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by Literate 6/10/2015, 12:44 am
CHARACTER DETAILS
Name: August Catalina de Witte. Prefers August, but her older brothers and father call her Little Cat, Kitten or just plain Cat.
Age: 16
Gender: Female
Country: America
Godly Parent: Aristaeus: God of Cattle, Fruit Trees, Hunting, Husbandry and Bee-Keeping.
Mortal Family: Abel de Witte, Father (not by blood, but he raised her). Alicia Foster, Mother. Conor de Witte, eldest brother. Eric de Witte, middle brother.
Weapons: Staff, celestial bronze knife.
Pets: None
Claimed: Yes
Years in Camp: 3 years, though she missed the most recent year.
BIOGRAPHY
Lay your head down darling...
The teddy bear's well-chewed button-eyes looked over the scene reproachfully. It wasn't meant to be there. It belonged in August's young arms. But there it was. Down below Alicia's breaths were coming in ragged gasps. Arms, skinny, pale, trembled as if they held the weight of the world. A finger was wavering, pointing accusingly at the other person.
"I can't do this any more. I can't."
The finger dipped, drooping to the ground as if weary.
"Don't do this Alicia. Please."
A pause, a breath in time when everything held still.
"Think of August."
On the staircase came creeping footsteps, the soft tread of a toddler. A small shadow stealthily retrieving a lost toy. But something made August turn and look down at her parents. Something made her freeze in the act of leaving and kept her eyes glued on them. They were like paper dolls, pale faces cast into a flickering gloom by the light of the fire.
"I have thought of August, Abel. I think of August every day, every hour. You think this is easy?"
"I didn't thi-"
"Of course you didn't think. You never think. It's always about your trashy pamphlet."
"Alicia..."
"Forget it Abel. I'm leaving and I'm not coming back."
Abel moaned softly, his head shaking.
"Alicia. I love you. Always."
"You know what your problem is Abel? You don't have any ambition. Your happy to keep churning out the same old dross for your pamphlet. I want to be big, Abel, and your holding me back."
Abel closed his eyes. And then, like a knife in his heart, came Alicia's next words.
"Besides. I don't love you."
He lurched toward her as she turned for the door, operating only on instinct. His arm snagged hers, the soft cotton of her dress a sharp contrast to his rough hands.
"Don't touch me."
Abel ignored her, weeping openly. If he let her go she'd be gone, nothing more than a memory. Alicia hissed and snatched up the kettle, upending it on his arm. Water splashed, eating its way up to the elbow. With a startled cry Abel fell back and Alicia slipped out the door.
From the staircase August watched as the door swung slowly shut. She watched as her father cried, cradling his arm like a newborn babe. She watched until the fire flickered to nothing, the teddy-bear clenched tightly in one fist.
I will care for you all your years...
The neat pile of bags seems lonely. It sits in the middle of a sea of polished marble, a lonely deserted island of clutter. Actually no, not quite deserted. Behind it stands a young man, a look of determination set on his face.
And what have we here! Along the hallway strides a woman, severe grey dress and coat flapping furiously. Her heels snap against the ground, the sharp staccato that has signaled the end for more than one unfortunate employee. But this man is no employee. Oh no, he's the son.
Let us observe.
See the way the wrinkles crinkle at the corner of the woman's mouth? Her best anti-aging creams haven't helped there. A few small strands of gray have escaped her hair-dying regime, and good on them I say. Gray is natural. The mother's cheeks are rosy from the cold, and a light dusting of snow is drifting from her shoulders.
Wait. She speaks.
"What," she begins, voice tightly controlled. "Do you think you're doing?"
The boy - he is still more boy than man, really - has visibly shrunk at the approach of his Mother, but now he stands tall.
"I am leaving Mother."
His eyes are clear, his gaze strong. If I were to shake his hand I expect he would have a firm grip. The mark of an honest man, or at least someone pretending to be one. In this case, however, we have a genuine, honest-to-goodness honest man.
The mother on the other hand is not quite so pleasing. Her mouth is sour, her eyes are flashing.
"Eric. You are only seventeen. Put those bags back upstairs and we won't take this any further."
The boy is tempted, it is clear, but he stays resolute. And unnoticed behind him, peeking around a heavy ebony door, is his sister. The girl August.
"No Mother. I've had enough. As you point out I'm seventeen. Legally an adult. And so I'm going."
The Mother is clearly frustrated, but at the same time there is a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. Eric had always been the difficult child. Life would be that much easier with him out of the way.
"Very well." The words came through gritted teeth, but at least they came.
The boy is clearly startled by the sudden acceptance, but never one to spit in the face of fortune he picks up his bags and makes as if to leave.
"One last thing Mother. Don't take anything out on August."
Behind an ebony door the girl called August watches as her brother leaves, something close to hero-worship in her eyes. Here was someone who had faced down her Mother and won.
I will be there till the very end.
Grandma's face stared blankly from behind its glass window. It showed no emotion, no surprise or annoyance as the coffin was hoisted into the air. Unusual for Grandma. She always had an opinion on everything.
But then it was hard to have an opinion when you were dead.
August felt oddly detached. It was like she wasn't part of the same world as everyone else. Couldn't be part of the same world, because if she was that would mean Grandma was gone. Forever. And that was impossible. No more scones. No more hymns whistled in the back garden. It was like Grandma had extinguished a spark of August's soul with her passing.
Grandpa seemed to be in a similar state. He was staring blankly ahead, one hand resting on the coffin as tears streamed down his face. Grandpa, the stoic voice behind the beard, unchangeable, immovable, was weeping.
A bleak wind swept over the congregation, rustling black cloaks and bringing with it the sound of a child laughing. It was bittersweet, hearing that laugh. How could there be happiness when Grandma wasn't here? And yet, the laugh offered the hope of renewal.
August dashed tears from her face and tried to focus on something happy, anything to let her forget the present she was living through.
Camp.
She was going back to Camp Half-Blood in a few months. Because Mother didn't want to have to care for a moody teenager for another year, and her Father wasn't up to the task. One year of homeschooling and Mother was already happy to hand her back to Camp Half-Blood. A good thing. Mother's classes usually ended up turning to the subject of politics.
They had stopped moving and the coffin was being lowered solemnly into the grave. The priest said his piece, and as the first shovel of earth hit the coffin lid August turned to her Grandpa, burying her face in his jacket.
Grandma was gone. For good.
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
Personality/Flaws/Talents: The best way to describe August's personality is 'emotionally confused', probably the result of her polar opposite parents and the separate lives she lives with each of them. She can be shallow, she can be caring, she can be selfless and she can be cruel. August is always ambitious though. August is more concerned for her own well-being than she probably should be, though that's not to say she doesn't care about others as well and can be a fierce champion of the defenseless when riled. She wants recognition and love, something she never received a lot of from either parent. The one thing she would do anything to avoid is pain/disfigurement. August still has nightmares of her parents divorce. She has a special fondness for licorice, sunglasses, small children and chess, and is an accomplished violinist.
Abilities/Powers: Her godly heritage has gifted August with the kind of power that legends are born from. She can communicate with bees. Not even proper conversations either, just primitive signals. Needless to say, August wasn't exactly thrilled with her prize in the godly gift lottery.
Appearance: August is fairly short, standing at 5"6. She has waves of natural brown hair that contrasts well with her pale skin, a mouth that looks as though it's almost permanently pouting and what her mother describes as "designer eyebrows". No, August doesn't know what that means either. She has green eyes with a hint of an Asian slant to them, courtesy of Japanese blood on her mother's side. Her body is a bit too slim to be considered classically attractive, having more in common with a bean-pole than anything with curves. When she was younger and living with her Father a gang of young children teased her about her feet, which are admittedly a little smaller than you'd expect for someone her size. So now August wears shoes two sizes larger than her actual size, scrunching newspaper into the toes to make them fit.
SAMPLE ROLEPLAY
August strode along the corridor, one had to her throbbing head. Bed was sounding so attractive right now, despite the fact that it wasn't even dark out. She quickened her pace as she heard footsteps coming up behind her, but there's a maximum speed you can't go past when you've got a migraine, and her pursuer was clearly hindered by no such restrictions.
"Wait up!"
The voice, sickeningly sweet and breathless, was instantly recognizable. She gave a small whimper. All August wanted was to be left alone for a one day. Was that really so much to ask?
She'd been bugged by headaches all day, ever since she'd walked into the stable wall. Not that that had been her fault. A stupid eleven year-old had thought it would be great fun to steal a chicken and let it loose in the yard. The result? August dodging the squawking menace and making the acquaintance of the wall.
And now that silly airhead, Astrid, wanted her opinion. On frogs legs of all things. August really, really didn't care. She could barely concentrate on the route to her cabin, let alone discuss the merits of French cuisine.
"Astrid. Please. Can you just let it drop for one moment? I'm not in the mood."
Maybe if it had been one of her friends she might have made the effort. She might have said that actually frog legs weren't so bad, cooked right. And Mother's chef could certainly cook them. She might have waxed lyrical on the subject of that slightly sweet meat, lightly seasoned and served in a perfect white sauce. She might have, if Astrid had been a friend.
But she wasn't. So August didn't.
