Veronica Hill [WIP]

[mumford]

veronica hill

biological information

Full Name: Veronica Beatrix Hill
Nickname: Ronnie
Alias(es): Sleepwalker
Gender: Female
Orientation: More or less heterosexual.
Age: 21
Date of Birth: September 22nd.
Marital Status: Single
Place of Birth: Los Angeles, California
Race: Vampire, childe
Occupation: Dominatrix

Physical Appearance: The two best words to describe Veronica would be unassuming and underdeveloped. Frail limbs stem from a narrow chest, bird-like shoulder blades protruding through a tight span of thin skin, veins visible beneath the surface and running blue despite their three-year abandon. Dark hair falls over a high forehead to the breathless wisp of a waist, pin-straight and black as night, casting into shadow the murky darkened depths of almond-shaped eyes and the protruding curve of sarcastically twisted, apple-red lips. All legs, probably three quarters of her five foot nine inches, with no visible girth, Veronica is the last person one would expect to throw a mean left punch and then subsequently scurry out of the way before the heavy thud of the opposing fist has a chance to land anywhere on her. Dark colors emphasize the wasted nature of her physique and red lips draw attention to the railroad track smile she so infrequently displays; there is a thick band of fire-burned tissue around her left wrist where she engages in recreational self-mutilation, covered over with three black leather bracelets, frayed at the edges. These match the three silver earrings through the cartilage of her right ear, bells attached to each, that jingle with the breeze and the gentle tap of her foot to the concrete beneath her.


Celebrity Claim: fei fei sun

special abilities

Powers:

Celerity Gift - Born of a keen ability to escape her often unsuspecting victims following a crime in her human life, veronica finds herself capable of traveling at particularly quick speeds, even for a vampire.

Vigor Gift - Perhaps it's something that stems from her pugnacious attitude, but the heightened strength allotted her assists in her current occupation which, like all of the others, will most likely be shortlived.

Sensory Gift - Veronica's keen sense of smell and hearing have manifested to such a degree that she frequently claims the fear in the air around a victim is palpable.

Suspension Gift - While she can still utilize the suspension gift, it's an unusually weak force within her and she prefers to stay stationed comfortably on the ground she's been walking on for the duration of her existence to date.

Ignorance Gift - Veronica consistently tests the limits of her ignorance gift by spending her free time burning patches of her wrist into patterns and shapes, sometimes words. With time she has found that scarred areas of flesh burn more slowly than virgin skin, and as such believes that she has built up her tolerance to the flame.

Vestige Gift - She is visited frequently in her dreams by the murky visage of her little brother, his hands outstretched, the smell of the sea accompanying the clammy touch of his dampened palms.

Blood Speaking Gift - As of yet, she hasn't fed on another vampire and hasn't experienced the nature of the blood speaking gift, but she's heard rumors and isn't enticed by the idea of sharing emotions. Like all things, she worries it could become an addiction to collect the thoughts and feelings of another entity and she has enough addictions as it is without adding more to the mix.

Turning Gift - Yet to be utilized or explored in any way.


Skills:

Hand-to-hand Combat - Though she appears frail, many a night fending off the unwanted sweaty, drunken palms that were her adopted father left her physically able to defend herself in school. Following an expulsion from the private los angeles academy she'd been attending, she transferred to a more remote location where the fighting continued, and from where she eventually dropped out. Later, when she was turned into a vampire, her propensity for violence escalated with the degree of her moods and she found herself by far more able to hold her own in both physical and verbal fights, the latter a skill set she'd also developed during her time spent enrolled in school.

Piano - What the rough, unpolished aspects of her personality couldn't possibly indicate are the gentle strokes of the ivory keys by trained fingers, the masterful change of expression as the classical music overtakes every subtle filament of her existence. Where other instruments (including, regrettably, her voice) are inevitable failures, veronica excels at all piano renditions of classical, modern, or cover pieces.

Personal Possessions:

- Three frayed black leather bracelets that permanently encircle her left wrist. One stands for the past, one for the present, and one for the future, a mantra that is repeated once more on her right ear, where three silver earrings remain equally spaced, day in and day out. While she finds hidden meaning in the nature of the number three, if anyone asks why it makes an appearance any number of times across her body she'll most likely tell them to fuck off. She isn't particularly fond of explaining herself and has a mouth that's built for getting her into trouble.

- A wolf necklace that she never speaks about but dutifully wears every day, always tucked beneath the collar of her shirt, invisible but eternally present.

Weapons and Equipment:

- Veronica prefers hand to hand combat and as such isn't too huge a fan of weapons, although she does have a particular soft spot for javelins and is currently harboring a collection in a trunk in her apartment.

Limitations:

- Is decisively unable to stay her tongue, and frequently gets herself into more trouble than she can handle by running her mouth.

- Unable to handle conflict by 'talking it out', almost always ends up violently assaulting whoever she's dealing with.

- In the same vein, she never backs down from an argument unless she's won, which tends to have the same effect as digging her own grave and then getting down in the hole.

- She's actually pretty terrible at controlling her emotions and is relatively well known for bursting into fits of rage and throwing hulk-esque temper tantrums that both destroy whatever covert mission she's on and force her problems into other people's hands.

- Remarkably poor with technology of any kind.

- Sustaining fear of the suspension gift.

psychoanalysis

Personality Description: At least 2 - 3 nice detailed paragraphs.

Strengths:

• Adaptable
  
• Intelligent
  
• Witty
  
• Manipulative
  
• Determined
  

Weaknesses:

• Volatile
  
• Unhappy
  
• Rational
  
• Closed Off
  
• Distracted
  

Fear/s:

- Letting people in

- Spiders

- Alternate Realities

- The Apocalypse

Goal/s:

- Remain flying under the radar

- Find a way around staying inside during the day time

biography

Their Story: *No minimum paragraphs, just make sure that it's well-written and informative. If the staff finds it lacking, you will be asked to write more.

Other Information: *optional

rp sample

California is like Florida but filled with the nouveau-riche instead of the poor. Women have labels declaring their various degrees of juicy on their bottoms and men walk around in gauche crème de menthe colored suits during the spring because they feel it makes them fashion-forward. There are just as many Walmarts as there are wannabe celebrities and the concentration of post-Vietnam-era hippies makes my stomach churn as I stare morosely out the rear window of our inconspicuous black sedan, one of a wide variety of black sedans that everyone in my family has stared morosely out of at one point. It becomes clear as I view a group of pedestrians that my personal endeavor to maintain utmost sartorial responsibility while in this horrible land of the orange (both the fruit and the people) will be more difficult than I thought. A woman drives by in the lane next to ours wearing a scarf and a tank top. I cringe. I wonder if she’s ever picked up a magazine in her life. I wonder if she, like so many others in the alternate reality of the middle class, would ever choose food over vogue. I decide she would, and she probably did, and that explains the profound disdain for fashionable expression. She sees me seeing her and smiles, probably entranced by the unshaved line of my jaw, but I am wearing Brooks Brothers like the republican I am and she is wearing Target brand and I would never, never let her grubby Plebeian hands in close proximity to, let alone actually touch, my suit. I wonder if she knows Brooks Brothers exist in California (actually, I wonder if they do exist in California at all) apart from the pop-up shop in the airport with it’s cheap, pseudo-marble flooring and low ceilings. I smile back at her seeing me staring at her and smiling. Someone honks.

It’s at this moment that I notice how many people are actually walking, sweating in the dehydrating heat of summer in clothes better-suited to the confines of JC Penney’s weekly advertisements than anywhere near a human body. I wonder if cars don’t exist in California. I see the highways but it may be either too early or too late to be driving around on a Saturday morning. What few entry-level vehicles cruise the roads are sluggish, as if speaking for their owner’s hangovers and compromising their proposed fuel-efficiency in favor of arriving safely. I sigh and look over to Nina, whose legs are crossed and whose foot is flexing to and fro as if she were in some sort of avant-garde, mediocre film instead of sitting in the car with her brother while he rots in the stifling atmosphere he’s already grown to despise. It’s me but I like referring to myself in third person because it makes me feel important, like someone’s talking about me. Which they probably are, somewhere, but not here because here the name Hyland means nothing and instead I’m an idiot in a suit in the middle of June with a long-legged lady friend who I’m clearly not fucking (she’s my sister, but they don’t know that and considering my perfectly even complexion they probably assume I’m gay and that any lady friend I have, I’m not fucking - which is not true) in a black, nondescript sedan that probably draws more attention than the rest of the cars, which is perfectly ironic. Which is great, really. I reach over a hand to still her foot and in the process grab her Tom Ford stiletto, throwing it into the front seat. I notice she’s reading a magazine with some Kurt Cobain look-alike sitting in a television, dirty and unkempt and everything we both hate and I can’t stop myself from opening my mouth, “I understand your need to feel in touch with society, Nina, but really - grunge throwbacks?” she turns to face me, and I continue, absently prodding my index finger into a cut I received on my hand during an incident I wish I could remember, “How cliché.” the cut starts to bleed, and I hunt in the drawer compartments for something to stop the isolated drops of blood from flowing down my palm and staining the suit.

“Funny you should say that,” she snaps, ripping off my sunglasses (wayfarers, as luck might have it) and tossing them to meet her shoe on the seat next to Albert, our driver. If he wondered at all why there were various articles of clothing scattered on his passenger seat, he said not a word. Bless him. “Considering the eighties were thirty years ago and aren‘t calling for repetition.” I feel as though glaring at her would be insignificant but there isn’t much else to throw of hers, and she’s clearly on the verge of punching me instead of purging me of my materialistic tendencies, so I shut up and return to staring at the girl out the window, who can see my face now and that I’m not staring at her because I’d like to fuck her but because I’m disgusted with her distasteful dress and overt flirtations. I find a napkin and dab at the blood until it makes an oddly perfect circle. Nina flips through the remainder of the magazine and decides I’m right, which isn’t surprising because I’m usually right. Her strange fascination with people too poor for complete clothes and sanitary grooming habits evades me but I usually don’t question her because she’s my sister and her obsessions are usually short-lived. And because I can make my own assumptions, and as I said before, they’re usually right. Someone in the left lane is playing Colt 45 and I despise Afroman for making such catchy beats as Nina resumes mindlessly shaking her foot (who brought that habit into fruition, anyway? What purpose does shaking your foot serve apart from annoying everyone within a twelve foot proximity?) and this time, even Albert looks mildly irritated. “Nina. For Christ’s sake.” she laughs, stops shaking and starts humming. I wonder if she has some kind of weird combination of Asperberger’s and Parkinson’s. Yes. She does. She definitely does. She starts shaking again. I move to roll down the window to light one of my cigarettes, see the girl staring into the tinted depths once more and decide that maybe it would be best to postpone that adventure until I can lay claim to my sanity. In the background of my eternal monologue, Afroman is talking about parks in the dark and tumbleweed. I contemplate suicide.

behind the scenes

Your name: mumford
Age: sixteen
How long have you been RPing? about five years.
Where/How did you find us? lip told me i should join (: