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<-- la voleuse de livres.
Created on 2007-11-11 21:36:47 (#14230961), last updated 2007-12-14
287 comments received, 284 comments posted
Plus Account [Gift]
9 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 15 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | Evidence Edge [E] |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | 12-26 |
| Website: | Mun's LJ |
Bio--> statistiques.
Name: Élisabeth Bruyere
Alias: Evidence Edge [E]
Age: 12 [12.26]
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Doesn’t care at the moment~
Habit/Neurosis:
1. She’s always carrying her book of myths around, and the thing is full of snippets from other books and papers she finds as well as scribbles and drawings.
2. She doesn’t like English and will try to use French as often as she can. It’s her native language as well as her heart’s, and she refuses to have it replaced with another. In her mind, she owes too much to it, and she's worked too hard to learn it properly to give it up so easily.
--> personnalité.
Nothing too special. She’s pretty ordinary on the surface, if a little reserved. Despite this, however, she’s very emotional, and doesn’t hesitate to show these emotions as long as she doesn’t think about the possible repercussions they may have. When she starts thinking – that’s when the trouble starts. It’s her tendency to overanalyze everything that's the cause, and her thoughts never seem to shut up – the result of a childhood lived for the most part in her head rather than in the world around her. She’s very curious, though, and when something interests her she’ll try her best to find out everything she can about it. She won’t just ask questions, though – she’ll observe, do bits of espionage, wind her way around her subject until she finds herself at the very center of it. She has the ability to see many sides of a situation and look at it objectively without her personal opinions getting in the way (usually, in any case) and an imagination not limited by the usual binds of logic (though she’ll use that logic to her advantage when necessary), and she’s very proud of both of these skills. She’s pleasant to talk to, if a little blunt at times, and a generally friendly person, though she won’t go out of her way to help another unless she’s genuinely interested in them. Even though her head’s buried in a book more often than not, she’s pretty in tune to what’s going on around her, and often she has mischievous thoughts and plots running around in her head…
--> apparence.
Doesn’t stand too tall and doesn’t stand too fabulously, either – average height for someone her age, maybe a little shorter. She’s thin – perhaps a little too thin – but it’s not too noticeable under her coat, which she wears as often as she can. Orange hair, green eyes – she’s pretty to look at for someone her age, though she’ll only give you a small smile for the compliment. She usually has a neutral countenance, slightly curious and inquiring, though her expressions are frequent and for the most part sincere. She neither wants nor needs attention, and though the thing doesn’t make her uncomfortable, she doesn’t like to be in it very long.
--> histoire.
Since her memory first began bothering to remember, her world was the walls of her French orphanage. Not quite clean but not quite dirty, children that came and went, nuns’ attempts at being benevolent - the atmosphere she grew up in was both beneficial and detrimental for a variety of reasons. Her appearance won her praises – what a pretty hair color, what wonderful eyes – but her personality, though nothing unpleasant, was nothing spectacular, either. It’s not that she developed a superiority complex as the years rolled on, but she simply didn’t find the children of the orphanage worthwhile to become close to. The most interesting of the lot always left first, anyway, and the ones that were left behind were either the most rowdy or the most dull. Her dependency on people stopped at shelter and food and she became quite capable of taking care of herself. She never minded her solitude, anyway – she had helpers to keep whatever feelings of loneliness she might have had away, helpers which were always in her hands and who were completely at her bidding. She owes a lot to those things, those books.
She stole most of them. The first she came across was a bible, discovered on the desk of one of the nuns. The nun was a kindly one, and read it to her frequently – found it in her heart to teach her how to read since Élisabeth always seemed to be the odd one out. She was quick to learn, could read it by herself in an astoundingly short period of time, and the nun was so impressed she bought her a dictionary, since one can never have too many words in their arsenal. Learning to write was an easy task after reading, and Élisabeth did so alone, scribbling snippets of biblical stories on corners of the orphanage's walls and smudging them with her fist when she was finished. It, like the subsequent nicking of the books, was a secret operation.
She always returned them, she swore, except the ones she liked the best. Those she stowed under floorboards, poured over their pages frequently. They couldn’t be missed much, she figured anyway. She loved them so much more, she was sure.
Unfortunately, the theft had to end somewhere.
A bookstore owner caught her filching the third volume of a general encyclopedia when she was twelve and she was dragged forcibly by her wrist to the police station. The orphanage couldn’t do anything, the owner was furious, the police were unsympathetic, and her books couldn’t possibly save her now – a dismal situation, or so she thought.
She was twelve, and she knew more about world history than any adult that was in the building.
She bombarded them with facts, statistics, details and biographies in response to questions such as why she had attempted to steal the book, how long she’d been doing such a thing, and if she understood the consequences of her actions.
They needed to do something with her, obviously.
And they did, devised a more fitting punishment and a better imprisonment than they could have given her in France – she was eligible for the place, after all. Some lessons in English and she would do brilliantly, they knew.
She boarded the plane to Winchester as she was turning twelve in the early days of November, her book of world myths in her lap.
Name: Élisabeth Bruyere
Alias: Evidence Edge [E]
Age: 12 [12.26]
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Doesn’t care at the moment~
Habit/Neurosis:
1. She’s always carrying her book of myths around, and the thing is full of snippets from other books and papers she finds as well as scribbles and drawings.
2. She doesn’t like English and will try to use French as often as she can. It’s her native language as well as her heart’s, and she refuses to have it replaced with another. In her mind, she owes too much to it, and she's worked too hard to learn it properly to give it up so easily.
--> personnalité.
Nothing too special. She’s pretty ordinary on the surface, if a little reserved. Despite this, however, she’s very emotional, and doesn’t hesitate to show these emotions as long as she doesn’t think about the possible repercussions they may have. When she starts thinking – that’s when the trouble starts. It’s her tendency to overanalyze everything that's the cause, and her thoughts never seem to shut up – the result of a childhood lived for the most part in her head rather than in the world around her. She’s very curious, though, and when something interests her she’ll try her best to find out everything she can about it. She won’t just ask questions, though – she’ll observe, do bits of espionage, wind her way around her subject until she finds herself at the very center of it. She has the ability to see many sides of a situation and look at it objectively without her personal opinions getting in the way (usually, in any case) and an imagination not limited by the usual binds of logic (though she’ll use that logic to her advantage when necessary), and she’s very proud of both of these skills. She’s pleasant to talk to, if a little blunt at times, and a generally friendly person, though she won’t go out of her way to help another unless she’s genuinely interested in them. Even though her head’s buried in a book more often than not, she’s pretty in tune to what’s going on around her, and often she has mischievous thoughts and plots running around in her head…
--> apparence.
Doesn’t stand too tall and doesn’t stand too fabulously, either – average height for someone her age, maybe a little shorter. She’s thin – perhaps a little too thin – but it’s not too noticeable under her coat, which she wears as often as she can. Orange hair, green eyes – she’s pretty to look at for someone her age, though she’ll only give you a small smile for the compliment. She usually has a neutral countenance, slightly curious and inquiring, though her expressions are frequent and for the most part sincere. She neither wants nor needs attention, and though the thing doesn’t make her uncomfortable, she doesn’t like to be in it very long.
--> histoire.
Since her memory first began bothering to remember, her world was the walls of her French orphanage. Not quite clean but not quite dirty, children that came and went, nuns’ attempts at being benevolent - the atmosphere she grew up in was both beneficial and detrimental for a variety of reasons. Her appearance won her praises – what a pretty hair color, what wonderful eyes – but her personality, though nothing unpleasant, was nothing spectacular, either. It’s not that she developed a superiority complex as the years rolled on, but she simply didn’t find the children of the orphanage worthwhile to become close to. The most interesting of the lot always left first, anyway, and the ones that were left behind were either the most rowdy or the most dull. Her dependency on people stopped at shelter and food and she became quite capable of taking care of herself. She never minded her solitude, anyway – she had helpers to keep whatever feelings of loneliness she might have had away, helpers which were always in her hands and who were completely at her bidding. She owes a lot to those things, those books.
She stole most of them. The first she came across was a bible, discovered on the desk of one of the nuns. The nun was a kindly one, and read it to her frequently – found it in her heart to teach her how to read since Élisabeth always seemed to be the odd one out. She was quick to learn, could read it by herself in an astoundingly short period of time, and the nun was so impressed she bought her a dictionary, since one can never have too many words in their arsenal. Learning to write was an easy task after reading, and Élisabeth did so alone, scribbling snippets of biblical stories on corners of the orphanage's walls and smudging them with her fist when she was finished. It, like the subsequent nicking of the books, was a secret operation.
She always returned them, she swore, except the ones she liked the best. Those she stowed under floorboards, poured over their pages frequently. They couldn’t be missed much, she figured anyway. She loved them so much more, she was sure.
Unfortunately, the theft had to end somewhere.
A bookstore owner caught her filching the third volume of a general encyclopedia when she was twelve and she was dragged forcibly by her wrist to the police station. The orphanage couldn’t do anything, the owner was furious, the police were unsympathetic, and her books couldn’t possibly save her now – a dismal situation, or so she thought.
She was twelve, and she knew more about world history than any adult that was in the building.
She bombarded them with facts, statistics, details and biographies in response to questions such as why she had attempted to steal the book, how long she’d been doing such a thing, and if she understood the consequences of her actions.
They needed to do something with her, obviously.
And they did, devised a more fitting punishment and a better imprisonment than they could have given her in France – she was eligible for the place, after all. Some lessons in English and she would do brilliantly, they knew.
She boarded the plane to Winchester as she was turning twelve in the early days of November, her book of world myths in her lap.
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