Post by Jehanne La Pucelle on Dec 12, 2012 18:25:40 GMT -5
Jehanne La Pucelle
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I saw the holy saints descending from the sky
you say you're curious[/color]
CAN'T LEAVE A THING TO YOUR IMAGINATION[/font][/center]
AGE: 19
GENDER: Female
SEXUALITY Straight
BIRTHDAY: january 6
CLASS: Commoner (though she and her family were ennobled by the king)
TITLE/RANK: La Pucelle--it means the Maid.
OCCUPATION: Formerly captain of the armies of King Charles VII, currently looking for work.
ALIGNMENT: Good
SPECIES: Human
MAGICAL POWERS: None
CANON/OC: OC
TV SERIES: N/A
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but oh, you seem so serious
[/color] I SHOULD ENJOY THE SWEET INTERROGATION[/font][/center]
HAIR: Black
WEIGHT: 110
HEIGHT: 5'2
PLAY-BY: Wynona Rider
GENERAL: Jehanne's hair is black and short, usually worn in a bowl cut, though now it's a lot shorter, as her head was shaved prior to her execution. Her eyes are light blue and round. Short and wiry, but muscular, Jehanne is built like a sturdy peasant girl, though she's lost weight during her time in prison. Her skin is tanned from years working outside, it now has a paler, slightly sickly cast to it. She has two scars, one on her left shoulder just above her breast, and another on her right thigh, both from arrow wounds she'd received in battle. Her feet and legs, up to her knees, are heavily scarred from the fire, and she has trouble walking at first because of it.
ATTIRE: Jehanne wore the male clothes of her day for the past two years--hose laced to a doublet and a knee-length gown,with brown shoes. She also wore several hats and fine embroidered surecoats over her white--unadorned--armor. Now, she wears the plain shift she wore at her execution. She's also barefoot[/SIZE]
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i should not be telling you
[/color] I'M FLATTERED BY YOUR INTEREST[/font][/center]
DISLIKES: Immorality, swearing, prostitutes, blood, death, war, the English (though she wouldn't admit it)
STRENGTHS: Loyal, determined, gentle, witty, compassionate
WEAKNESSES: Arrogant, judgmental, prudish, blunt, stubborn
QUIRKS/HABITS: She prays and crosses herself frequently. She will become violent if provoked. Invasion of her personal space, as well as any attempt at too much familiarity, will warrant anything from a strong shove to a good punch, depending on the nature of the offense. Fire makes her edgy and she's prone to nightmares about both it and the battles that she's been in. In addition, being around a fire--even a small one--will make her highly uncomfortable,and she can't light one, though if there's no alternative she can cook over one. This bothers her a great deal and she tries--without much success--to overcome it.
FEARS: Fire, being thought of as a witch/heretic
GOALS: Adjust to this new place in which she's found herself.
PERSONALITYFirst and foremost, Jehanne is a deeply religious Roman Catholic. Her faith matters more to her than anything else. Before she arrived in Corentia, she attended Mass and received the Sacraments as often as she could, and she prayed and went to Confession at every available opportunity. Her faith is simple, and at times, all consuming. This firm trust in God helps to give her confidence--not necessarily in herself--but in her mission, and her Voices. In spite of this devotion, her actual knowledge is limited--she's illiterate, and knows only two prayers, the Pater Nostre and the Ave Maria, as well as The Credo.
In addition, she has strict moral standards to which she holds herself—and everyone else. When she served with the army, she maintained a strict moral code among her soldiers, insisting that God would only give them victory if they proved themselves worthy of it. Thus, she banned the troops from swearing--except for a mild oath, "by my staff," which she herself also used--and chased out the camp followers. She also insisted that they hear Mass and go to confession before battle. She used her own piety and strength of will to convince her soldiers that they were--and should be--a holy army fighting for a just cause. She tends to apply this same standard to everyone she meets, and has little patience for faults--her own or others.
Besides her religion, Jehanne loves and is devoted to her Voices—three disembodied entities who spoke to her from out of a bright light. She calls them her saints and says that they are Saint Michael, Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine. Only she can see and hear them. They bring her messages and instructions--some of which she understands and some of which she doesn't. They have been coming to her since she was twelve or thirteen, and she loves them better than anything else.
Fiercely protective of her Voices, she doesn't suffer doubters gladly. Her Voices are good and they come from God. Anyone who says differently is liable to a sharp rebuke, at best. Due to her dedication to these heavenly messengers--and the words they bring--she's prone to slipping off by herself to pray and speak with them--and woe betide anyone who interrupts her at either, particularly if her Voices are speaking with her. She won't hesitate to complain that she can't hear her Voices because of the noise around her. Jehanne will also happily converse with her Saints if they arrive in the midst of a previous conversation--as their messages are, of course, more important, in her mind.
Though gentle, Jehanne could--and did--use her temper and her sometimes sharp tongue to get things done in the way in which she wanted them to be done. Fully convinced in her own mind of her mission and its origins, she used that confidence in dealing with those around her, especially individuals who were unwilling to listen to her at first. She is also very persistent, refusing to give up until she gets what she wants. Growing up a peasant--albeit a fairly well-off one--Jehanne is used to hard work and making do. Her practical, down-to-earth nature, coupled with her boldness and earnestness, eventually earned her the loyalty of her soldiers and fellow captains.
Even her impetuousness often served her well. She adopted an aggressive strategy of an all-out charge against the enemy, which had not been practiced in many years, due to the English troops' proficiency with the longbow. However, Jehanne--who believed that her Voices were directing her on how to fight the battles--was too impatient to abide by traditional French military tactics. She rallied the troops--using her confidence in her mission--and charged the English soldiers, sending them into a panic. These successes helped to boost the French troops' confidence.
However, Jehanne's stubborn streak, impatience and insistence on holiness have also led her into trouble on numerous occasions. She frequently clashes with others who refuse to do or see things her way. She's also gotten herself--and others--seriously injured, because of her insistence on leading each attack and retreat, and her refusal to admit defeat. Jehanne is also arrogant and pompish, believing that her way is best. This can--and has--led to clashes on numerous occasions, as Jehanne frequently appeals to her status as "La Pucelle" as a justification for why she's right and the other party is in the wrong. Thus, she is prone to thinking that she is always right about generally everything.
Jehanne doesn't take kindly to being ignored and will sometimes get hostile when she feels that she's being overlooked. This is particularly true if the matter involves something which her Voices have bid her to do. Though not hostile toward men, the rough treatment she received from the soldiers at Rouen has made her somewhat wary, and she's quick to misjudge harmless flirting and teasing as something more offensive--and deserving of a good scolding. She can be sensitive to criticism, and is prone to making snippy--and at times belittling--comments if she feels threatened by someone. Possessing no patience for absurdities, she doesn't hesitate to use sarcasm when confronted by them.
Although generally tough and unyielding, Jehanne can--and does--show compassion and behave gently. She cares deeply for her family and the friends that she has, and will go to almost any lengths to protect them. Children, animals and the wounded--whether enemy or friend--are the other most likely candidates to see this side of her. When necessary, she can be deferential--i.e. using proper forms of address and bowing, though that curtesy vanishes if a conflict arises. Violence, though necessary, disturbs her, and she takes pains to avoid it. She dictated letters to the enemy forces--enjoining them to surrender and save their lives, or remain and suffer the consequences--and carried her banner rather than the sword--which she wore-- to avoid being personally responsible for the deaths of the enemy troops.
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you start to hypnotize me
[/color] WHY SHOULD I TRUST YOU[/font][/center]
FATHER: Jacques Darc
SIBLINGS: Jaquiem, Catherine, Jehan and Pierre
OTHER: King Charles VII, La Hire, the Duke D'Alencon, her squire Jehan D'Aulon and her page Louis de Comtes.
FAMILIAR/PET: None
PLACE OF BIRTH: Domrémy, France
CURRENT RESIDENCE: Looking
WEAPONRY:decent with a sword and a lance. Currently isn't possessed of weapons but she did have a sword with five crosses on it and another sword that she took from a Burgundian.
HISTORY: She was born on January 6, 1412 to Jaques and Isabelle Darc who lived in Domremy, France. For the first twelve years of her life, she was a typical girl. She played with the other children, helped her mother around the house, worked in her father's garden and sometimes helped with the animals. She went to church often and developed a reputation as a pious, but sweet, child. Her mother taught her how to spin thread and sew, as well as the two prayers, the Ave Maria and the Pater Nostre, and the Credo.
When she was twelve, her life changed. She was in her father's garden, working, when the Voices first came to her. They came from out of a bright light. At first, they told her to be good and go to church and that God would help her. she was so frightened, she did not know what to do. She never told her parents or friends about the Voices. Over the next five years, the Voices became more insistent. They told her that she was to leave her home and seek out Robert De Baudricourt, who was one of the captains of the king of France's army. France at this time was at war, with the English and their Burgundian allies fighting against the Armagnacs for control of the French throne. The English king Henry claimed the throne but so did the French dauphin, or crown prince, Charles VII. It was Charles who her Voices bid her to help.
When she was seventeen, she went to Vaucoulerus to see Sir de Baudricourt. At first he refused to listen to her, telling her cousin, a man named Durand Luxart, that he should take her home to her father to be whipped for her foolishness. Luckily, her uncle paid him no heed. He did not know how stubborn she could be. She refused to leave Vaucoulerus and continued to see de Baudricourt, until at last he provided her with a group of men to take her to Chinon, where Charles, the French king, was staying.
When she arrived at Chinon, she found the king hidden amongst his followers. After they talked, the king sent her to Poitiers to be examined by Catholic theologians, to determine the nature of her mission. So many questions they asked her! She thought it would never end. At last the scholars approved of her and she was granted an army, armor and a banner and sent to Orleans, a French city held by the English. She raised the siege of Orleans in May of 1429 and took many other cities throughout June and July, Jargeau and Patay being the most famous. Eventually she and the army reached Rheims, the site of French coronations. Charles VII was crowned king of France in Rheims in July, 1429.
By 1430, however, her fortunes had turned. She failed to take Paris--because she heeded the counsel of men and not her Blessed Saints--and eventually she was captured, as her Voices foretold, by the Burgundians, who sold her to the English for 10,000 crowns. The English put her on trial for heresy beginning in January and lasting through May of 1431. In a moment of weakness, and for fear of the fire, she abjured and agreed to resume female attire, so long as she was placed within a church prison with female guards, instead of the English men who had been guarding her up to this point--if one can call beatings and harassment guarding.
However, she was returned to her cell. Three days later she resumed her male attire, on May 27th, for a variety of reasons. Her English guards and their noblemen were worse to her now that she was clothed so. The bishop had lied to her about what would happen. Finally, her Saints came to her at last and told her that she had damned her soul to save her life, and this she could not bear. Because she had "recanted," she was sentenced to death, turned over to the secular authorities and, by all accounts, burned on May 31, 1431.
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who am i talking to
[/color] COULD BE A DEMON IN A MASK[/font][/center]
AGE: 26
EXPERIENCE: Two years I think
CONTACT: MerryMarley--skype and AIM name
MEMBER TITLE: Soldier of God
EXAMPLE:
The light brush of a breeze, soft as her mother's touch, woke her as it stroked her hair. She stirred, drawing in a shaky breath, and opened her eyes. The sun beat down on her from its perch in the sky, as white clouds darted about, harried by the wind. The girl lay still, slowly drinking in the fresh, clear air. The chains that had coiled like a snake around her and the paper miter, with the list of her supposed crimes writ large in Latin, which had perched, imp like, on her head, were gone. The stake which had pressed into her back was no more. The flames that had licked at her feet and legs had faded. Even the fickle crowd had vanished like mist burned away by the sun. Yet she wasn't dead, for the wind tugged at her shorn hair, while the sharp green blades of grass poked into the palms of her hands.
She struggled to breathe, coughing as she drew air into her scorched lungs. Where was she? Nothing familiar greeted her searching eyes. Spots danced before her eyes. Each breath she took was a knife gauging into her lungs. Her throat felt thick and heavy, as if there was a hand squeezing it slowly. She blinked again and some of the spots faded. The entire town of Rouen, to say nothing of the Old Market Square, had simply ceased to exist.
Jehanne shook her head. C'est ridicule. Je ne peux pas avoir tout simplement disparu. People did not, after all, simply vanish from one place only to appear in another. Digging her fingers into the grass, she tried to get to her feet. Her legs refused to move. The sky whirled and dipped around her. Jehanne squeezed her eyes shut, sinking back into the ground. She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again. Still, the strange world remained. Jehanne frowned, confusion flitting across her face. She could feel the breeze, which still played with her hair, and the sun, raising drops of sweat along her neck, while the grass scratched like a kitten at her knees. Again she shook her head. Ensuite, je ne suis pas mort non plus. The dead could not feel things as people could, and this place, pretty as it was, was not heaven.
She glanced around again, her gaze finally lighting on a large dirt track that ran along the edge of the field in which she lay. The sound of horses' hooves reached her ears as two mounted figures came into sight. She studied the pair. Even their clothing looked odd. They wore short, sleevless single breasted doublets with rich embroidery at the edges, over long sleeved shirts and heavy hose. Jehanne squinted. Where were the points and laces? Around their necks, both men had tied brightly colored bits of cloth. Both wore broad brimmed hats, with tall rounded crowns, that faintly resembled little hills with a crease in between. One hat was white, the other brown.even their shoes were peculiar. They wore stout leather boots, covered in intricate designs, that arched on the sides and dipped in front and back.
"I hope they do give the king her head. Bloody werewolf," the first man said, spitting into the dirt.
His companion chuckled. "Aye. On a silver platter with an apple in her mouth. Barmy fool. Dragging all of us into a war because she's got less sense the gods gave to a bleeding guinea hen."
Icy fingers ran down Jehanne's back. The two strangers didn't speak French, or Latin, or anything else she'd ever heard before...except... She narrowed her eyes, her fingers curling into the grass. A few of the words sounded similar to words her English guards used. Again she tried to stand, only to fall forward, coughing.
One of the men turned toward her, eyes narrowed. "What's this?" He turned the horse's head toward Jehanne, nudging the animal forward. "Miss, are you alright?"
Jehanne pushed at the grass, trying to crawl away. Nothing happened. Again she struggled to push herself up. Her head began to spin as the ground lurched beneath her."N'approches de moi!" Her voice cracked. Grasping onto the grass as if it would stop the world from moving, she stared at the men, fighting the roaring in her ears.
The first man glanced at the second. "What do you think she said?"
The second one shrugged. "Beats me. She's a foreigner. Look at her. Who knows what she's saying?" He swung down off the horse and walked toward her. "In mighty bad shape, though. Look at her legs." The man walked up to her and knelt. "Easy now, miss. No one's going to hurt you. I'm Henry, and the bloke on the horse is Richard."
Jehanne jerked her head up, fingers closing around a fistful of grass. <font color=#d55724>"Non! N'approches de moi!" It wasn't much, as far as weapons went, but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. The men's words made little sense to her. She barely caught their names through the howling in her ears. The world spun faster and she tightened her grip on the grass to keep from flying off. The once bright sky danced and flickered like a flame before her eyes. The men continued to talk, their voices blending into one another like the droning of bees on a hot summer day.
Henry glanced back at his friend on the horse. "Think she'd be alright if I try to help her up?"
Richard let out a sharp laugh. "Not unless you want to lose a few fingers. From the way she's glaring at you,I think it'd be better if we went on our way."
Henry shook his head and got to his feet. "We can't just leave her here. She's only a girl after all. Besides, look at her. What harm could she do?"
Richard snorted. "Plenty, or did you forget that our former queen--" he rolled his eyes as he spoke the word, "was a foreigner? That's all we need. Another troublemaker from gods know where, speaking gods know what. I say we leave her to herself. If she lasts, someone else'll find her. If not, well, one less person to worry about."
Henry shook his head yet again. "Look, mate, do what you want, but I can't just leave her here. Foreigner or not, I can't do it."
"Alright." Richard sighed and nudged the horse forward. "I'll ride into town, see if I can find someone to come for her. You just keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn't decide to start trouble before I get back."
Whatever reply Henry made became swallowed up in the darkness that swept over Jehanne. The darkness was a blanket around her, holding it close as it blotted out the sights and sounds around her. She sank into its embrace, collapsing onto the grass.
She struggled to breathe, coughing as she drew air into her scorched lungs. Where was she? Nothing familiar greeted her searching eyes. Spots danced before her eyes. Each breath she took was a knife gauging into her lungs. Her throat felt thick and heavy, as if there was a hand squeezing it slowly. She blinked again and some of the spots faded. The entire town of Rouen, to say nothing of the Old Market Square, had simply ceased to exist.
Jehanne shook her head. C'est ridicule. Je ne peux pas avoir tout simplement disparu. People did not, after all, simply vanish from one place only to appear in another. Digging her fingers into the grass, she tried to get to her feet. Her legs refused to move. The sky whirled and dipped around her. Jehanne squeezed her eyes shut, sinking back into the ground. She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again. Still, the strange world remained. Jehanne frowned, confusion flitting across her face. She could feel the breeze, which still played with her hair, and the sun, raising drops of sweat along her neck, while the grass scratched like a kitten at her knees. Again she shook her head. Ensuite, je ne suis pas mort non plus. The dead could not feel things as people could, and this place, pretty as it was, was not heaven.
She glanced around again, her gaze finally lighting on a large dirt track that ran along the edge of the field in which she lay. The sound of horses' hooves reached her ears as two mounted figures came into sight. She studied the pair. Even their clothing looked odd. They wore short, sleevless single breasted doublets with rich embroidery at the edges, over long sleeved shirts and heavy hose. Jehanne squinted. Where were the points and laces? Around their necks, both men had tied brightly colored bits of cloth. Both wore broad brimmed hats, with tall rounded crowns, that faintly resembled little hills with a crease in between. One hat was white, the other brown.even their shoes were peculiar. They wore stout leather boots, covered in intricate designs, that arched on the sides and dipped in front and back.
"I hope they do give the king her head. Bloody werewolf," the first man said, spitting into the dirt.
His companion chuckled. "Aye. On a silver platter with an apple in her mouth. Barmy fool. Dragging all of us into a war because she's got less sense the gods gave to a bleeding guinea hen."
Icy fingers ran down Jehanne's back. The two strangers didn't speak French, or Latin, or anything else she'd ever heard before...except... She narrowed her eyes, her fingers curling into the grass. A few of the words sounded similar to words her English guards used. Again she tried to stand, only to fall forward, coughing.
One of the men turned toward her, eyes narrowed. "What's this?" He turned the horse's head toward Jehanne, nudging the animal forward. "Miss, are you alright?"
Jehanne pushed at the grass, trying to crawl away. Nothing happened. Again she struggled to push herself up. Her head began to spin as the ground lurched beneath her."N'approches de moi!" Her voice cracked. Grasping onto the grass as if it would stop the world from moving, she stared at the men, fighting the roaring in her ears.
The first man glanced at the second. "What do you think she said?"
The second one shrugged. "Beats me. She's a foreigner. Look at her. Who knows what she's saying?" He swung down off the horse and walked toward her. "In mighty bad shape, though. Look at her legs." The man walked up to her and knelt. "Easy now, miss. No one's going to hurt you. I'm Henry, and the bloke on the horse is Richard."
Jehanne jerked her head up, fingers closing around a fistful of grass. <font color=#d55724>"Non! N'approches de moi!" It wasn't much, as far as weapons went, but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. The men's words made little sense to her. She barely caught their names through the howling in her ears. The world spun faster and she tightened her grip on the grass to keep from flying off. The once bright sky danced and flickered like a flame before her eyes. The men continued to talk, their voices blending into one another like the droning of bees on a hot summer day.
Henry glanced back at his friend on the horse. "Think she'd be alright if I try to help her up?"
Richard let out a sharp laugh. "Not unless you want to lose a few fingers. From the way she's glaring at you,I think it'd be better if we went on our way."
Henry shook his head and got to his feet. "We can't just leave her here. She's only a girl after all. Besides, look at her. What harm could she do?"
Richard snorted. "Plenty, or did you forget that our former queen--" he rolled his eyes as he spoke the word, "was a foreigner? That's all we need. Another troublemaker from gods know where, speaking gods know what. I say we leave her to herself. If she lasts, someone else'll find her. If not, well, one less person to worry about."
Henry shook his head yet again. "Look, mate, do what you want, but I can't just leave her here. Foreigner or not, I can't do it."
"Alright." Richard sighed and nudged the horse forward. "I'll ride into town, see if I can find someone to come for her. You just keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn't decide to start trouble before I get back."
Whatever reply Henry made became swallowed up in the darkness that swept over Jehanne. The darkness was a blanket around her, holding it close as it blotted out the sights and sounds around her. She sank into its embrace, collapsing onto the grass.
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