[racquel jacquette lenoir]

`RACQUEL JACQUETTE LENOIR



hey there gorgeous, can you guess what my name is? probably not, but because i'm so nice i'll tell you. it's RACQUEL JACQUETTE LENOIR, pretty huh? almost as pretty as all the awesome nicknames i've got. because honestly, you didn't think i went by my whole name, did you? well, ROCKIE, R.J., JACQUE, et NOIR are much cuter and you know you love them. except for having the coolest name ever, i'm rocking it here as a LOCAL. how awesome is that? pretty awesome. i love stuff so don't forget to get my some presents on FEBRUARY SEVENTEENTH because that's my birthday bb! and thanks to that i'm TWENTY years old and it's totally rad. and just because i know you want to know, i am hot as hell. i've been told i look a lot like SHY'M but obviously that's not true. i'm hotter . and i can proof it too. not that you have anything to do with it but i weight 124 lbs and i stand on 5'7" like i said, hot. oh and don't tell anyone but MY PARENTS DIED IN A CAR ACCIDENT AND I WAS RAISED BY MY AUNT.

likes

1. motorcycles
2. dancing
3. men
4. risk
5. coffee
6. working out
7. getting lost
8. park benches
9. cafés
10. summertime
11. adventure
12. laughing
13. French
14. silly tourists
15. ice skating
16. strawberries
17. concerts
18. being spontaneous
19. bone structure
20. being romantic
21. pink lilies
22. confusing people
23. graffiti
24. parties
25. underground scenes
26. heights
27. singing
28. dressing up
29. dressing down
30. lingerie

dislikes

1. family
2. her birthday
3. fairy tales
4. cooking
5. rainy days
6. pop tarts
7. le lycée
8. wintertime
9. Anglais
10. large crowds
11. talking about herself
12. video games
13. falling in love
14. les films d'horreur
15. American fast food
16. love songs
17. rich sons of bitches
18. people who think they're better than her
19. liars
20. her past
21. tighty whities
22. bike riding
23. Spanish
24. roses
25. churches
26. prejudice
27. fat people
28. anniversaries
29. endings
30. les hamburgers

strengths

1. confident
2. determined
3. strong-willed
4. fashion
5. dancing
6. singing
7. getting what she wants

flaws

1. she gets defensive when you talk about her past
2. very pigheaded
3. doesn't trust others
4. a little bit OCD sometimes
5. has a short fuse
6. gets mad when things don't go her way

fears

1. the afterlife
2. being stuck in Paris forever
3. whales
4. being alone for the rest of her life

overall personality

Racquel LeNoir didn't grow up your average little girl. She had certain hardships she had to go through, certain trials and lessons she had to endure. Growing up without a set of parents is hard on a little girl, and keeping that a secret from almost everyone is even harder. Before we got onto the easier aspects that make up Racquel, first we should start with something important to her. Yes, she is known for keeping secrets; it has to do with the fact that she finds it hard to trust people. Of course, all the people she's ever trusted have either died or let her down somehow. It's only natural that she'd become cautious of others. But the secret she's been keeping from almost everyone is the fact that she didn't grow up with parents. They died in a car accident when she was only five years old, on her birthday. It's a fact she's kept well hidden for fear that others would pity her; she doesn't take well to pity. She doesn't like to be judged, and the fact that she was raised by her aunt, she doesn't want it to be used against her. She has the will to support herself, never leaning on others for help, always being her own shoulder to cry on, etc.

On that note, Rockie was always the type of girl to never get emotional about things. She puts up walls around herself, a sort of protection to keep others from breaking through. She distances herself from others, although now it's more by instinct than choice. Her friends have gotten past this aspect of her, somehow working their ways into the mortar that holds these walls together. Most of them have just accepted it for being a part of who Rockie is. But there are others who either find it impossible to get to her or are always trying to worm their way past the heavy bricks. She doesn't cry easily, seeing it as a sign of weakness. Actually, few people have ever seen her get emotional about things. The only two emotions that come easy are happiness and anger. Yes, Racquel has a bit of a short fuse. She's actually quite passionate about her opinions and decisions, and when someone opposes them or something of that nature, she's been known to snap. Of course, it's all a defense on her part. She doesn't want anyone to see past the façade that she puts up where, somewhere deep down, she really does care about things and cry like a normal person; you just don't see it. She's had years to practice under this mask, and she's become quite a pro.

But just because she has her secrets and wears her mask doesn't mean she can't be a pleasant person to be around. Actually, Racquel can be quite spontaneous. She lives for adrenaline, having a fascination with motorcycles and fast cars. She owns a motorcycle, and she's quite proud of that fact. She likes to think she lives life in the fast lane, working in the daytime and partying at night. She has a sort of addiction to risk and adventure, always up for an experience that will prove to be a story on a rainy afternoon. She's not one to believe in fairytales and mythology, rather more interested in making her own adventures than live in those of a child's. She may seem like a moody bitch to you at first, but you've got to wait until night falls; that's when the real Racquel makes her appearance. She's been known to do some crazy things, such as running from the police, climbing over the Parisian roofs, and escaping from various persons by running through restaurant kitchens. Living the life of a spy is what attracts her, although she's only a waitress and amateur choreographer in reality. Of course, she'd lie to you if she thought it would tickly your fancy and she was up for a quick hookup.

Speaking of careers, Racquel knows exactly what she wants to do, but it's only a matter of getting there. Dancing is her passion; she lives it and breathes it. She's been dancing since she was seven and has never since given up. It's her escape, the one way she can get away from all of the stress and work of real life. Hip hop, ballroom, ballet, you name it, she can probably dance it. She moves like water, and it's also apparent in the way that she walks with fluid movements and each step taken with care, although she doesn't notice it consciously. But, at the same time, she carries herself with confidence. If she's going to support herself, it's something that's demanded of her. She can't go walking around like some little nit-wit second guessing herself. When Racquel makes a move, it's because she means it.

Speaking is something that comes easy for Mademoiselle LeNoir. She could talk for days on end if you allowed it, but she usually knows when to stop. She can create a conversation out of nothing and awkward silences are something she knows nothing about. She's usually smiles and white teeth, only closing up if something she's not comfortable with is brought up. She knows how to talk to people, knows how to act around certain people. She has a knack for knowing what kind of personality other people have and how to treat them accordingly. You might call it being able to read character, but Rockie doesn't think much of it. Where the situation calls for sarcasm, she has enough in reserve to use and she's actually quite accustomed to that tone. Of course, the most that Racquel uses sarcasm is when she's angry or just plain peeved. But when she says something, her words aren't empty and lacking meaning. No, she says what she means and she means what she says, a type of person that is typically hard to find. Her mind works fast and it doesn't take her long to think over what she wants to say. If she tells you something about you or herself, you can bet that she means it. The only thing is that she has the ability to manipulate her words so that the meaning is held in tact, it just takes a little bit of intelligence and patience to uncover it.

All in all, Racquel is a person with a lot of baggage and not enough trust in anyone to let them help her carry it. She's a spontaneous soul who lives life on the edge, but, at the end of the day, she's still a complicated mess that's just waiting to be fixed. She's not sitting around, waiting for love. In fact, she could really care less about falling in love. It's just another person she won't trust that would probably end up leaving her anyway, so why even bother? She puts up walls and keeps herself hidden away from the world. She's a difficult character, to be sure, but somebody has to love her.

hometown Paris, France
parents

1. Claude Samuel LeNoir || father || Deceased
   "Mon père, he had a tough life. He didn't come from a good family, or from a good neighborhood, but he never gave up. From what I remember of him, he always had a serious look on his face. He never smiled much, but when he did it was like his heart was smiling, too."
   
2. Veronique Cosette LeNoir née Dior || mother || deceased
   "Ma mère, elle was always smiling, in contrast to my father. Actually, she was the complete opposite of him. She came from a wealthy family, a good home, and she had a reputation. Of course, she threw all of that away when she eloped with my father, but I don't think she ever cared about that. People always tell me that I'm the spitting image of my mother. It's my coloring that I get from my father."

siblings

1. Éric Robert LeNoir || brother || deceased
   "Mon frère, he was always my protector. He was always there for me, and he…well, he's been gone for almost a year, that's all. Any way you look at it, he completed my life. Now, things are just…"

children N/A
relationships

"My family, there isn't really much to say about it. I come from a broken household. My parents died when I was young and my brother only just under a year ago. I don't know what to tell you, other than the fact that they're gone and never coming back. Before then, we were all, how you say, peachy keen and everything. And it's not that I hat them now or anything, but I just wish they were all still around."

significant other N/A
history

"Je suis née le dix-sept de Février, il y a vingt ans. But I suppose you want that en Anglais, oui? But then let me start from the beginning, d'accord? That way, things can be much easier on the both of us.

"Claude LeNoir was a young man who came from a bad hand at the poker table. He was a poor man, the eldest of cinq, or five, children. He had plans of supporting his family, of providing income so they could feed the mouths that seemed to just keep coming and coming. He was a man of plans and being serious. What he didn't plan on was being whisked away by his closest friends and meeting Veronique Dior, my mother. She was like a porcelain doll with sharper features. She came from a family of millionaires, servants, and room service. She was an heiress, the eldest of two. She was a pampered princess, one with good genes and a big pocket. She, however, had planned on a wild night out with the boys. They met at an exclusive club in the heart of the Parisian underground, dancing the night away under disco balls and techno lighting. She was pale and shimmering in the light while he was dark and elusive. When their gazes locked, it was love at first sight, or so I've been told. And so began their secret relationship. It was easy to tell that Claude was in love with Veronique. He tripped over his words, was majorly 'whipped,' as I think the phrase is, and every time he thought about her, he smiled. She, however, had to hide her affections behind careful smirks and fleeting glances. She couldn't marry a simple man who did shady business to get his family buy, couldn't even see a young man who lived in the lower and less luxurious parts of Paris. But, somehow, he got the better of her and she found herself in his arms one night, running away from her home of luxury and into the lap of true love. I've been told it was a decision she never regretted, either.

"It wasn't long after their marriage that they found Veronique was pregnant with a baby boy. They were overjoyed, of course, in complete bliss with the news. They wondered how he would turn out, for mixed children, even in this day and age, aren't all that common. Would he inherit his mother's strong features, his father's curly hair, his mother's porcelain skin, his father's wide nose? They had no way of knowing. And, when Éric was born, they found that he looked more like his father. It would be two years before Veronique became pregnant again.

"It was February seventeenth, about twenty years ago to date, that Veronique found herself spread out in a hospital bed, screaming bloody murder once again. This time, they had kept the baby's gender a surprise, both hoping that another boy would pop out crying and happy. Of course, I've been known to disappoint. It was snowing the day I was born, February seventeenth, and I'm sure it must have been cold out, too. But I know I came out crying, testing out my new pair of lungs, and wanting to be fed, as all babies tend to come out when things go as planned. When I was put into my mother's arms, I know my parents glanced at each other. They hadn't been expecting a girl. Apparently, my mother had been so sure that she was carrying another boy, she could feel it because I had seemingly felt the same as Éric had. However, it wasn't long before they came up with a name. If I was a girl, that didn't mean I couldn't have masculine names like the ones they had chosen earlier. And hence, I became Racquel Jacquette LeNoir, the only daughter of the LeNoir family.

"As a kid, things within the family were just dazzling. I'm not sure any other family, rich or poor, could have been as happy as we were. No, we weren't in the best financial situation. When my mother eloped, she had been disowned by the Diors and their fortunes. We were an odd family, a Franco-African man with a Caucasian wife and two little mixed children running around. No, it wasn't completely unheard of, but you know how people are. We were most definitely judged. But we didn't care. I had my mother's smile, and I used it practically 24/7. I enjoyed it. Of course, I can't say that I remember a whole lot from when I was little. But I do have a certain memory of my father, picking me up into his arms and nuzzling his nose against mine in such a way that can only be expressed through father and daughter interaction. He smelled of peppermint and cigarette smoke, and I've always thought that was the best smell in the world. And, considering his shady business proposals in the drug and gang industry, it was a pretty good smell.

"I was five when my parents died, Éric seven. They went out on a date that night in the heart of Paris; it was their anniversary. It also happened to be my birthday and is now one of my least favorite days in the world. It was a special occasion because my parents never went out. They called a taxi and everything, a big event for the two of them. They were at the Laurent, and we never found out how they got the money for that place. It was on their way home and it was raining. It hadn't been a cold winter that year, but the rain was washing away what little snow there was on the ground. It was pouring and the roads were slippery. The taxi ended up flipping and a small pileup was caused. In the end, a gas tank of one of the cars was punctured and, what the detectives deduced, a cigarette butt was thrown into the street and there was an explosion. If you asked me, it wasn't a cigarette butt and a faulty taxi driver that caused my parents' deaths. No, I believe it had something to do with my father and his line of work. Either way, I had just turned five and my birthday present was not having my parents come home with my cake.

"For a while, they considered sending my brother and me into the foster care system or an orphanage, but we had plenty of relatives. Our Aunt Jacqueline Dior refused to take us in, as did her parents simply because we didn't look like them. They were always a haughty bunch. So we turned to our Aunt Estelle LeNoir, our father's closest friend among his four siblings. She was unmarried and a little wacky, but she took the two of us in with open arms. She promised us that she'd try her best to be what we needed, to try to fix our lives to the best that she could, knowing she couldn't replace our parents. But she tried. She taught us English, for starters. She didn't like leaving it to the school system, and she could speak it fluently already. My brother didn't really embrace this new language, but I did. She allowed me to be bilingual, which I'm thankful for. I loved, and still love, Aunt Estelle. Éric, on the other hand, spent most of his time on the streets. No, the Parisian ghetto isn't the hardest place around, but you know how things are. He got in with some bad people, made some wrong choices, ended up in the Paris jail on more than one occasion as a minor. But, nonetheless, he was always my hero.

"I was about seven when I met Monsieur Delacroix, a choreographer and dancing instructor who owned a studio downtown. I walked by the window every day when I went to and from school, and my nose was always pressed against it, leaving a mark. I was doing just that one day when I felt someone place their hand on the top of my black ponytail. 'I was wondering who had been leaving those marks on my window,' is what he said to me, smiling, staring in the window with me. He invited me inside and asked me to dance, but I let him know quickly that I didn't dance. He offered to remedy that little setback. He didn't ask for payment, and he told me later on that from the moment I stepped onto the dance floor he knew I was a natural. He taught me ballet and jazz for starters, moving up through the dancing spectrum as I got older. Next was the tango, the waltz, and, eventually, the salsa. When I turned fifteen, he taught me hip hop. He was my Yoda.

"When it came time to study for my BAC, the all-important exam that every high school student has at the end of his or her academic journey, I chose to study the literature aspect of things. I was never your twenty-score (A+) student and I was no good at any type of science. That year was probably my worst during school. I was known to be a party girl, of sorts, and buckling down to study for le bac wasn't my forté. Aunt Estelle had to keep me locked in my room and keep a constant watch on the fire escape which was so conveniently located right by my window. But when I did sneak out, it wasn't to go out partying with my friends, something that is much less common in Paris than you might think, although not altogether absent. I usually found myself at Monsieur Delacroix's dance studio, not daring to ask why he didn't ask me for payment of his services. I would dance my cares away and that was when I realized what I really wanted to do with my life.

"I had a serious talk with Monsieur Delacroix when I turned eighteen. I had taken le bac and knew I didn't need to attend school to do what I wanted to do. I walked up to him one afternoon and asked if I could work for him. He had helped me enough since I was seven, only seven, years old. This was the least I could do for him. And do you know how he replied? He told me no. He told me that there was more to his little studio than what was on the surface. For all I knew, he was involved in some super secret ninja base that made its headquarters in the studio basement. He told me that if I wanted to make it in the world of dance that I would have to find my own way. So I did.

"Ever since then, I've been getting by. I moved out from my aunt's, determined not to let anyone think I needed help. I had grown up fine without parents, not that anyone ever knew that of course; it was a secret that I've kept skillfully hidden. I rented my own cheap apartment and began my life. It wasn't until a year ago that things changed, once again, for the worse. I was working at a small café nearby and my shift had just ended. Éric was coming by for a visit, since he hadn't been around in months and I missed him terribly. He told me he had been involved with some bad people, but I didn't care and wanted him over anyway for a cup of tea. I was about half a block away from my apartment when I saw him walking towards me, hands in his pockets and pants halfway to his knees. Yes, that was my brother. I hurried my step as we got closer. And then the old mustang came careening from behind me, the tires squealing loudly in my ears. I turned to look and my eyes got wide as the window rolled down. I didn't know what to do and I could only watch. The automatic's barrel was pushed out the window, the trigger pulled and, before I had time to react, Éric was on the ground, blood pouring out onto his white shirt. As soon as the car was around the corner and out of sight, I was at his side, holding him up, holding my hand over his wounds, trying to stop the bleeding, and crying for help. He grabbed my hand and put something in it, but my eyes were trained on his face, the tears blurring my vision. 'You'll always be my baby…sister…' Those were his last words as I sat there, on the sidewalk, sobbing, waiting for the sound of sirens to reach my ears.

"He died on the scene and I was left alone in the world. Yeah, I still had Aunt Estelle, but what was the point? She was never my mother. So I sat in my apartment for two and a half weeks before someone could drag me out, sporting a new piece of jewelry. What Éric had shoved into my hand was a necklace on a tiny silver chain with a little silver ring on it: his. It was after my birthday, after the anniversary of, well, you know. But it was close, close enough that I don't like to think about the time my birthday falls around. Yeah, my life is fine now, but I'll never get over what happened. I dance now with more feeling, an amateur choreographer and waitress. I don't have money and I don't have family. I'm taking karate, among other things, for the future. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be an assassin or something, finally getting my revenge."

yo yo yo it's R!ZZ
i've been rocking for sixteen
i've been playing this game for eight-ish years
and you can reach me on PM
by the way, i love my this one

membertitle oublie moi
have you read the rules? you're my wonderwall
roleplay sample

MAXENE JESSENIA WEASLEY
SEXUAL INTENTIONS WITH A CENTUAR


-----------------------------

It was raining outside. The only reason she was even caught dead in the bookstore in the first place was to escape the weather. The entire season was predicted to be, and had been so far, rather hot and dry, and Maxene Weasley couldn't think of a proper reason why it would decide to rain now. Especially when she had put all of that effort into doing her hair that morning. It was like mother nature was out to get her and wouldn't stop even if an attempt at a truce was made. And so were the woes of being unlucky, as Maxene would know so well. After all, her entire life she had been cursed with a batch of unluckiness, usually manifesting in the form of clumsiness. Falling up stairs, careening through sliding glass doors, running into walls, dropping nearly everything she touched, falling on top of random people, the list was endless. But, really, Maxene didn't mind the forever rain cloud hovering over her head, in more of a metaphorical sense but, at the moment, mother nature seemed to be taking herself literally, too. But, somehow, Maxene knew to take life with a smile, and she would be damned if it went any other way.


Running her small, pale hands over her damp head, Max sighed as she looked down at her fiery locks, noticing how they darkened when they got wet. So they weren't quite soaked, just a little bit less than dry. Still, the sight didn't make her any happier. She gave a scowl at her hair, dooming it for all of eternity like proper witches were supposed to do to mere mortals. Of course, while she was dooming all that was her thick and fiery mane, she was begging it not to fall out. Who could see a balding Max Weasley, walking around without her most noticeable trademark flowing from her head? It would be a hard thing to imagine, to be sure. It was something she was known for, something that was passed down through her family for as long as anyone could remember. But she let the thoughts drop there, not wanting to pursue them any farther and then notice the hairs coming out in her hand with all the luck she had in the world. She was certainly doomed in life, but she didn't want it to have to do with her gorgeous head of hair. It was probably the one part of her body that she was proud, and slightly conceited, of, the one part that she enjoyed showing off. It wasn't like she was the most gorgeous girl on the street or anything, far from it, but she had to at least have something to pride herself it. As a woman, at least a successful one, you had to have confidence in yourself. And Maxene seemed to have plenty of that, especially when it came to subjects such as hair.


Smiling over at the woman at the counter, the woman who seemed to be watching her make comments to herself in her head, she let her red lips part to show her pearly whites. Oh, how she would love to just take her by the head with an oversized puppet master hand and turn her around so she wouldn't be staring her down, wondering why she was wandering through Flourish and Blott's. "Little wannabe, sitting at the counter, aspiring to be a writer, mooching off of everybody else," she said to herself under her breath. Her brow was furrowed slightly, giving off the effect of her wanting to be alone. And then, taking a tiny moment to realize what she just said, "Damnit, I need to stop PMSing today." At least that statement was true. She had been aggravated all day by things that, normally, she would have let go. Even though she was moody by nature, today was especially bad. Step into her path at the wrong time and you'd be getting the wrath of the short little monster Maxie, a fate clearly worse than death. Or at least she liked to think it was worse than death. It made her feel better about herself and she quite liked that feeling. Just thinking about it made her stand a little taller and get a hint of that evil little smile of hers that she sometimes developed when the mood and the setting were right. Lucky for her that the mood and the setting were just right. If she had been particularly evil that afternoon, things might not have been going very well for anyone else who lingered in the bookstore.


Stopping in the middle of the main aisle, Max took a moment to put her hands on her hips, surveying the area around her. What was she in the mood for? Certainly not reading. Maybe skimming over the book titles to see what funny, and possibly disturbing, ones she could relay to her friends later when the weather started to let up and she would need no umbrella to walk the streets of London. Yes, that was a good idea. With a little hop and a skip, she set off for the nearest aisle, the one completely unoccupied and directly to her left. Brushing her damp bangs out of her eyes, she was looking at the shelf that was closest to eye level. She wasn't skimming particularly fast, just slow enough so that it looked as though she didn't know what she wanted. This way, in case an employee of the Flourish came up to her and asked if he could help, she could have a choice on how to answer. Either she could reply with a witty remark such as, "Well, I was looking for something about the quantum mechanics of a hummingbird under the effects of an intoxication spell, but I think I'm leaning more towards the practical uses of trolls in the bedroom," or she could simply tell him, "No, but if I need help locating my brain, I'll know who to call." Of course, if anyone did come ask her if she needed help, she already knew which reply she would use. Because the quantum mechanics of a hummingbird sounded so enticing.


But Max didn't even look to see if there was any help wandering around the store, peeking in on her to ask if she needed help. She didn't notice if there were any other customers lolling around, doing what she was doing or actually looking for a book to buy and really jump into. Not that she was the book reading type, of course. She was actually pretty average when it came to an interest in reading. And that's when she thought she spotted one, a book on sexual intentions with a centaur on the top shelf. Immediately, Max being a bit dimwitted, she began to jump for it, see if her fingertips could reach that far up. Of course her attempts were completely futile. She was only 5'2", and she wasn't even wearing heels. Oi, what a smart one Maxie could turn out to be. So she resorted to standing there, staring at her prey, deciding on the best possible, and probably the most worthwhile story, way to get the book.

[racquel jacquette lenoir]

J'AI FINI

[joana isabel silva]

welcome to don't forget to take a breath