Estella Antoinette D2

Name: Estella Arabella Antoinette
Age: Sixteen
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 2
Appearance:

Pretty little mouth full to the brim with venom, that talented tongue riddled in hate so full of theatrics and tender little lies. Crimson lips set alight in the colour of blood, defined by a crafty smirk so often printed between sharp, penetrating cheeks. Perfectly pale marble skin emits an ivory glow, some could consider it angelic, pristine and virtuous... but it’s just a colour, a faded washed away white that illuminates the blush purposely painted to define those high, intimidating cheek bones. Embers swell in the midst of accusing eyes, the colour akin to cooling magma, burning fire flares beneath dark outstretched lashes and when caught upon the sun it only seems to smolder in the smoke of black decorating the outskirts and accentuating blackened eyelids. Shaped brows arch downwards in speculation, their dark colouration a perfect replication of the chocolate tresses curling down to caress a prominent jaw and seduce slender, sloping shoulders. A snobbish nose sits upon a pride ridden face, it’s length small to match the buttoned end. There’s just something about the way those dehumanizing eyes look dismissively upon all beneath her that creates a coldness to her face, something only disguised by that lulling, treacherous smile.

Lengthy, well attired arms seem a little too long for that petite fragile looking figure and a little too weak for any manual labour, which is just as well due to finely kept hands being pampered with expense. Thin though well fed a fast metabolism makes it almost impossible to put on any real weight; leaving curves as something to be unattainable and secretly desired. Collar bones protrude faintly through granite skin to match exposed hip bones and a flattened stomach. Long, graceful looking legs give the girl the height she’s indifferent about, bringing her to stand at 5’9 which somewhat suits her profession of looking down at other people from her self-proclaimed polished pedestal. Exploited unblemished skin like most things about this girl is a false appearance, for upon her side, often masqueraded by the latest fashions and edgy clothes, is a tattoo of thorns winding up the side of her figure and encased in their centre are blossoms to match the natural fragrance radiating from her skin.

Personality:

Suspicious by nature, Estella has no concept of trust, to the pretentious District Two girl no-one is capable of complete honesty and the poorer the person in is status or wealth the more untrustworthy they become. Through snobbery and excellence the silver-tongued bitch believes that everyone has a rightful place and when someone attempts to escape their place in the pecking order they must be forced back down into their rightful positions. Raised with wealth it comes as no surprise that Estella has no patience for the uncouth and depicts most low-lives as thieves, wanting nothing more than position and money, something in her mind they do not deserve unless they were born into a family of great social standing and economic position.

Selfishness comes naturally to the girl spoilt by nature and Estella prefers to do nothing for anyone, of course there are special exceptions when it comes to siblings, but for the majority of all things considered the upper-crust Antoinette prefers things to be done for her without the hassle of returning the gestures, kindness or favour. Carelessness is a hindrance and the volcanic girl is far too analytical to fall to such a common fault, instead the tight lipped, provocatively suggestive youngster analyses everything. Nothing goes unnoticed and nothing is ever simple in the overreactive, over-imaginative confinements of her accusing thoughts.

Believability is key and with Estella words are far more powerful than actions. More than willing to play the damsel, the warrior, the sweet wide eyed doe or the bitch, the pale faced potential actress can play the part of anything in order to gain whatever information or escape any situation she sees fit. It’s a talent that few can see through, mainly relatives and those who’ve known her for the length of her flamboyant life. Outspoken, the fork tongued Siren has no qualms with spitting her opinions at anyone who is willing to listen and those who are not. She’d happily state the things she says maliciously behind people’s backs to their faces with a warm smile and an air of cold, collective indifference. Of course only when the time is appropriate and will have no ill repercussions on herself. Emotionally confused, it is difficult for the girl to form actual attachments based on affection, for her moral code is questionable and her reliance falls largely on material items...having real emotional ties to someone beyond her family would be a foreign thing as opposed to the fake relationships she establishes to gain the attention she openly seeks.

History:

Oh I was a darling child, wrapped up in blankets of silk and the latest designer trends.

“Adorable.”

“What a gorgeous child.”


Beautiful little baby all huddled in her crib, innocent, virtuous, pristine in every definition of the word. But then those eyes open, those peepers forged in the pits of hell, calculating, sinful circles of amber, fire, bubbling magma simmering in the abyss. Two spots of damnation upon a plate of heavenly grace. Laughter was a rare sound, no giggles, no cheerful bursts of infantile glee, just sweet, sweeping smiles gone in an instant. But don’t be mistaken, I wasn’t miserable, I wasn’t an anti-social creature cuddled in the shadows rocking back and fourth clutching some demented looking doll with half a face and stitches across one eye. No. I adored affection. Craved attention. From being as young as two I desired the spotlight, desired the powerful arms of my father to bound me in their stronghold, their impenetrable salvation, and tell me what a pretty little girl I was. What a clever little princess I was. Beautiful little angel.

He instilled in me the values of family long before I can remember. The company my parents kept encouraged the forging of my nature, the inability to accept those of lesser standards. I was morphed into a child of prejudice, a child of pride and self-worth. Social standings grew to be of great importance, the name I bore became a title I’d defend no matter the cost, treasuring it like a companion, a friend of great importance.

“What's your name?”

“Estella Arabella Antoinette”

It was said with pride on that first day of school, said with excellence and superiority. Nobody else had a name with such stature, with such perfection attached to its very sound. With it I acquired friends with little effort, they crept closer like moths to the flame, circling me for scraps of attention, begging for approval, craving the compliments that laid upon a wasteland on my tongue. Popularity was important of course, I couldn’t be somebody’s pathetic little shadow, never in my life would I become a mindless animal at the beckon call of some wealthy overrated bitch. I was the wealthy overrated bitch and that’s how things were going to be.

In time I grew to realize my nonchalance to those around me, my cold indifference. Be it in training, schooling or in general socialization I felt no emotional pull, no rooted attachments. I came to realize I played the chameleon, changing my colours to suit my intentions, to bend to the will of my purpose and aid my endeavors no matter the situation. I was an actress and I challenged it, playing unintelligent unsuspecting lower-crust cretins against each-other for the purpose of my own entertainment, occasionally even doing so to amuse others, to impress them with my capabilities. Then I progressed, progressed fluently as I entered my teenage years, playing with the emotions of others like animated toys, daring them to see through the perfection of my acts. Just for someone to acknowledge the brilliance of my theatrical capabilities, in the fluent ease I moved between villain and damsel, hero and valiant friend. But none did. None but my family. It’s almost impossible to fool those who have known you your entire life and watched as you thrive and embrace the god-given gifts of your own cunning, proud personality.

But most fell to it, like victims to a well oiled machine, a predator.

“Raptor, won’t you get me a drink?”

“Get it yourself Ella.”

“Please.. the guy behind the counter..he harasses me..”

“Harasses you? What’d he do?”

“I--I--”

That blush was perfect, so akin to the real thing only an expert would notice as the bright rosy flush filled my cheeks and a thin frosted layer of mist clouded across the deceptive colour of my intriguing eyes.

“What’d he do Estella?”

“He keeps trying to grab me.. Says I should go out with him. Says he’s the best for me.”

And that was that, a little poke at masculine pride and a little bit of distressed damsel and the action unfolded. Such a pleasant show to see one muscle bound meathead challenge some clueless quiet creature who prefers to dwell in the solitude of whatever rock he lived under. Of course I obtained a drink, free of charge and an escort to my next class. His heroics didn’t impress me though, they never did. No one impressed me. Although my sister was impressive... her act far out-shined anything I’d ever managed to execute. But we couldn’t all be blonde hotshots.

Life was delectable, utterly delicious. Everything came easily. Apart from training. Training wasn’t my strongpoint. I had agility on my side, but when it came to anything physical I was so often overpowered I grew bored of trying and wouldn’t trouble myself with attempting to ‘bulk up.’ It just wasn’t possible. Everyone said I could do it with a different diet with a different regime, but no matter what they tried I never produced a mass of strength or an endurance for weights. I struggled to lift a sword and keep it lifted, those things are a lot heavier than they look that’s for sure. That gained some teasing, but my father encouraged me on other pursuits, said that swords, axes, maces and all those other beefy tools weren’t the only way to be deadly. He turned me towards daggers, whips and occasionally I’d challenge myself to play with a lighter cut sword, which appeared more as an over-grown dagger than an actual destructive weapon. But they weren’t laughing anymore. Not when I could snatch their weapons from their hands with the crack of a whip and have a dagger plunged into their sternum before they had time to bend down and pick it up.

Things were more bearable after that.. but then I didn’t have a great interest in training. It wasn’t something that motivated me. I didn’t have some inexplicable hypnotic pull towards inflicting death or some crazed obsession with becoming a victor like my sister seemed to have. I preferred to revel in my wealth, to sink into the comforts that came with a powerful social standing and watch contently as people looked upon our family with awe and respect. For the most part anyway. Of course nothing runs a smooth course for long, there’s always some oversized obstacle waiting in the wings to crush anything decent in life. When father died I didn’t quite know what to do. I still don’t, not really. But in his absence I became a little more devious, a little more suspicious, perhaps even paranoid. I still am, but I’ll never show it. That just wouldn’t be me.

I’m an actress.

I’ll only ever show what I want.

What I want people to see.

I’ll only ever make them feel how I want them to feel.

They’ll never know me, not really.

Not ever.

Codeword: <img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/16h2ibt.png">
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