Post by Catarina 'Carmo' Moura on Sept 25, 2010 11:50:12 GMT -6
Catarina Moura
-PORTUGAL-
~*~
-PORTUGAL-
~*~
"Vis unita maior nunc et semper!"
Name: Carmo (Really Catarina) Moura
Nickname: Nossa Senhora or Macaco (Given by her crewmates)
Origin: Lisbon, Portugal
Gender: Female
Age: 19
Occupation: Cabin Boy
Former Occupation: (In chronological order)Servant;
Rank: Cabin Boy
Ship: 'La Furia Roja'
Current Whereabouts: Who knows?
Orientation: Heterosexual
Birthday: June 10th
Personality: Undoubtedly, the first thing one will notice about Catarina is her loud mouth and/or her conceit. Afraid of change, she clings onto the pride she had once, trying to overcome what has happened to her. Her competitive nature often works against her, and she sulks a lot when she loses. During rare times of peace, she is actually polite and kindhearted, though still blunt that she does not even think over what she says. She is always sincere, though ironically is indirect when giving her opinion on something. And if it's about her love life, she'll probably refuse to listen to reason and deny everything.
As a frugal person, she discourages giving things away without expecting something in return. "Thank You" rarely satisfies her unless the person is very dear. Not that she would ever admit it, but she is extremely attached to certain individuals. She would become overprotective, and sometimes jealous of those who are closer to them. In the crew, she is usually a little rowdy, though almost always moody about being forced onto the ship. She also hoards any objects that belong to her, especially money, and will keep any valuables hidden from even her closest friends. She also has a short temper for perverts and has been known to chop off fingers of those who try to test their luck with her.
Appearance: 'Carmo' is about 5'4" and very slender. 'He' has a narrow waist, and slight hips, long slender legs, and a slightly curved figure. 'He' has long shapely fingers and small feet, as well as a feminine face with thin, arched eyebrows, like a woman's. He also has a small beauty mark just below 'his' right eye. 'He' also has full lips and bright green eyes. Like most Iberians, 'he' also appears to have the infamous 'Iberian ass'. Enough said. 'His' crew mates sometimes make fun of 'his' womanly looks, called 'him' names and taking on a feminine stride around 'him', but 'he' pays them no mind. It's only when they acknowledge his jailbait appearance that 'he' has to use some sort of action. Being 'lonely' on a long voyage is bad. Being 'lonely' on a long voyage with one less finger is much worse. 'His' hair is normally sheared short, though sometimes 'he' grows it out a little, and is a dark brown in color, with slight auburn highlights to it. It is also always unruly and curly and sticks up in tufts on 'his' head.
Carmo wears a plain white shirt to cover the large scar 'he' has over 'his' heart from the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, which is large and raised and constantly covered by long, grimy bandages. 'He' wears thin, baggy red pants and no shoes, seeing as they make climbing up masts and ropes much more difficult. 'He' never appears to bathe, at least not with most of the crew, but keeps pretty good hygiene. 'His' teeth are still an off-white, almost pearly, color, and 'he' is missing one back molar, but that's not something 'he' is willing to talk about.
Strengths and Weaknesses:
- Can withstand most abuse and won't back out quickly in fights
- Physical strength is lacking
- Witty and quick with tongue
- But this causes trouble
- Learned to fend for self on the streets
- Can fight dirty, and with most any weapon available
- But usually chooses not to
- Can run quickly and maneuver through a ship with grace
- Can climb well and has the skills of an acrobat when up in the mast (Earning the nickname 'Macaco', or 'monkey')
- Knows ships quite well
- Hostage on one
- Looks young enough to not be an official member of the crew
- Looks like Jailbait
- Can be diplomatic with people
- Chooses not to be
- Has no respect for the Captain
- So screwed because of this
- Claustrophobic
- Can't stand to be under the deck for too long
- Is a good dancer, if it helps(?)
- Accepts bribes, sometimes
History: Carmo refuses to tell anyone ANYTHING about 'his' past. All that people know was that 'he' has three sisters and a single mother at home who 'he' has to support, leading 'him' to doing odd jobs until (one day) 'he' was working in the shipyard and was kidnapped by the Spanish to become a cabin boy. 'He' despises anything to do with 'his' past and leaves a lot of loose ends, like 'his' scar, the missing molar, and 'his' claustrophobia.
Relationships:
- England: Catarina really likes the British man, and wishes she could escape to his ship. She remembers seeing him dock in Lisbon, before, and marvels at him from afar. She feels they'd be good friends.
- Spain: Catarina HATES being under his command and is constantly seeking ways to get off his ship. She HATES when she has to rely on him, as well. However, she feels a strange connection to him, as well as a grudging respect and possibly the tiniest hints of affection.
- France: Catarina HATES the French. End of story.
- Turkey: Catarina HATES the Turks, especially the pirates, seeing as they attacked most of her country. Also, having just escaped Moorish rule, she's wary of the man. She knows that people have tried to keep them out (Including herself), but bribes have a way with words, and the pirates continue to ravage European waters.
- Japan and Hiroshima: Catarina likes the Japanese and how exotic and polite they are. She takes pleasure in teasing Hiroshima about 'her' masculinity, as well as taunting 'her' with 'his' speed and acrobatic feats. She holds respect and hospitality to both.
Weapons: Anything she can get her hands on, but she carries a small dirk shoved into the waist of her pants.
Likes:
- Food (Particularly fish)
- Money
- Exploring new places
- Experiencing new things
- Meeting new people
- Fresh sea air
- That British man
- Sometimes Captain Carreido
- Younger children (Spoils them)
- Promises of the future
- Sugar
- Ships
- Young men her age (Mostly other cabin boys she sees.... But only certain ones ;D)
- The Japanese (They're so friendly)
- The Armillary Sphere
Dislikes:
- People who mock 'his' femininity
- That stupid captain!
- The Turks
- Being held hostage
- Tight, stuffy spaces (Like below deck)
- The dark
- Tomatoes (Because HE likes them)
- Fires
- The past
- Poverty
- Losing
- Chewing food on the left side of her mouth (Where the missing molar is)
- Sex without love
Hobbies:
- Likes to sing
- Would rather be clinging to the mast than underneath, in the cabin
- Badmouthing the Captain, when no one's listening
- Tossing Captain's tomatoes overboard, or eating them (When really hungry)
- Entertains crew mates with acrobatic tricks, when things are dull
Random Quirks:
- Always sounds like a young man in puberty (Constantly has to remember to deepen voice, but sometimes forgets)
- Always tries to pat down hair
- Will shut her mouth and walk away when she's done talking to you
- Very flexible, with a few double joints, to add to the acrobatic skills from working around ships for a while
- Knows WAY too much and sometimes gives too much information
- Has the crew convinced 'he' is still only 17
Roleplay Sample:
Her fingers itched.
It wasn’t an itch that could be satisfied by any amount of scratching. She’d tried, and failed. It was an inner itch, an itch that needed an obscure fulfillment to end the insistent quivering. It ran from her fingertips, up to her knuckles, bound her tendons to its will. It flowed up her arms, through her spine, into her mind, her being. It was practically a part of her.
The girl growled in frustration.
The strings under Jelena's itching fingers were pressed tightly to the fingerboard. Her hands today were antsy, clumsy, more often than not causing her to miss the notes she knew by heart. This was ridiculous. She hated days like this.
“Days Like This” were the ones where she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering. There was always a lingering melancholy, hanging heavily in the air; it made the air thick, almost suffocating. She felt like she was drowning in her own life; she was being pushed and pulled by the tides, this way and that, eyeing events from the past that she couldn’t find a grip on. In the maelstrom of her history, she was lost, no foothold to grip, nothing to hold her to reality.
But this was reality.
She looked around the room that she was situated in. “Her” room, she supposed, the one she shared with Aislinn. The one that still didn’t completely feel like home. Her side of the room was neat and tidy, with various band and athletes' posters on the walls. Next to the bed, where she was currently seated, was a guitar stand, empty and an acoustic guitar case. A few boxes rested on her side of the room, smaller one filled with CDs and bigger ones filled with this and that.
She’d never fully unpacked. As stuck as she was to the school, and while it was currently her 'home', she just didn't totally see it. So, the boxes remained. Her senior year, and then she was done. Maybe when she graduated, she'd get over all the stuff at this school and move on. Become a musician or an athlete? Maybe.
The girl suddenly became aware of the soft, consistent twangs that were coming from the amplifier on the floor. Looking down to the guitar she held, she noticed her still itching fingers beating steadily along the frets of the fingerboard.
She let out a laugh. Fretting fingers drumming on frets.
Behind the sounds flowing from the amplifier was a softer sound - a rhythmic tapping. She set the guitar down on the empty stand to listen to it. Raindrops smacked softly onto the windowpane, streaming downwards from their contact point. She stood up and walked over to the source of the sound, listening as the drops fell in harmony with one another.
She sat down on the floor, leaning forward to rest her hands on the windowsill. Her itching fingers tapped along with the rain for a while before they gradually took a beat of their own. Jelena sat there for a while, listening to the rain and the drumming of her own fingers. She watched as tracks of water were traced over and over, each raindrop adding its own mass to the trail.
Her eyes turned to her fingers. They itched, they were so insistent on... on something... she had to get it out. This itching, she had to get rid of it. She had to get it out. She watched his fingers dance along the sill, making rhythm with the rain.
She had to get it out.
She had to...
She had to get out of these dorms.
She stood abruptly, causing black spots to spread across her vision. Without waiting for them to clear, she stumbled toward the closet and pulled a grey hoodie over her head. She pulled the hood up and adjusted the chunky headphones around her neck so they stuck out of the sweater. She knew what would fix this itching, but it wasn’t in this place.
She grabbed the acoutsic guitar case and stepped out into the hallway, turned herself toward the exit, and set off at a steady pace. She passed the other rooms, ignoring the occupants like she always did. She was currently on a mission and the last thing she needed to prolong the itching with a conversation.
Jelena was confronted with an assault of raindrops as she stepped out the door. The rain had grown more heavy. That was fine with her, the school wouldn’t be too crowded if it was pouring. She took on a brisk pace down the sidewalk, her destination glowing in her mind’s eye.
The small covering by the track was a good place to think. And get out of the rain. She bowed her head as she walked underneath, letting the raindrops that had soaked through her drip to the ground, sliding past her eyes and off her nose. She ignored any chairs or table and chose the ground, sitting softly and crossing her legs.
The guitar slipped out of the case easy as ever, and she cradled it in her lap as she discarded the empty case on the side. The moment her fingers touched the strings, the air felt lighter and the burning stopped. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Something about the rain and being outside made her calm. And an acoustic guitar was more natural than her electric one. She began to strum, falling down the rabbit hole called, 'Music'.
"I am going away for a while
But I'll be back, don't try and follow me
'Cause I'll return as soon as possible
See I'm trying to find my place
But it might not be here where I feel safe
We all learn to make mistakes
And run
From them, from them
With no direction
We'll run from them, from them
With no conviction
'Cause I'm just one of those ghosts
Traveling endlessly
Don't need no roads
In fact they follow me
And we just go in circles."
She drifted away from reality, swaying back and forth, as if in a trance. Her voice flowed of its own accord, her fingers danced along the frets in a way that would make the most talented ballerina jealous. She swore she could feel tears in her eyes, but that could have just been the rain.
"Well Now I'm told that this is life
And pain is just a simple compromise
So we can get what we want out of it
Would someone care to classify,
Of broken hearts and twisted minds
So I can find someone to rely on
And run
To them, to them
Full speed ahead
Oh you are not, Useless
We are just
Misguided ghosts
Traveling endlessly
The ones we trusted the most
Pushed us far away
And there's no one road
We should not be the same
But I'm just a ghost
And still they echo me"
She opened her eyes arubtly. The music had warmed her, coursing through her fingertips, then radiating throughout her whole body. She glanced around her, this melancholy atmosphere so alike to the one the music had painted for her. About her. She glanced down at the guitar, gripped tightly in her hands, so tighly that her knuckles were white. She let go, flexing her fingers experimentally. The itch was gone. Her fingers were free.
"They echo me in circles........"
It wasn’t an itch that could be satisfied by any amount of scratching. She’d tried, and failed. It was an inner itch, an itch that needed an obscure fulfillment to end the insistent quivering. It ran from her fingertips, up to her knuckles, bound her tendons to its will. It flowed up her arms, through her spine, into her mind, her being. It was practically a part of her.
The girl growled in frustration.
The strings under Jelena's itching fingers were pressed tightly to the fingerboard. Her hands today were antsy, clumsy, more often than not causing her to miss the notes she knew by heart. This was ridiculous. She hated days like this.
“Days Like This” were the ones where she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering. There was always a lingering melancholy, hanging heavily in the air; it made the air thick, almost suffocating. She felt like she was drowning in her own life; she was being pushed and pulled by the tides, this way and that, eyeing events from the past that she couldn’t find a grip on. In the maelstrom of her history, she was lost, no foothold to grip, nothing to hold her to reality.
But this was reality.
She looked around the room that she was situated in. “Her” room, she supposed, the one she shared with Aislinn. The one that still didn’t completely feel like home. Her side of the room was neat and tidy, with various band and athletes' posters on the walls. Next to the bed, where she was currently seated, was a guitar stand, empty and an acoustic guitar case. A few boxes rested on her side of the room, smaller one filled with CDs and bigger ones filled with this and that.
She’d never fully unpacked. As stuck as she was to the school, and while it was currently her 'home', she just didn't totally see it. So, the boxes remained. Her senior year, and then she was done. Maybe when she graduated, she'd get over all the stuff at this school and move on. Become a musician or an athlete? Maybe.
The girl suddenly became aware of the soft, consistent twangs that were coming from the amplifier on the floor. Looking down to the guitar she held, she noticed her still itching fingers beating steadily along the frets of the fingerboard.
She let out a laugh. Fretting fingers drumming on frets.
Behind the sounds flowing from the amplifier was a softer sound - a rhythmic tapping. She set the guitar down on the empty stand to listen to it. Raindrops smacked softly onto the windowpane, streaming downwards from their contact point. She stood up and walked over to the source of the sound, listening as the drops fell in harmony with one another.
She sat down on the floor, leaning forward to rest her hands on the windowsill. Her itching fingers tapped along with the rain for a while before they gradually took a beat of their own. Jelena sat there for a while, listening to the rain and the drumming of her own fingers. She watched as tracks of water were traced over and over, each raindrop adding its own mass to the trail.
Her eyes turned to her fingers. They itched, they were so insistent on... on something... she had to get it out. This itching, she had to get rid of it. She had to get it out. She watched his fingers dance along the sill, making rhythm with the rain.
She had to get it out.
She had to...
She had to get out of these dorms.
She stood abruptly, causing black spots to spread across her vision. Without waiting for them to clear, she stumbled toward the closet and pulled a grey hoodie over her head. She pulled the hood up and adjusted the chunky headphones around her neck so they stuck out of the sweater. She knew what would fix this itching, but it wasn’t in this place.
She grabbed the acoutsic guitar case and stepped out into the hallway, turned herself toward the exit, and set off at a steady pace. She passed the other rooms, ignoring the occupants like she always did. She was currently on a mission and the last thing she needed to prolong the itching with a conversation.
Jelena was confronted with an assault of raindrops as she stepped out the door. The rain had grown more heavy. That was fine with her, the school wouldn’t be too crowded if it was pouring. She took on a brisk pace down the sidewalk, her destination glowing in her mind’s eye.
The small covering by the track was a good place to think. And get out of the rain. She bowed her head as she walked underneath, letting the raindrops that had soaked through her drip to the ground, sliding past her eyes and off her nose. She ignored any chairs or table and chose the ground, sitting softly and crossing her legs.
The guitar slipped out of the case easy as ever, and she cradled it in her lap as she discarded the empty case on the side. The moment her fingers touched the strings, the air felt lighter and the burning stopped. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Something about the rain and being outside made her calm. And an acoustic guitar was more natural than her electric one. She began to strum, falling down the rabbit hole called, 'Music'.
"I am going away for a while
But I'll be back, don't try and follow me
'Cause I'll return as soon as possible
See I'm trying to find my place
But it might not be here where I feel safe
We all learn to make mistakes
And run
From them, from them
With no direction
We'll run from them, from them
With no conviction
'Cause I'm just one of those ghosts
Traveling endlessly
Don't need no roads
In fact they follow me
And we just go in circles."
She drifted away from reality, swaying back and forth, as if in a trance. Her voice flowed of its own accord, her fingers danced along the frets in a way that would make the most talented ballerina jealous. She swore she could feel tears in her eyes, but that could have just been the rain.
"Well Now I'm told that this is life
And pain is just a simple compromise
So we can get what we want out of it
Would someone care to classify,
Of broken hearts and twisted minds
So I can find someone to rely on
And run
To them, to them
Full speed ahead
Oh you are not, Useless
We are just
Misguided ghosts
Traveling endlessly
The ones we trusted the most
Pushed us far away
And there's no one road
We should not be the same
But I'm just a ghost
And still they echo me"
She opened her eyes arubtly. The music had warmed her, coursing through her fingertips, then radiating throughout her whole body. She glanced around her, this melancholy atmosphere so alike to the one the music had painted for her. About her. She glanced down at the guitar, gripped tightly in her hands, so tighly that her knuckles were white. She let go, flexing her fingers experimentally. The itch was gone. Her fingers were free.
"They echo me in circles........"
Roleplayer: Anna
Password: The SEA.... is my.... HETALIA.
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