"Ғσя тнɛ ƨтяɛиɢтн
σғ тнɛ Ƥαcκ
ιƨ тнɛ Ɯσℓғ,
αи∂ тнɛ ƨтяɛиɢтн
σғ тнɛ Ɯσℓғ
ιƨ тнɛ Ƥαcκ."
-Ƙιρℓιиɢ
"Call me Cal," That is the most any normal person will ever know of Calliope's name, she wouldn't allow the entirety of it to become common knowledge. Obviously her and Icy's parents had something against even remotely normal names. Calliope, Cal's first name, pronounced as if the "e" was: é. The "o" is hard, and the "i" sounds like a harsh "e." Her name comes from the first of the ancient Greek muses, the muse of epic poetry. Before she was born, her father would read her mother poetry, and her mother, Rae, always told her she could feel Cal smiling inside her whenever they read to her. Her mother always said her favorite was the Iliad and the Odyssey. Either way, she was named after the Greek muse of poetry, and it's easy to say Cal has come into her name.
Her middle name; Myra, is an abbreviation of her own fathers name, Myron. It's a rather embarrassing fact for Cal, being named after her father, and silently, she can be slightly jealous of her sister, Icy, because at least she was dubbed with their mothers name, a females name. Wycliffe, her last name, is an old family name; Cal's been told it's been in the family for generations. Passed from father to son to father to son. It makes her feel slightly guilty her parents had no male children, just her and her sister, but she has a few cousins, and they have that name, too, named Jack and Will, so she doesn't take it to heart too greatly.
Some other plain details about Cal are her age and her gender (which should be woefully obvious by this point, I hope), and a few others that I shall list here. Cal was born ten months after her older sister, Icy, so you do the math. The two sisters are have a special term for them; it's called Irish Twins, when two siblings are born within twelve months, because they're so similar in age, and the Irish were known for their...activity, in the bedroom. Either way, Cal's always thought of Icy as her twin sister, because they were so close in age, always in the same classes in school, the same year. Still, she knows too Icy'll never stop holding her younger age over her. Cal, thankfully, is a female, and straight, though she's no romantic. Twenty years old, Cal never did seem to act her age; always much, much older.
Cal and her sister never really resembled each other. Despite this basic fact, if you analyzed their faces, you could find similar qualities. Both the girls have dark eyes and hair, though both of those features on Cal are darker, almost black, and rich, like earth. Cal has pale skin, white as snow, and higher, more pronounced cheekbones. They give her an almost hollow look, when she's somber, but when the girl smiles they accentuate the apples in her cheeks. Straight white teeth shine in her rare grins, surrounded by thick, pouting lips. Cal could be called vain, for she has always considered herself beautiful. It's true, as well. She's tall and lean, and though everyone has faults and foibles, Cal has long since decided hers are much less pronounced then others. For example, what she considers her worst quality, is that her ears are not symmetrical. Not in the slightest. One practically is glued to the side of her head, the other sticks out pointedly. This prevents her, mostly because of her pride, of ever putting her dark waving hair back in a ponytail where both her ears at the same time are visible. Another is one of her fingers, which are all long and graceful, is smushed looking and slightly stubby. The knuckle looks flattened. When she was nine, Cal got into a fight with her mother, and stomped to her room. She was so angry she slammed the door behind her, but she was swinging, simaltaneously, from the frame of the door, into her room, the way someone does when they turn a corner and they're running. The door closed too quickly, and her fingers were still there. She didn't know it then, but the impact fractured one of her fingers, the ring finger on her left hand, and she cried silently for a while. But she was too proud to ask help from Rae, and Icy had been gone, or she would have confided in her.
Either way, she refused to tell anyone about it, it was sore for weeks, but it healed. Unfortunately it healed crooked, and the bone never reset properly, so she imagines it will always look a bit squashed. Cal has another quality, one she despises, despite what one might think. Her figure is beautiful, curvy, with a tight waist and large hips; hourglass. However, ever since the seventh grade, when puberty started to wreck its devastation on Cal's life, she's had to prepare for the worst. For as long as she can remember Cal has envied girls with flatter chests, for their luck in their lot. Cal can hardly run without layering on bras and shirts, it's ruined her athletic carreer, if she was ever meant to have one, and makes wearing clothes much more complicated. It's a quiet hatred though, she hasn't told anyone, save Icy, perhaps, because she knows no one would understand. Society congratulates women with large chests and bottoms, commends them for their superior physical form, she's never understood it. It seems like just more rules to her, and she doesn't like that at all.
Calliope was never one to advertise herself, she never put herself in a group, a clique, but at the same time, never isolated herself, either. She just...is. Perhaps it's because of her complexity that Cal always had a hard time finding people she could relate to. Perhaps it was because of her complexity people had a hard time relating to her. Either way, through her faults and her feats, Cal is certainly an individual. No one could deny that.
Brutal. One word that could describe her in a heartbeat, at least of what most people see of her, anyways. And that is not without reason, granted. Cal can be extremely cold hearted and brutal, extremely dark. She doesn't think, when she's angry; she gets into rages where her body takes over her mind, and her heart leads them both on in bloody charge. As a girl, her words are chips of ice and dark flames when she spits them at people, like weapons, like wasps. When enraged, there's no calming this girl down. She's like an animal, already. It's one of her worst faults, her lack of control, her blood lust when angry, and the worst of it is, Cal understands she'll never be able to help it. She tried, before, years ago, but nothing could be done. She forgets who she is when she's angry. She forgets she has a family, forgets her friends, her life, her goals and her dreams. She becomes a thing of myth, a shell of a human, incasing nothing but fury.
Granted, this type of anger takes something to set her off. Cal doesn't just go on a rampage because someone ate her apple at lunch. But they can seem like small things, that set her off. Insults are one of them; not about her body or someone else, but about her own character. Above everything, Cal values her character. She works at it. She tries, with all her might and all her will, to be a good person. She helps people, she shares her things, she smiles when she wants to cry. Cal strains against everything she is to be a role model for people. That's why when someone insults her, she can't help but feel as if they'd socked her in the jaw. It's that much of an insult. That much of a betrayel. After all, she's been working her whole life on perfecting herself...hearing it's all for naught is not the type of thing anyone wants to know. However, it's ironic, for when someone insults her character, everything about her that she works for goes down the drain. She becomes someone else; someone angry and cruel and heartless, to an extent. It's almost as if she proves them right, and that's what kills her most of all. After the fact, when she's sitting at home crying or reading or sketching, or whatever she's doing, Cal will think about things like this; her faults, how she loses control, and how she tries so hard, and seems to fail every time, and it kills her. It really kills her.
Proud. There are times when pride blends into stupidity, when like untied laces on your shoes, it trips you up, makes you stumble, makes you blush for your own clumsy mistake. But there are times, too, when it's like standing on a balcany, with the wind rushing through your hair. Envigorating. Because you can feel like you're flying then, like you're all alone and you can do anything, and you wouldn't dare ever stop, and ever give up what was rightfully yours: the chance to fly. It can also be sorrow. Loss. That feeling of disdain and horror at something you know in your heart of hearts you could never, ever forgive yourself if you committed. Pride takes many forms, all of which are present in Cal. Sometimes it does get the better of her, and she understands that, but she thinks it makes her a better person too. More moral. For example, not in a hundred years would this dark haired girl ever think about taking a drug or smoking, to stoop so low that she needs to rely on drugs for her happiness is a thought that seems, to her, so barbaric, so dingy, that Cal would swallow acid before swallowing her pride. It's noble, too. When you look at Cal, you can see the strength in her gaze, the fire in her smile, the tense, anticipated form of her muscles; you can see the royalty in her blood. Cal's pride is something more kind then others, perhaps. It is not the type in which she wouldn't bend down to help a fallen man on the street, it is the type in which she would batter herself if she did not. She puts so much weight on her soul, as if being a good person is life or death, that mistakes are life changing to her. She makes it her duty to be the best. To act and speak the best. To uphold her own standards, though they are impossible. Cal doesn't understand that she can't be perfect all the time. And when she slips and falls, and tries to claw her way back up to a pedestool she'll never reach, sometimes she can't help but sigh for wretchedness.
Brokenness. The last paragraph brings me to another point. Cal has, over the years, broken herself down. Self destructed, so to speak. It's her own fault she's broken, shattered, too feeble to put herself back together, in a way, but she doesn't know it. It is because the girl thinks too much. About...everything. About society, mostly, about government, about life, about the masses, about the elite, about nations and rules and teachers and students. About laws and life and animals and humans. About trees and mountains and dolls and pets. About fires and rain. About...everything. And the troubling part is that most of what she thinks is depressing stuff. She can't help it. But what runs through her mind can make Cal want to scream, it's so horrible. It feels like poison eating away at her soul, devouring small parts of her before she can fix it. Another night crying herself to sleep; there goes the part of her that used to love crowded days on the beach. Another day writing questions she knows she'll never be able to answer in her journal; there goes that one, easy going smile that would sometimes come out, when she was with someone she really loved. Small things dissapear, until there will be nothing left but a sad, shriveled girl, crying to only herself, silent, internal, tears.
Judgemental. This quality goes along with Cal's pride. The way she judges people so harshly, it's because, too, she judges herself so harshly. People tell her, sometimes, she's too hard on herself. But she doesn't see it that way, for she's fair, and judges others the same. This in itself makes her hard to get along with, for if somehow, she deems you unfit, there's not a thing in the world you could ever do to change her mind.
Stubbornness. Merging into this quality, it is a very obvious, and constant trait about Calliope. It uses her pride and her judgement, wrapped up together, to make this girl as stubborn as a mule. Never in her life has Cal been called indicisive, and if she was, it was a lie. For once she makes up her mind, there is not a thing in the world that could be done to change it, at least willingly. This being said, the dark haired girls decisions are not done overnight. She's thoughtful, and she thinks about things, like I've said before. She mulls things over, and she's not impulsive. However, neither is Cal cunning or deceptive. What she could be called, is thorough. Cal doesn't rush through things, but neither does she over think them. She just...does them. It's like an instinct, the way she can slowly but steadily move through things. And it's calming, too. This helps soften the extent of her stubborn pride, for at least, most of the time, the effects are not bad. However, it makes dealing with her, when you disagree, a very difficult task, indeed. I do not wish it upon even my worst enemy.
Selfless. There is something woven so deeply into Cal's DNA that tells her to put others before her, it was more instinct then anything else. Perhaps her best quality, perhaps her worst, it's something she can't control. Cal understands the risks of who she is, and what he actions might be, whether that means cheating on homework to let someone copy, or sacrificing herself in the place of a friend...she's not ignorant. She's not an idiot. Cal understands, and that makes it all the worse that, to the point of martyrdom, she would do anything for anybody...besides herself. It was a drive for her, to help others, since she was young, but the selflessness that embodies Cal is not the one you might think. It is not the type that heals, or is kind, or even sweet. She does not come off as a good person, most of the time. The kind of care she gives people is tough, it's harsh and brutal, but she always seems to mean well, and in the end, you realize she was pushing you, the whole way there, even if you never knew it before. It might have hurt sometimes, you might have fallen because she pushed you so hard, you might have stumbled, but she would help you back up with a yank and continue running you down that course. She would help you, if only to help.
The sad part about that is, hardly anyone realizes it. No one even knows how kind Cal can be, because its underneath harsh glares and balled fists. But a few choice people understand. They can see, because they know her so well, or are extremely perceptive, that exteriors only go so far. And inside, there is somewhat of a mother in Cal, something that could be called a leader, nudging and helping where they can, to make sure that no one is left behind.
Black as midnight, black as a ruined soul. Fur course and long, rough and warm. Large paws, lean legs, muscles rolling under toughened skin. A long neck, arched, and amble chest, encasing lungs of iron, rest below the graceful head. Long, wide snout and eyes like chips of ice. Eyes like snow. Eyes like a hollow smile. Black nose. Large ears, one up naturally, the other sideways, so extreme it's almost comical. At least, it would have been in fangs, yellowed and sharpened like daggers were not protruding from black lips, three inches, and thick. Made to kill. Claws, too, leave slashing marks in the dirt below, shallow, scaring marks as they dig into the earth with every step. A long tail brushes the ground in a noble sweep behind. And the reflection ripples. Cal looks down into the river she stands at, black, shaggy head lowered and icy eyes all too aware that of what stares back. A feeling mixed entreats her heart: elation, excitement, relief, panic, fear, anger, confusion, helplessness, and hopefulness. The possibilities are endless. This form is © to me, c h e s s, just to let everyone know...
{Whew! This took a while! M, your form's my inspiration for the skeleton, so thank you for that lovely thing, and just PM me when you've read through this, so we can start!!}
