quincey riggs /district nine/ fin

gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte
Head RP Tutor

4,592 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Jun 3, 2024 14:16:27 GMT -5

oof

quincey riggs /district nine/ fin Mar 20, 2014 4:08:20 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte on Mar 20, 2014 4:08:20 GMT -5

actually a decent human being

name: quincey riggs
age: er...17? yea 17
district: 9 babeh
gender: feminine as fuck

appearance:
uh idk i need an fc
but i see brown hair and pale if i can manage

personality:
angsty artist. painting all the shit books upon books
life consumed by her art like totes.
super quiet, weak willed.
"mild and meek as a mouse"
dresses down, self conscious introverted
loves drawing people she observes around school/work

history:
what is family lol
idk do u know?
i has sister. her name is like... something adorable idk yet
papa has a beard and shit. prolly put some simile to needles against skin here or something
mama(s) are unknown. daddy wuz a whore and didn't use a condom and oops, two babbies.
holy shit mah sis is only my half sis
u bastard i h8 u
jk ur all i have
something drama. perhaps bullies and bitches
or oh, guy being asshole or some shit.
slow descent into introversion. yeaaaah buddy
throw in some stuff about art idek waht is this a writing site

o.... dair seems to be something i'm missing
no need to pannick

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2014 1:45:33 GMT -5 by gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte
Head RP Tutor

4,592 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Jun 3, 2024 14:16:27 GMT -5

oof

quincey riggs /district nine/ fin Mar 20, 2014 5:03:15 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte on Mar 20, 2014 5:03:15 GMT -5

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Paint flows through my veins like blood. A dark crimson simply waiting to be thrown against a blank canvas. The white palette is clutched in ivory fingers, long and spidery, and the dark wood of a brush in the others. The careful strokes of red and brown will take me on a journey far from the confines of this district, of this world, and free me from the anxieties that keep me rooted here. I'm only truly at home when I am painting.

"Quincey!" she shouts, her voice like nails against a chalkboard. I find myself wincing at even the thought of what horror she had in store for me this evening. "You're friends are here." I could hear the amusement laced within the witches' cackle. For she knew, as well as I, that the only friends I possessed was the art strung carefully upon my walls.

I move with weighted grace, wispy legs traversing the room of an artist. Various mediums were spread about the carpeted ground. I crack pencils and coat bare feet in layers of acrylic colors. Not that I care much, I am not, nor have I ever been, invested in my appearance. No natural beauty has blessed me, in fact I could argue quite the opposite. My eyes are almost miles apart, giving me an unnatural appearance. And one, I've been told, that is less than pleasing to the eyes.

Slowly pushing hair matted with charcoal and grease behind my ear, I make my way to where the witch awaits. Out the door and down the wooded hall, leaving smudged imprints of feet along the way.She's not much older than I, perhaps in her early twenties. Lips painted the color of dried blood and a brow that lays low upon her eyes give her an appearance of something evil And quite honestly, her book is very much like her cover.

No one awaits me at the door. Honestly, I expected no less from her. "Oh come in." she beckons to an empty doorway. I let out a groan, my jaw locking into position as I attempted to force a reply.

"Fuck you, Bitch." Nails dig into sweating palms, her reason for doing this being nothing more than to see my reaction. My sister was always a cruel woman. She looked down upon me for my reclusive nature, for being tiny and frail and a sibling she could never relate to. Someone she was ashamed of.

Her fists connect with my shoulder, the force behind it enough to make me stumble backwards. "Right back at you, little sis." the malice laced within her tone shouldn't have been possible when talking to someone whose blood runs through their veins. I know better than to fight back. She was nearly double my size had a mouth to match. The tales her tongue would spin, telling of my abuse to father would be comical... if he didn't believe her. Every.Fucking.Time.

He's always played favorites.

I storm past her, sure to ram my shoulder as hard as I could into her large arm. She mustn't have felt it, as no response was invoked. Once again in the confines of my room, I grab the paint hidden under my bed ~~safe from large feet which carelessly traverse the room on a nightly basis.~~

I can use my rage to an advantage, setting a canvas upon the rotting easel. It had been so long since I'd had enough to buy a new one, the pitiful amount I was awarded each month by father usually thrown away on paints and pens. A plastic plate is soon adorned with various hues of red. It's almost funny, how my own flesh and blood can invoke such rage from a usually meak girl. Upon leaving the confines of my home, words other than that of agreement and conformity rarely leave me. And even such words are rare. I'm nothing popular, I'm nothing special.

I'm plain.

My body is far too frail to be shown. The clothes I wear are large, often hanging off my body in awkward waves. It does nothing to add to my already unpleasant appearance. Not that I mind. I'm meant to be an outsider. One who looks and observes. Never truly fitting in. It's taken me much too long to accept this.

Now my books are filled with observations. Of those I see, the wonderful way their bodies flow, their expressions and appearance and simply everything about others intrigues me. While paint it my preferred tool, pencils can dance across the page with the same grace. Whether it be of the teachers, addressing the class with authoritative hatred, or a boy who particularly caught my fancies, faces fill my books. They're my favorite works.

The brush flies across the rough paper, soaked with a smooth combination of orange and red. I'm not sure where my art is going, but somewhere abstract, and somewhere full of rage. It's almost nice, to finally feel something. Being an outsider is much harder than it appears, often accompanied by a deep numbness one unable to be taken away. I cannot connect to others, like I truly wish. In my head, my words are nothing less than that of confidence. Yet, when they attempt to leave my mouth they become cluttered and noncoherent.

So instead I hide. I've long since accepted I'll never fit in.

I haven't always hated my sister ~~or should I say half sister~~ with such a passion. Father was... adventurous in his younger days, and mother left me with him rather than caring for me herself. I arrived not soon after the witch, and apparently we were inseparable. Constantly clinging to each other, I'd cry if not allowed to sleep in her bedroom.

It all changed the second the kids began to taunt me.

I don't look normal, nor do I act it. Always obsessed with fitting in, the witch pushed me away. And, so the story goes. It doesn't matter what I've done, or what she's done in years prior. For now, is all that mattered. And now, I hate her.

My masterpiece is finally complete. A swirling inferno of red, yellows and oranges, in the middle sitting a skull. Flames seep from its sockets and mouth, and altogether it sums up how I feel at this very minute, no matter its abstract qualities.

I'm not just angry. I'm furious.

What a curious sensation.

.

coded by anzie with reference to skye@caution2.0

Quincey Riggs

'till my sleeves are stained red

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2014 1:45:04 GMT -5 by gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte Head RP Tutor 4,592 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Jun 3, 2024 14:16:27 GMT -5 oof	quincey riggs /district nine/ fin Mar 24, 2014 1:45:48 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gamemaker artemie 🦉nyte on Mar 24, 2014 1:45:48 GMT -5 done... i may have a problem
	the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

cass Retired Staff 4,822 POSTS last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5	quincey riggs /district nine/ fin Mar 24, 2014 2:32:20 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by cass on Mar 24, 2014 2:32:20 GMT -5 love it, love her, love your writing, love you accepted!