Dahling, I'm a sucker for Victorian / Regency stuff so I'd be very interested. Can roleplay as either male or female, though latter is my preferance. I've...had...time. I always have time so that..doesn't surprise me anyway, but this is going somewhere. With the time that I have had, I've put together a little something about Dah, who I'm pulling out for play again. So, I'll put it up here and help see what we can turn about for plot? Male of female, doesn't really matter to me. Just whatever you'd have the most fun with. <3
So....here's Dahling, in a nutshell.
~Five foot, three~
~Hates her name~
The Wonderful World of...
Litton Manor, was tucked neatly away in the Mayfair District, a sprawling house that stood two stories high, painted the darkest blue you’ve ever seen with white shutters. It made her eyes ache. Dahling hated her home. Oh, don’t get her wrong she preserved it; the maids stayed in functioning order though their loyalties lay mostly with Norman for reasons that she truly didn’t want to fathom. But, in a nutshell over the past few years, she had grown to truly loath her home. That didn’t mean she set out to destroy it…just…make it unlivable.
Over the past few months, the place had gone through several changes. For instance, the drawing room was now the color of an olive. Not the soft somber shade of an olive, no; it was the sickly green bordering on a pukey yellow and the border for it…was pruce. Not purple, or lavender, or even to salvage the olive, a Merlot shade. No, it was pruce, a shade of purple that made one think of prunes and old wisened aunts who only visit when someone’s about to die. It was one of her most favorite rooms in the house. Not…because of the colors, her taste really isn’t that atrocious but because of the expressions on the faces of their guests when they received tea in such a place and she’d sit there just raving on and on about the color and how kind it was of her ‘noble’ husband to allow her to redecorate it.
Many of their friends now thought she was a loon.
The dining room, as a different affair; a woman’s dream so long as that woman wasn’t Dahling and had no sense of taste whatsoever. The walls were passion pink, and whoever decided that was a color must have been a man. Passion pink. Hmph, it reminded her of a womans… Well anyway, the walls were pink, the Persian rug was pink with white inlay and the border on the room, in fact all the edging on the long sprawling oaken table, were a shining eye catching Gold. And upon every flat surface available there sat vase upon vase of white daisies. The daisies were the only thing about the room that Dahling liked, well, that and watching her husband attempt to suffer through dinner in it, not that he came home often enough to have to worry about such a thing; but the bright walls did go a long ways towards making him look even more sallow than he was.
She’d spent at least three times her weight in gold thus far and still –still- the man had done no more than grunt at her efforts, and remark that it wasn’t he she was embarrassing but herself. She’d given him a blank airy expression that tended to make people think she was more ensconced in the land of the fae than of reality and spoken of putting in a small goldfish pond in the library.
He hadn’t come home the next night.
When she decorated his office, he hadn’t come home for two weeks and she’d heard it from Millie, a first floor maid that he’d fair coughed his lungs out when he’d discovered what she’d done. Gone were the burgundy walls that made the room dark and mature, the stained trim that accented it in masculine gesture. In their places, were buttercup yellow, and daisies hand painted on the trim. Dahling liked daisies. She didn’t like the angels though, those smiling rosy cheeked cherubs who perched in statuette on his table, or stood tall and proud in the corners of the room. Their beady little eyes just seemed to follow you wherever you went and you got the feeling, or at least she did; that for all their angelic appearances, they were demons beneath.
The library, was a dark and dreary place as most books should be probably, but she’d gone so far as to have the windows bolted shut along with their shutters, painted the panes black and so were the walls, and the ceiling, and that poor beautiful hardwood floor. There was one tall gothic candelabra in the center of the long table, and it didn’t help you see a thing. Dahling didn’t spend much time in there herself.
She was making plans to do the game room next, and the ball room; but the week before Norman had received a letter from his solicitor in regards to some of the hefty bills that’d been drawn up in his name. She wanted a bigger allowance. All of it lead towards some serious examination for the books; it didn’t help that she’d purposely written down those for the household accounts wrong. He didn’t have to love her; that was fine. She only wanted him to let her go.