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C E R I S E xF O N T A I N E
Born - - - 28 May 2129
Hometown - - - Colmar, France
Hometown - - - Colmar, France
A G E
24
H E X
#eac1bf
Role - - - Frederic Chopin
Occupation - - -Private Piano Instructor
C O M P O S I T I O N
i. winter wind ètude - ii. minute waltz - iii. fantasie impromptu op. 66 - iv. nocturne in c sharp minor
i. winter wind ètude - ii. minute waltz - iii. fantasie impromptu op. 66 - iv. nocturne in c sharp minor
Z O D I A C
gemini
E R A
romantic
M B T I
intj
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Appearance
hair | dark blonde eyes | jade
height | 174 cm x xxxxx weight | 54 kg
Likes
animated movies | art | sketching portraiture | strawberries |
cold brew coffee | farmers markets | health food trends |
bach | mozart | fashion | velvet | suede | hard candies | crème
fraîche | chocolate fountains | artisanal soft serve ice cream |
grocery shopping | opera | paganini | picnics
Dislikes
clothes shopping | music theory | orchestration | set comp-
ositions | storms | performing | spicy food | bugs | expensive
furniture or clothes | technique work | flippant students |
the six o'clock news | hiking | presumptions | memory foam
pillows | hospitals | antiseptics
Strengths & Weaknesses
integrity | if you can get past the general dramatics of her
nature, she's a remarkably loyal friend and confidante, and
despite her view that teaching detracts from the time she
can dedicate to her own work, she'll work tirelessly for her
students, and anyone that asks for her help.x committed |
once she agrees to do something or help someone, she'll
follow through, always.x sensitivity | finely attuned to
both her emotions and the sentiment of the world around her
her music greatly benefits from this, as do her empathetic
abilities.x wit | during times of smooth sailing, she is end-
owed with a great common sense and wit, making her a
good conversationalist
fussy | picky and often unsatisfied with her own work, she
spends far too much time laboring over the exact notation of
one note.x anxiety | often gripped by an unrelenting anxiety,
she'll spend hours panicking over even the slightest of things,
like what exact coat to wear to class.x displacement | in fits of
panic, she has a nasty habit of lashing out, taking her nerves
out on others.x melancholy | cerise revels in and thrives off
her own sorrow and believes it is the only fuel for her compo-
sitions, makes no attempts to break free of its chains.
Miscellaneous
composes her own etudes for her students because she knows
how boring practicing technique can be, so she tries to make it
interesting | le lilas | often ends up going overtime on lessons, but
doesn't charge extra | why not? | does anybody care? | anxiety |
always, always | she likes nice things | she likes the sound of rain
actually, but is always scared that loved ones will get caught in
storms | plays a little violin and flute, but far prefers piano
"I know I have never been of any use
to anyone – and indeed not much
use to myself."
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Convoitise
Q: if you take the weight of the things that haunt you, rip
them straight through your clavicle (never sow up
the hole) and bury them deep beneath the dirt, is it your
heart you have removed, or is it your soul?
A: neither. it is neither, but you’ll never learn this,
will you? –
Q: if you take the weight of the things that haunt you, rip
them straight through your clavicle (never sow up
the hole) and bury them deep beneath the dirt, is it your
heart you have removed, or is it your soul?
A: neither. it is neither, but you’ll never learn this,
will you? –
BREATHING IS ALSO AN ART
❦
The world erupts in a brilliant flash of green. The fields burst open with violent explosions of color, almost too harsh for eyes so accustomed to a winter bleakness. But this is what she lives for, the spring air, replete with all its allergens and shredded petals. When she dies, Cerise thinks, rolling around in the grassy plains around her house, she would like her heart to be buried in the dirt of Alsace. Wherever she travels, she knows her body, if not her mind, will always yearn for her hometown. She leaves a locket of her hair in a small time capsule her sisters tell her to unearth when she is twenty five.
Like all the Fontaine girls, she grows up educated. ”We cannot give you much,” says her father, in his native tongue, ”but we can give you this, only this.”
Her father does not give himself enough credit. Not of high class, but the private tutor to such families, he imparts with them a fluency of language and an elegance reminiscent of old aristocracy. Even Cerise, always wracked with some cold or another, is spoken of in the town positively for her social grace and manner, regarded with a kind eye. With quiet amusement, the girl who coughs too much and cries too much, weeps for the beauty of the birds’ songs, the tender sound of the rainfall, and, always, always, the ethereal notes of her mother’s piano.
Like the flowers of the region, she blossoms in spring, elegant fingers flying over the keys of a grand piano, and her mother shakes her head with a wry smile, tells her there is little else she can impart. (Her father places a violin in her right hand, a flute in her left, but neither, she finds, have the same natural grace of the instrument that has taken ahold of her heart.)
The walls of the conservatory are stone and grey, and the lessons are just as stifling as the building. Over and over until the notes on the page bleed into one another, she plays the same seven bars until her instructor tells her it’s passable, just passable. And she cannot breathe until he leaves the room again, until she is free from his oversight to let the piano dictate what ought to be played. Her teacher is frustrated, she knows, she can tell. But he still sends home a glowing review, and she wonders if maybe, somehow, he hears her play when she closes her eyes and does not follow any written notations. He must.
Under the strain of the labor that contains no love (and her continued general education), she feels herself grow weaker, under the sick sweet of summer heat finally knocks her out into a feverish sweat. Nonetheless, it is far from the worst of her attacks, and she is back on her feet in the span of a week. Already her second year into school, it begins to feel like some things are meant to work out. Like some things just are.
And then the illness comes more frequently—in longer spurts, shorter intervals. The world shifts from greyscale to clinical white, and the iodic stench bleeds through the walls, her clothes, her dreams. (Even still.)
Her sister dies, and time is cruel and justice nonexistent. An IV drips sedatives into her veins, and she swears she hears the eulogy in the back of her head while it is given at a graveyard ten miles away, the voices haunting ghosts scratching at the back of her brain. She does not see her sister again until she can walk herself out of the hospital, and all she has to offer is a bouquet of peonies and marigolds.
The next time she places her hands over the keys, they are trembling. She learns to hate the idea of storms, of travel, of performance. It’s simple, she thinks, so simple. Anything that can go wrong will, and it will take the utmost pleasure in doing so. Why else? Why else?
She plays how shattered glass must feel, and Isabella tells her it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. It doesn’t make her feel any better. She still cannot play before crowds, cannot stop the monster that grips her lungs with its claws, steals her breath and her skill. And her father continues to watch with a shake of his head.
When it is time for her to leave, she does so with every intent of returning every three months, for every major holiday. Her father tells her not to bother while her sisters weep. ”Find yourself,” he says, ”then return.” When she fights, he tells her, ”Do you think Emilia would be anything but ashamed?” So she goes. She looks back every step of the way, every particle of her being already longing for the crisp wind of spring, but she goes. She goes and she does not return. Maybe someday, she thinks, maybe someday.
Like all the Fontaine girls, she grows up educated. ”We cannot give you much,” says her father, in his native tongue, ”but we can give you this, only this.”
Her father does not give himself enough credit. Not of high class, but the private tutor to such families, he imparts with them a fluency of language and an elegance reminiscent of old aristocracy. Even Cerise, always wracked with some cold or another, is spoken of in the town positively for her social grace and manner, regarded with a kind eye. With quiet amusement, the girl who coughs too much and cries too much, weeps for the beauty of the birds’ songs, the tender sound of the rainfall, and, always, always, the ethereal notes of her mother’s piano.
Like the flowers of the region, she blossoms in spring, elegant fingers flying over the keys of a grand piano, and her mother shakes her head with a wry smile, tells her there is little else she can impart. (Her father places a violin in her right hand, a flute in her left, but neither, she finds, have the same natural grace of the instrument that has taken ahold of her heart.)
The walls of the conservatory are stone and grey, and the lessons are just as stifling as the building. Over and over until the notes on the page bleed into one another, she plays the same seven bars until her instructor tells her it’s passable, just passable. And she cannot breathe until he leaves the room again, until she is free from his oversight to let the piano dictate what ought to be played. Her teacher is frustrated, she knows, she can tell. But he still sends home a glowing review, and she wonders if maybe, somehow, he hears her play when she closes her eyes and does not follow any written notations. He must.
Under the strain of the labor that contains no love (and her continued general education), she feels herself grow weaker, under the sick sweet of summer heat finally knocks her out into a feverish sweat. Nonetheless, it is far from the worst of her attacks, and she is back on her feet in the span of a week. Already her second year into school, it begins to feel like some things are meant to work out. Like some things just are.
And then the illness comes more frequently—in longer spurts, shorter intervals. The world shifts from greyscale to clinical white, and the iodic stench bleeds through the walls, her clothes, her dreams. (Even still.)
Her sister dies, and time is cruel and justice nonexistent. An IV drips sedatives into her veins, and she swears she hears the eulogy in the back of her head while it is given at a graveyard ten miles away, the voices haunting ghosts scratching at the back of her brain. She does not see her sister again until she can walk herself out of the hospital, and all she has to offer is a bouquet of peonies and marigolds.
The next time she places her hands over the keys, they are trembling. She learns to hate the idea of storms, of travel, of performance. It’s simple, she thinks, so simple. Anything that can go wrong will, and it will take the utmost pleasure in doing so. Why else? Why else?
She plays how shattered glass must feel, and Isabella tells her it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. It doesn’t make her feel any better. She still cannot play before crowds, cannot stop the monster that grips her lungs with its claws, steals her breath and her skill. And her father continues to watch with a shake of his head.
When it is time for her to leave, she does so with every intent of returning every three months, for every major holiday. Her father tells her not to bother while her sisters weep. ”Find yourself,” he says, ”then return.” When she fights, he tells her, ”Do you think Emilia would be anything but ashamed?” So she goes. She looks back every step of the way, every particle of her being already longing for the crisp wind of spring, but she goes. She goes and she does not return. Maybe someday, she thinks, maybe someday.
＆O1 ＯＴＨＥＲ
Face Claim | alexandra tikerpuu
Played by | epimetheus
Created by | verix
Inspired by | onyx & cinders on jcink
Face Claim | alexandra tikerpuu
Played by | epimetheus
Created by | verix
Inspired by | onyx & cinders on jcink