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Post by WINN HOLDEN BRANTON. on Jun 15, 2009 17:09:10 GMT -5
It was late for practicing, Winn knew. In less than half an hour, he had to be back in his dorm room, feigning sleep or simply sitting on the couch in the main room of the suite on his laptop, talking to people and listening to music... He could be doing that. But he wasn't. The problem with being here on financial aid was that Winn was always in constant fear that he'd get called down to the office, we need to take a look at these grades... You're not doing enough. You're not using your talent to it's potential. We've found someone better to use the money on.
Winn considered Harbin and it's surrounding area more home than home- the small house in the middle of the heat waves of Miami with his mother and nineteen year old stepfather... He didn't want to go back to a public school. He just didn't... belong there. He sang too much, came out too early. He didn't like pain and cliques and didn't know where his place was, other than right here. Right on center stage.
He knew how to operate stage lights (partially well, as a matter of fact) so he turned them on, dimming the house lights, blasting the stage lights so it was nothing but a box of lights... And Winn, reciting a few short monologues he'd memorized. Songs, dancing, smiling... Musicals were more his style. But you couldn't live on musicals alone. You had to be... various. He had to be serious. The papers were strewn across the stage, crinkled and disorganized from being thrown across the wooden floor in frustration countless times. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He just couldn't, for the life of him, be serious.
"Well, Well, So be it..." He started again, more than a little bit of frustration in his voice- it had been gathering all afternoon. The little bit traveled through him rather effortlessly, but he had to make sure to exaggerate on stage without exaggerating in the audience- Be loud, be big, but for the love of god, don't be too big. This isn't a musical. He Stopped in mid-sentence, pacing from one side of the stage to the next, kicking the papers as he did so- It wasn't like him to get so worked up over something. He was the happy one. The musical. Be serious. This 'serious' business was going to be the death of him.
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Post by tristan kimberley avensis on Jun 15, 2009 17:42:24 GMT -5
Tristan-Briar Kimberley Avensis
  
It wasn't, by any means, easy to irritate Tristan. She tended to go with the flow, let people do their own thing, and just get on with whatever she was doing. However, in the short space of time that she had known her guardian, Carissa, Tristan had learned to hide from the woman before she got into her line of sight, because being found by the woman that was barely a decade older than her didn't generally lead to anything good. It was simple to hide from Carissa - she never came into Tristan's room, possibly afraid what she might find there, and so Tristan could just hide in there until her silence made Carissa think that she had gone out and had neglected to mention it, or was taking a nap or some such thing, as if she was an octogenarian with nothing better to do with her time.
There were still a couple of things to be sorted out with the forms and things at the school. That was why Carissa had called her, not because the blonde, vacuous secretary wanted to go shopping, but because she was attempting to be a parent. Tristan experienced a brief flash of guilt as she snuck back out of her room into the lounge of the apartment after Carissa had gone, but it didn't last long, and Tristan was soon dancing along to one of her favourite workout DVDs, despite the fact that she was in jeans and a halter, and the guy in the apartment across the street was home and quite openly watching her. Dancing and acting were the two things that sent Tristan into a world of her own, even things as strenuous as the aerobic exercises that she was mirroring from the TV screen, and after a few seconds, she didn't notice the man.
Tristan was curled up on the couch with a bowl of ice cream when Carissa came home with a couple of bags (a modest purchase, considering she'd been out for four hours) and a smile on her face that said she'd had a chat with the guy across the hall that kept making eyes at her when he thought they weren't looking. She had been watching a film, but she turned it off as soon as she heard the clicking of heels up the stairs, Carissa's high-pitched laugh, and the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. "Hey, Carissa." Tristan greeted, sounding bored as she stood up, finishing her bowl of half melted ice cream. "What'd you get?" She didn't really care, but there were precious few other topics of conversation that Carissa would be able to respond to. "Oh, just a basque and some shoes. I've got a fancy dress party in a few days." Tristan nodded as if she knew that, as she moved into the kitchen and rinsed out her bowl. There was silence as she made to go back to her room, but Carissa spoke again, making the brunette teenager turn around. "The paperwork's all sorted. You can go to school today and settle in. It's only just four."
[/i] A few hours later, and Tristan had just had to leave her dorm room. Most of what she owned had been taken with her to Harbin Academy, and it hadn't taken long to put away, especially compared with the quantities that everyone else had. She had suffered what had felt like endless questions about her, her family, her clothes, and all of her worldly possessions (most of which she managed to deflect with some clever word play and by asking her own questions in response to a question), and there was only so much femininity that she could tolerate before feeling like she was going to vomit. Her one escape had been shown to her already, luckily, so with no regard as to what time it actually was, Tristan headed out without a word, her key already conveniently strung around her neck on a thin silver chain. Pushing open the door to the theatre, Tristan stopped dead as she saw someone on the stage. She hadn't even entertained the notion that someone else would consider going to a place where she felt totally at home. "Um... Uhh... I... I'm sorry, I'll leave." She stammered, uncharacteristically nervous as she backed towards the doors that had swung shut behind her, feeling blindly behind her back for a door handle, meeting with little luck.
status: complete length: 750-ish tagged: winn outfit: clickersmusic: none mood: tired muse: kinda[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by WINN HOLDEN BRANTON. on Jun 15, 2009 18:27:48 GMT -5
No, no. That's not right. "Not right..." He muttered to himself, grabbing a paper at random and reciting the first few lines... "All is lost! ... oh, Fuck it."
He bent over, beginning to pick up all the paper he had thrown across the stage, into the pit... Pressing his fingers to his temples, he gave a small sigh, feeling ridiculously anxious- he felt almost as if he were about to cry, tears stinging his throat- he wouldn't. He wasn't an angry person, didn't get worked up... "FUCK!" He swore, very angrily indeed as he threw his messy stack of papers into the audience, most of them swirling into the pit, white rectangles catching the light of the stage before slipping into the darkness in front of him- he'd always loved how when the stage lights were on and you were up there staring in front of an audience, you couldn't see a single person. Usually, it made him feel real. Right now, it felt like a fourth wall had been placed in front of him.
He let himself sink to the floor, dangling his feet into the black pit and swinging them in circles, mumbling bits of monologues to himself, a line or two before slipping into a half-sentence of the next... All this drama. All this seriousness. He couldn't do it. Couldn't stand it. Making a noise that could be described as a cross between a sign and a scowl, he let himself fall back, laying on his back with his arms spread out, eyes closed but nothing could keep the light from filtering in, red and warm, making him sweat or was that the anger making his face, his neck and ears red?
That was when he sat up, noticed a speck of light shining in from the back of the theatre- someone was standing there. How long had they been there? Not long, Winn hoped- he probably looked ridiculous, freaking out over a line or two that he just couldn't say without melodrama... "Hello?" He called out, leaning forward into the pit so he could bypass the blinding light of the Stage, squinting to see an unfamiliar face. "Um... Uhh... I... I'm sorry, I'll leave." It was a girl. Dark brown hair, looking rather shy... And very, very beautiful. Winn wasn't afraid to admit that he was definitely more attracted to men than women- but this girl was up there, with her long hair and delicate features, even from a squinting distance.
"No, no!" He called, running a hand through his bleached-blonde hair before he slipped into the pit, stepping into the rows of seats. "You can stay if you like. I'd rather like some company, to tell you the truth," He grinned, pulling his sweater off as he walked down the row to meet her at a close distance. "I'm Winn," He offered, tossing the thin brown cardigan over one of his shoulders, leaving only a white V-neck tee shirt and some worn light-wash jeans on his rather thin, scrawny body. The black ink on his chest could be seen spread across his chest, along with the bits of tattooed words on his forearms- a pair of mirrored sunglasses sat askew on his head. "I... er. I'm sorry you had to witness that, if you did," He apologized with a smile, itching the back of his head awkwardly. Maybe she wasn't there.
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Post by tristan kimberley avensis on Jun 16, 2009 14:53:36 GMT -5
Tristan-Briar Kimberley Avensis
In retrospect, it was rather an idiotic assumption to think that no-one else would be out and about. She had been to boarding schools before - her first school in England had been one, and the ones that she went to in Florida - and she had known that there were only the rare people that ever stuck to the curfew, or never broke any of the rules concerning the dorm rooms. Theatre majors, it seemed, were notorious for breaking the rules, although it wasn't yet time for the bell to ring to signify a five minute warning for everyone to get back to their rooms.
Tristan had been in here before. It was the first place that she had asked to be shown, considering she had an early class the next day with the teacher and a tutor, so she could catch up on the work she had missed, having not been there the first week for the introductions, and the initial distribution of parts and scripts. Of course, the beauty of theatre classes were that there were never enough actors for the amount of parts, so finding her one wouldn't be difficult. Technically, though, she still had to audition, and while part of her was dreading it, another part of her was rather miffed that only two people would be there to judge her audition. It was scheduled for seven thirty the next day - Monday - and Tristan assumed that this was because they didn't have much faith in a foster child from Miami, and they didn't think that rejection in front of a whole class was the best way to go. She'd show them.
As the boy on stage swore, Tristan chuckled. It wasn't often that she heard swearing on stage, unless someone had forgotten their lines or fallen over (most of what they did was kid-friendly, at any school), and it looked rather strange. The large stage enveloped the petite frame of the boy that was there, and the sheets of paper that were thrown around, presumably in anger, didn't go very far, most of them fluttering ineffectually into the empty orchestra pit. She stemmed her almost silent laughter as she took a step forward, emboldened by the naturalism of the actor, and the fact that he seemed genuinely aggravated. Much as her exterior in larger crowds denied it, Tristan did like to help people. Alone in an auditorium, she could be who she wanted to be, and do whatever she wanted to do, be it help the poor unfortunate, or taunt him.
Half way towards the stage, the mystery boy called out a single word of greeting, cast out as a question, presumably at her anonymous form. "Hey there." She called back, not quite as loudly as he had, though she was perfectly capable of making heavy metal fans cover their ears when the mood struck. Her accent, she noticed with an iota of incredulity, matched his, and she stored that piece of information, as she did many others, away for use at another time. Apparently, her leaving would be a bad thing, or this guy was just a little too expressive for his own good. He only truly relaxed when he slid down from the stage and exited via the orchestra pit. He spoke, and Tristan fixed a smile onto her face. It wasn't that she had to pretend that she was happy on a normal day, but the irritation factor of her whole day had been so far off the scale that joy or pleasure wasn't something she was sure was going to come easily until the next dawn broke.
"Sure, whatever. I don't have anything better to do." Tristan shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest, pulling the white fabric of her top taut as her physical barrier against all unknown people went up. Her tone wasn't exactly pleasant, but it held a hint of charm, and enough congeniality that Winn knew it was going to be possible to get her out of her funk. She couldn't help but watch as he removed his cardigan, and her eyes trailed the faint outlines of his tattoos. She had many herself, although none could be seen from how she was stood. "Nice to meet you, I guess." Tristan responded, not used to meeting people or having to introduce herself to them. Before now, she had always had that done for her. "My name's Tristan-Briar. Tristan or Briar are both fine on their own, but feel free to shorten either name any way you see fit. I know it's a mouthful." She made a face as if to say 'parents, what can you do?' although it wasn't actually her parents that had named her that - it had been her eccentric, hippy carer from the Witness Protection Scheme. "It's fine, though. I've seen worse things." She brushed it off, but she was thinking about what his reaction would have been if he had known the whole truth. To move on from the silence that was stretching before them, Tristan spoke, gesturing back the way Winn had come. "Having trouble?"
status: complete
length: 800-ish
tagged: winn
outfit: clickers
music: none
mood: tired
muse: kinda
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Post by WINN HOLDEN BRANTON. on Jun 16, 2009 18:26:37 GMT -5
They'd sort of met in the middle- Winn sliding form the pit and the girl walking from the back of the theatre, eventually standing in front of each other, sizing the other up. She really was pretty- But he'd already decided that, hadn't he? There was something about attractive women that made him crazy- He'd fall for a thousand gorgeous men but none of them would compare to the beauty of the one rare lady that caught his eye. It was a good thing he wasn't awkward- oh, he knew how to flirt. The question was, would she appreciate it? Take it too seriously, or realize that Winn didn't mean any harm, didn't know how to deal with girls anyways? He looked thoroughly homosexual, what with his hair and his clothes and the way he walked, the way he talked... And he knew it. She would probably just think it was a joke. Which Winn didn't mind- to him, it was always a joke.
"Hey there." She replied, and for a moment he hadn't heard her- she spoke softly. She didn't have a soft voice- Winn could tell that if she wanted to, she could speak pretty powerfully- but at the moment, she'd chosen to be quiet. He'd asked her to stay, and she replied with a shrug, "Sure, whatever. I don't have anything better to do." It sounded rather passive, but not rude- maybe a little distant, though. She had that air about her that made her seem almost... Unreal. And he wasn't talking about her looks this time... Winn hardly noticed the barrier though, the distance. His astounding- almost childish- friendliness and extroversion was given to everyone, no matter who they were, how they acted. There was very few people that he didn't like, and in return, very few that didn't like him. Which was good for him- he didn't really know how to handle stuff like that. He didn't know how to handle much other than the good stuff.
He grinned, glad that someone would stay with him to at least pick up the mess he'd made of the pit, the stage. "Nice to meet you, I guess. My name's Tristan-Briar. Tristan or Briar are both fine on their own, but feel free to shorten either name any way you see fit. I know it's a mouthful." Tristan-Briar. Briar. Tristan. "That's a sweet name, Tristan-Briar. I think... I think I'll just call you Tristan, to tell you the truth. Tristan-Briar might be a little too much for me to handle." He grinned- poking fun at himself seemed to be the best way to start a conversation, get the other person feeling comfortable. Well, usually, at least. Some people just didn't have his humour.
"It's fine, though. I've seen worse things." So she did see it? "Was it dramatic enough? Damn, maybe I could just get frustrated every time I need to recite a monologue..." He smiled, running his hands through his hair once more as he looked back to the stage- the lights were never usually that bright. they spilled over into the pit, swallowed up by it's black shadows- it was almost play season. Hopefully, they'd do a musical- else there was no chance he'd get a good part. They only gave lead parts to juniors and seniors, and there was no chance in hell he was going to wait another year for a part that consisted of more than three lines and a chorus song. No way.
He focused back on her, catching himself before he looked too creepy- he was probably staring. Damn girls with their damn... Good looks. "Having trouble?" At first, he thought she was being snotty, the main defense for creepers who oogle too long- he hadn't been looking for too long! Half seconds at most... That was when he remember their conversation. "Heh, yeah. I..." he sighed a bit, looking back to the stage. It looked so alone empty- the entire thing was alive when the actors were on it. Without them, it was nothing but a television full of static.
"I'm more of a musical actor m'self, and I've heard rumours that this year's play's gonna be a drama. I'm jus' practicin' a bit..." the longer he spent off of the stage, the worse his grammar, his pronunciation got, he knew. As an actor, he had a very clear, precise way of speaking, just as needed. But he held onto the error-ridden dialect of his childhood, slurs and double negatives. "You an actress?" he asked- she was definitely new, and most people wouldn't make the theatre their first stop. "'r are you just lost?"
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Post by tristan kimberley avensis on Jun 17, 2009 16:28:09 GMT -5
Tristan-Briar Kimberley Avensis
Tristan didn't really get a proper look at Winn until he stopped in front of her. There was about a metre of thin air separating the two of them; just enough, thankfully, for Tristan still to be comfortable. She had issues with people she didn't know entering her personal space and, while it probably hadn't been the best idea to join a boarding school with previous knowledge of this issue, she figured that all she had to do was befriend a few people. How hard could it be, right? Clearly, Tristan knew nothing of the reputation of the people that dwelled within Harbin's campus.
They took time out from their scintillating conversation just to size each other up, to look them up and down and try to see what the other was like without asking awkward questions. Tristan decided that Winn was extremely camp, at least, if not bisexual. She could tell that by the way he stood, by the cut of his hair, the way he dressed. Most of all, though, it was the way that he acted. On the stage, he was melodramatic, although that could have been attributed to him being privy to too many musicals as a child. That, however, didn't stop him being as attractive, or more so, perhaps, than most of the guys she had dated back in Miami. He was a little taller than her, she noticed, even when she was in heels. That would have set him at a height just below 6 feet. He was slim with it, but she could see that it wasn't from lack of eating - he was toned and lithe beneath the thin shirt that he wore. She fiddled with her watch, which was about two links too big for her, and forever in danger of just flying off (she was prone to exaggerative hand gestures).
She rolled her eyes as Winn responded to her introduction. I KNEW I shouldn't have told him my full first name. Bloody Louise-Anne. I'm gonna kill her. As soon as the thought was finished, she regretted it. That one was going to have to go in the diary, although she hadn't meant it literally. Phil said that every mention of death, vocal or simply thought, had to be written down, especially when said or thought of others. "Yeahhhhh." She drew the word out, showing her distaste in the choice of name. "I know, it's awful. Most people call me Tristan or Trist anyway. Kinda makes me sound like a guy, but whatever." She grinned, easing up only a little, although her arms didn't unfold themselves. Easily, the conversation switched to what she had witnessed on the stage. This, she could talk about. She had opinions, and opinions were good. They had nothing to do with her past, or familial situation, and she could see no way to link them back. Both her past and her family were dangerous areas, and Tristan always skirted around them as best she could.
Tristan made a face, and tilted her head to the side as she considered Winn's question. "Well, it was dramatic." She told him, with a tone that said she hadn't finished talking yet. "But not in the right way." She held up a hand to stem any words that might come from his mouth as she paused once again to order and articulate her thoughts. "It wasn't bad, by any stretch of the imagination. It just looked like you were overacting." She explained, her arms finally falling away to relax at her sides. She swept past him with long strides, and picked up the first piece of paper she came to. It was a sheet of paper that had printed script on it that she recognised from the first few lines as being in A Midsummer Night's Dream. She scanned the text rapidly until she found a place with a relatively long passage that she could act out to demonstrate. "I know most people say that, on stage, you have to overact, but that's not true. People pick up on the inflections in one's voice much better than they do any gesture, and if the inflection is one they hear in every day conversation, they'll be able to understand what's going on, whether we're speaking in modern terms, or in Shakespearean."
She moved up the steps to the stage and raised her voice slightly. "This was how you were acting." With reckless abandon and an iota of cruelty, Tristan, against her better judgement, overacted the passage, throwing herself about the stage, her voice filled with melodrama. "He goes before me, and still dares me on. When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter heel'd than I. I followed fast, but faster he did fly. That fallen am I in dark uneven way, and here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day, for if but once thou show me thy grey light, I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite." Standing up and brushing herself off, Tristan walked to the edge of the stage. "There's no need for that amount of melodrama. Just think, he's chasing after someone because he stole his woman, and can't find him. He's angry, but he's tired, and he's also lost because it's dark. He's feeling irate, confused, a little bewildered, perhaps." She paused and took a breath, reciting the passage almost word for word as she had seen it done on several stages before. She descended the stairs, and stopped in front of him.
"I realise that I probably exaggerated your melodrama, and for that, I apologise, but it was important to show you the difference between the two acting styles. Naturalism is a lot harder to do than people think. Movement is sacred. Stay still, and then when you move, it's all the more poignant. Inflections in your voice tell people what's going on, what you're feeling, but learning lines, you get bored, and read them in the same predictable way. Change it up until you find something that suits the meaning of the passage." Suddenly, all that said and done, Tristan got self-conscious, and blushed, looking down at the floor. She turned her back on Winn, not saying another word, and started to collect the scattered paper.
status: complete
length: 1000-ish
tagged: winn
outfit: clickers
music: none
mood: tired
muse: kinda
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Post by WINN HOLDEN BRANTON. on Jun 25, 2009 21:17:06 GMT -5
Their conversation took the normal twists and turns of an introduction, Hi what is your name that's cool blah blah... Winn didn't mind- he loved meeting new people. It was what he did- new people made the day just a little bit different. She looked a little distraught as he spoke of her name- "Yeahhhhh." She drawled- he'd said something wrong? Sure. "I know, it's awful. Most people call me Tristan or Trist anyway. Kinda makes me sound like a guy, but whatever." Winn shrugged- "Nah, I like it. It's different, you know? I mean, You can do a lot with it- my name's terrible unless you cut the last bit off. Fucking... Winston." Winn hated his name- it didn't really suit him, he didn't think. Winn was fine, he liked it well enough, but... Winston? Are you kidding me?
He'd brought it up, his failure on stage, so he should have expected a bit of feedback. She was constructive with it, though- she was definitely knowledgeable on the subject. "Well, it was dramatic. But not in the right way." She held up a hand before he could answer, continuing. "It wasn't bad, by any stretch of the imagination. It just looked like you were overacting. I know most people say that, on stage, you have to overact, but that's not true. People pick up on the inflections in one's voice much better than they do any gesture, and if the inflection is one they hear in every day conversation, they'll be able to understand what's going on, whether we're speaking in modern terms, or in Shakespearean."
Winn was lucky he took criticism well, because what came next would have angered most people. By no means was he fine with it- it definitely felt like she was putting in just a little bit too much effort into mocking him- but the way he thought was, she didn't even know him. She was just trying to explain something, get her point across. Hell, that probably was how he looked. It didn't change the pang of discomfort as she climbed on stage, "This was how you were acting." and proceeded to... Was that acting? He stood with his hands crossed over his chest, watching with sincerity as she explained with her overexpressions, the gestures...
"There's no need for that amount of melodrama. Just think, he's chasing after someone because he stole his woman, and can't find him. He's angry, but he's tired, and he's also lost because it's dark. He's feeling irate, confused, a little bewildered, perhaps." She walked to the end of the stage, then down the steps, eventually ending up in front of him. "I realise that I probably exaggerated your melodrama, and for that, I apologise, but it was important to show you the difference between the two acting styles. Naturalism is a lot harder to do than people think. Movement is sacred. Stay still, and then when you move, it's all the more poignant. Inflections in your voice tell people what's going on, what you're feeling, but learning lines, you get bored, and read them in the same predictable way. Change it up until you find something that suits the meaning of the passage."
He listened with interest- whatever discomfort he felt before had washed away once she stepped off the stage, and now he was just grateful for the advice. He nodded as she spoke, and was about to speak when she looked to the floor, suddenly shy-looking, and... turned around. He watched her as she began picking up the papers he threw... Shrugging to himself, he walked over and began to help her. Everyone was different, he figured... When they'd picked them all up, he set them in a messy pile on the stage, swinging himself up and sitting on the warm wood floor- basking in the light. "It's much too bright up here..." He muttered, rather nonsensically, churning what she'd said in his head. He wasn't going to practice right here, right now, he didn't think- he was a little too frustrated at himself for that. Just give himself time to cool off.
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