Agnes Dambry-Starr
Dec 21, 2013 5:38:38 GMT -5
Post by Agnes Dambry-Starr on Dec 21, 2013 5:38:38 GMT -5
The easy S T U F F . . .
Name: Agnes Dambry-Starr
Nickname: Aggie, Ag
Age: Fifteen
Member Group: Student
Power(s): Power Augmentation
Play By: Tavi Gevinson
Let it F L O W . . .
>>lights. Agnes was born under rather ordinary circumstances. Her mother, Lillian Dambry lusted after a man by the name Herbert Starr. They married and had a child – not specifically in that order – but their romance was as limited as it was passionate. Herbert urgently needed to “Move Up And Out” in order to nourish his budding musical career. The parting was pure bitterness. Afterward, Lillian roamed to and from various family and friends' spare bedrooms before deciding to settle in western Michigan. Michigan is where Agnes' memories began.
Nothing spectacular from early childhood to report. Her first day of kindergarten was met with the hysteric tears of the manic Lillian Dambry. Playground skirmishes, pigtails, skinned knees, dance classes, tree houses, and braces ensued. The only traumatic experience she would ever be involved with had occurred without her knowledge. Until that instance Agnes was an average lower middle class girl who was likely to lead an average lower middle class life.
Agnes had always been a late bloomer. The day before of her thirteen birthday, Agnes was plagued with her female troubles. Nervously, she rambled to her school nurse, and concocted an overly elaborate tale which involved putrid chicken and life-threatening digestive issues. She was wryly excused for the day and hopped a bus home. It was at the bus stop nearest to her city home where she accidentally ruined a man's life.
The man had hassled her for any change, but she had been schooled on the seriousness of Stranger Danger. Likely, he could have been one of those “Muties” and her mother's friends were always spitting about. She timidly rebuffed his request, but the man, obviously drunk, was undeterred. He hadn't meant harm, but the hand he placed on her shoulder, caused Agnes' powers to aggressively manifest for the first time. In Agnes' world she smacked his hand away, ran home as fast as her little Mary Jane's would take her, and dealt with the most severe on-set fatigue she had ever experienced. She attributed the episode to the post-adrenaline effects on her body paired with her first visit from Evil Aunt Ruby.
However, in the man's world, he was a very weak pyrokinetic. Unaware that his own powers had been so amplified by a random little bus stop girl – he accidentally set fire to his squat – burning himself into disfigurement. Less than two weeks passed before Agnes was recruited to the Hammel Institute.
Lillian Dambry wasn't happy, but she hardly fought the process either. They maintain cordial communication, but since her arrival at the Vermont school two and a half years ago the mother-daughter duo pass only the occasional letter in between. For the most part, her life at the institute has been a subtle one. Her powers tediously grow... but lately, she feels odd. Like something in her soul his churning – something that will bring change.
>>camera. Agnes isn't particularly tall or skinny. Currently at fifteen-years-old, she stands at five feet and four inches – weighing in at roughly one hundred and thirty-three pounds. Soft curves are replacing all the pointy bits she was once made up of, and she finally decided upon a more feminine hairstyle. Long locks of honey-ginger hair drop past her shoulders – thick and gently wavy. Agnes' earthy green eyes are offset by her bold straight-cut bags.
High arched eyebrows and full pouted lips leave Agnes with a visually sullen face that consistently betrays her intent. Where she fails with words, Agnes excels in presentation. Her free time is often spent shopping and altering used clothing. Her goal is to make something all together unique that communicates her feelings where letters disappear. Her style is that of an eclectic time-traveling tropical bird.
>>action. Agnes is as diverse as anyone else. She has a tendency to melodramatically overreact to any given situation. Honestly, she has a lot of enthusiasm for life, but very little focus. She is sincere and painfully naive. She is a strange conflicting combination of too trusting and paranoid - neither trait she applies appropriately.
She finds her power basically useless, or and least her mastery of it. It comes and goes, and she has yet to find a way to willfully manifest it. Though, she has a feeling she does it unconsciously. Agnes feels that she simply radiates her power like a space heater – any meta-human who surrounds her close enough for long enough will feel warmth. She has also wondered if she effects non-metas as well. Perhaps she exacerbates people's best or worst qualities? Of course, she has no feasible means to test it – or the desire.
If she wasn't filled with awkwardness, Agnes would likely have more friends. She has a multitude of idiosyncrasies that most people are impatient of. Her first impressions, along with her syntax and penchant for world-salad have her come off as eccentric. Paired with her dry and often morbid sense of humor, Agnes is very much in a world of her own.
Behind the M A S K . . .
Name: Tracey
Age: Twenty-three
RP Experience: Oh... since the summer before my freshman year? Off and on.
How did you find us?: RPG Topsites.
Show your S K I L L S . . .
Agnes' left eye twitched wildly. She threw a cupped hand and five peach lacquered fingers up to cover the embarrassing free-roaming lid. She had to unhinge her jaw like pythons did in documentary specials where they devour titanic prey. Words fell from her lips like streamline molasses – slow and thick and precise. “ I... don't... understand,” she stated in simplistic bewilderment.
Agne's mother Lillian learned unceremoniously against the kitchenette of the ranch house den. She slid a new pack of tar-laden cigarettes from the faux-marble counter top of the table between them. Smacking the packed sharply three times she repeated, “You're gonna live in Vermont for awhile”. Agnes tried to listen her mother explain that some finely dressed gentlemen had been by earlier that day to discuss some startling information. The next step was to have a powwow with said gentlemen and then move to Vermont...? She was missing something vital.
“I feel like I am missing something vital,” she spat out in rapid fire. How could her mother speak so nonchalantly to her only daughter. Lillian stepped forward, hiking up her God Bless America halter top, and placed a freshly manicured hand atop Agne's pixie ginger mop. “Don't worry, Aggie. It will all make sense later.” For a brief moment Agnes wanted to believe her dear mother, but a snide comment slipped from her pursed pink lips, “Don't act like this makes any sense to you either, you goblin”. Her half-mumbled words hit sharply, and her mother “hah-rumphed' indignantly and retreated the kindly offered appendage.
Steadily, Lillian pulled a single white paper-rolled cigarette from the torn box, and effortlessly lit it with the Zippo from her denim blues. An action she preformed like sharks swam. Agnes indirectly apologized. She had always been too blunt for her own good. She dropped her hand to reveal both apologetic green eyes. Confused. Way beyond confused, she complied with her mother's wisdom.
“When are they coming back? How will I know if I say the right thing? I don't want to move to Vermont.”
Lillian smiled as soft has her sun-hardened face could manged. “I know, Aggie. I know”.
