionally cruel as he leaves her to stew alone. Leisurely strides have him backstage within moments, unfazed as he walks a straight path so all those buzzing in their hurry have to move around him. A figure he briefly acknowledges as familiar, a queen in the hive, steps out of his way, no notion to question him. He pushes open a fire escape and steps outdoors. There are no bodies to deal with, no smokers attempting pleasantries. His goal accomplished, to avoid the droning tones of theatregoers and the effort to cover his distaste. There’s very little he denies himself, but a line is still drawn at smoking indoors. More for the way they’ll surely bump up the cost of smoke damage or refunded tickets for alarms blaring, than for respect of the theatre. Architecture perhaps one allowance in its beauty, he holds too much venom for the funds the theatre siphons from him to recognise any attribute. Handrolled filters greet him in a sterling silver case, less pretentious than one might imagine, given how bashed and nicked the case truly is. A questionable hand-me-down from his grandfather when he was a boy, the picture of magnanimity at some fundraiser or another, a story regaled by the presses who happened upon the scene. He taps the cigarette against the lid of the box, allowing any stray tobacco to fall, or perhaps just for the habit of it when the cigarettes always look immaculate and machine pressed instead of forged by his hand. Just as he’s raising it to his lips, calamity strikes. “I’m sorry, you’re not supposed to..” Owlish features turn on the woman, and she steps back in response. Theatrically he settles the cigarette back in place, “Do finish that sentence.” Finally some real entertainment. Except she seems frozen in place, all too aware of her error at this point. “You’re not.. You can’t.” A scoff as he clicks the case shut, lest he drop them all on the ground and force her to her hands and knees. Unless you’re new here is on the tip of his tongue, but it seems too much an excuse, a kindness. “I can and I will. And I am.” he doesn’t stoop, doesn’t press forward, and yet the intensity of his words force a closeness and presume an attack. “Now shut the door and wait right there until I knock.” “I’ve got work..” “Yes, you have got work in making up for your ignorance. So hush now, let’s not fall out. I wont repeat myself” He doesn’t need to, for she closes the fire exit in front of her. He’s not one for grudges, not at all, so he finishes his cigarette, watches the smoke plume into the night sky, a far better dancer than inside the building, and doesn’t linger further. Knocks against the door to be let inside. A mistake to let him in, if ever there was one.

CONNECTING THE DOTS

Norah Monroe: If it irks him to have any dealings with the theatre at all, it bothers him all the more to have a face to put to it. Someone with the belief they are charming him, or guiding him, or offering anything at all. A meek little butterfly fluttering about anxiously with her placations, her assurances as to why this is a good investment- when it’s not. The worst part of it is the mask he has to wear, the near neutrality stretched across features, and blunting down of words so that he might sound reasonable, disaffected, instead of bored and frustrated and essentially tired of the whole affair. Even offended that a woman such as she gets to go home and pat herself on the back, presuming to have quelled the beast. She’s done nothing for him, as obsolete as the rest of the staff. And yet he supposes it’s better to have an unwitting adversary believe themselves in control. All the better to watch their eventual fall on the most holy day he can rid himself of them all, watch the demise of an intolerable legacy.

Raúl Mendoza: For whatever reason people oft assume you peers. As though grandeur and political aspirations go hand in hand. Somehow, at theatre functions Elijah is requited to attend, he will find himself pointed in the direction of the man, with prompt introduction before the guide takes their leave. There’s very little for you to talk about, very little interest held in politics or the theories behind them. Yet you allow a convenient amount of time to pass, pleasantries exchanged, because at least the man is an intellectual. Not much of one, considering his profession, but still a better option than the dull and frantic attempts at charm from the artists.

REGARDING YOUR INSPIRATION

Unfortunately I have nothing available for this section at this time (except one shoddy multi-char edit)