Post by BLAINE ANDERSON on Jul 1, 2011 7:50:56 GMT -6
ANDERSON, BLAINE
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* - - B A S I C S ;
[/i][/font][/size]- Name; Blaine Newland Anderson
- Age; 17, almost 18
- Gender; Male
- School; Dalton Academy for Boys
- Classified; Lead singer of the Warblers/Acting Prefect/Openly gay
- Grade; Senior
- Play-By; Darren Criss
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* - - P E R S O N A L I T Y / H I S T O R Y
[/i][/font][/size]My Blaine and his back-story are mostly combination of what we see on the show and my absurdly analytical headcanon, slightly influenced Dalton, Burt Hummel's Guide to Raising a Teenage Son, and of course, everything and anything written by ‘coincident’ (ie. Say It With Flowcharts). If we get a Shane or a Logan, I’ll definitely be happy to tinker with this for them.
He came across Dalton’s website while researching schools in the area, constructing a wistful escape plan he didn’t intend to use. The anti-bullying policy caught his eye, as did the page devoted to the glee club. He couldn’t ask his parents to transfer without explaining and wasn’t even sure if the switch would be worth it. He filed it away in the back of his mind.
He was never physically assaulted until he asked another openly gay student to a dance. He ended up with a fractured wrist and two broken fingers, and a blow aimed at his stomach cracked one of his ribs. He doesn’t fault himself or his parents for the immediate transfer to Dalton Academy, but he’s deeply ashamed of the fact that he was too terrified by the incident to walk down the hall and clear out his locker. Even more humiliating was the school board’s insinuation that the attack was “provoked,” embedded their lengthy, polite, and vaguely apologetic refusal to punish any of the assailants, citing various extenuating circumstances.
It was not the way he’d envisioned coming out to his parents.
Though they’ve never been overtly hostile, he still gets the uncomfortable sense that they’re impatient for him to “grow out of it,” and any attempts to discuss his sexuality are curtly brushed aside.
After some initial wariness, he settled in comfortably at Dalton, earning a spot as a top member of the glee club and fairly high grades, despite his house’s utter failure as a study environment. He attempts to be a responsible, level-headed counterweight to his fellow Windsors but ends up being gleefully swept along in the madness just as often as not.
Junior year found Blaine a little out of his depth as he befriended a
He pursues his pet projects with alarming and almost childish enthusiasm, sometimes with embarrassing results. It's not in his nature to become emotionally invested in many people or situations, so when he does, it can be a bit overwhelming. He’s often oblivious to the way he comes across to other people, and though he has a passion for helping other people (never pick on a weaker party in front of him), he's not always as naturally empathetic as he is naturally sympathetic and can have trouble recognizing how others feel and why. This, combined with his confidence in his own abilities and sheer love of the limelight, contributed to his neglect of the Warblers’ other talent once he succeeded in landing a string of solos.
Though he’s an ardent (and occasionally overbearing) performer, he hates making a spectacle of himself offstage and becomes uncomfortable and insecure when he senses too much outside attention focused on Blaine Newland Anderson, the slightly uncoordinated, excitable teen who insisted on waiting four hours in the bookstore for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix when he was nine, who spends an hour every morning on his hair and hasn’t told anyone he wears contact lenses.
The fact that Kurt is, by contrast, a walking spectacle sometimes makes Blaine anxious, even though it’s precisely what he admires about him.
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* - - S A M P L E ;
[/i][/font][/size]Oh, gosh. I’m ashamed of basically everything I’ve ever written. This is from an Axis Powers: Hetalia roleplay in which I portrayed England. I promise that not everyone I write is this creepy. I hope.
New England – November, 1762
Peace. England snorted. Even Parliament had the sense to see that this was only a temporary lull in a dispute that was far from finished. He’d been fighting the French bastard for the better part of seven hundred years, and the conquests he’d made in the other nation’s empire had offered only fleeting satisfaction. He might have been a child kicking up pebbles for all the profound, lasting contentment it brought him. Now, now, he chided himself. No need to wax philosophical—or petulant. When one could count a full millennium in their age, one did best to accept the restlessness, the ennui, as integral parts of his personality and do his faithful best to keep them at bay. War was the chosen pastime of the era—and what an engaging pastime it was, distressing as it seemed to these powdered diplomats who, unconscious of their incurably restless nations, talked of “peace.”
Very well. He’d make the best of it. He had more than a few creative ideas in the field of “negotiation,” after all, even if His Majesty did expect him to play nicely. The new king's conciliatory frame of mind gave England the nasty feeling that he’d be returning a few gains--but at least he could amuse himself with the predicament of that charming little boy who so resembled Alfred. He didn’t see why it shouldn’t be brought to the child’s attention that his former guardian would go to no great lengths to reclaim him—not when a casual offer of the restoration of other, more valuable territories was presented.
On second thought, perhaps the diplomats were more conscious of their creditors than any burning sense of pacifism.
England pushed his hair back from his forehead; despite the relatively cool weather, he found it dampened by a thin sheen of sweat. The debt had widened its ugly jaws with an alarming voracity, and it left him feeling weary, almost stiff. Yes, perhaps it was prudent to lick his wounds and puzzle out the knotty problem of where the hell the money was going to come from before he came off the worse for wear in a bayonet fight again. Spain had given him a few unpleasant scars—and been paid back in kind. France's ineffective meddling in Germany had been a little disappointing, truth be told. He'd appeared to put up a promising fight at the beginning of the war, but perhaps he was losing his touch. Pity...Perhaps there'd come a day when England would want for adversaries after all. He allowed himself an indulgent smirk.
He stared down at the now-rumpled papers in front of him with mild exasperation, having spent the past few minutes playing absently with the edges. He hadn’t come to New England to dwell on the debatably constructive “peace talks” he’d be mired in all too soon. He’d come…(Why had he come?)…to rest, he supposed. To shake off that stiffness he’d so diligently ignored. He had always felt calmer here, as if there was something about this place (about the child who so embodied it) that blocked the fitful, impatient Siren’s call of the waves from his mind.
He hummed—a march—and shoved his chair back, stretching. It was difficult, after all, to rid his blood of the drums and cannon blasts, to forget the way his heart quickened at the smell of powder shredding the air. His feet carried him almost reflexively to the open window.
It was beautiful here. Everything—the clear expanse of the sky, the mountain-guarded horizon—reminded him of the child. He hadn’t visited the boy in more than two years—France’s pathetic attempts to retake Alfred’s brother hadn’t warranted England’s personal involvement, after all.
And, beyond the landscape’s
(Empire. The word thrilled him. The elegant slice of the ‘i’ and the soft threat of the ‘p’—the assertion of a boot on a fluttering pulse.)
Perhaps “child” was no longer an entirely satisfactory term for Alfred. Not quite two centuries old and already as tall as England’s shoulder! England shook his head free of an uninvited smile (and an uninvited speculation, flight-of-fancy…) He crushed an ant idly with his thumb and flicked it into the garden below. Yes, his vivid, blue-eyed charge certainly had grown. England shivered and spun abruptly away from the window. A draft, perhaps…Autumn had already faded into winter, even though the sun here shone so brightly his eyes burned from it and retained a glowing impression when he closed them.
He glanced at the clock (imported, of course; he couldn’t approve of those colonial manufacturers who’d forgotten their place) and sighed. Seven past two. He’d expressly told the boy two o’clock. Heels clicking impatiently on the polished wood floor of his study, he wrenched open the door and thrust his head out into the hall.
“Alfred!” he called, a little sharply.
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Histoical Context:
*This is, of course, set at the conclusion of the Seven Years’ (French and Indian) War. Peace talks began in November 1762.
*1759 was a “year of victories” for the British in the Seven Years’ War. Québec was captured on September 13, and British dominance in North America was more or less cemented. With the surrender of Montreal on September 8, 1760, the last the major campaign in North America came to an end, though the colonies continued to have intermittent difficulties with the Native Americans through 1764.
*After the Treaty of Paris (February 1763), Britain emerged as the world’s leading colonial empire, having gained exclusive control of Canada as well as other territories. However, much of Parliament considered the peace terms excessively lenient and expected a speedy renewal of hostilities with France and Spain. The war also doubled Britain’s national debt, and taxes on the American colonies were suggested as a source of revenue…
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[/i][/font][/size]- Name; Aubrey
- Age; 18
- How you found us; Reed linked me.
- How long you've been roleplaying; Four years or so.
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