Quill

kaitid@aol.com

Full Name: ::there's the sound of a quill scratching on paper at the writing desk in the corner, and muttered grumbles and grunts as the girl sitting there furiously crosses out line after line after line.. and crumples the paper in her hands and tosses it down to the floor. She looks up at you, almost thoroughly irritated with you, as though you ruined her streak of inspiration that was never there in the first place.:: My name. That's a long story, actually. ::she shakes her head, almost laughing:: My name is Lydia Hammond, legally, and that's what I've gone by since I was fourteen. However, my name before then was Olivia Swipple. I was raised in an orphanage since I was a year old and they had my name changed for . . . some terrible reasons. You can call me most anything you'd like: Olivia, Lydia, Livvie, Lyddie. But most of the girls around me spare any confusion and simply call me Quill. Or Quillow. Quilla. Quillikins . . . Quill. ::smiles briefly, using the end of her quill to tuck her hair behind her ear::

Age: I was born on the sixth of January, 1888. That would, indeed, make me fifteen. I came here, actually, on my fourteenth birthday. And I didn't know my birthday until November or December of the year before. ::she shakes her head as she looks back to her writing, tapping her quill against her chin:: I'm a little hazy on the date I learned my birthday. As you can see, I'm a little hazy on who I really am.

Appearance: ::She shrugs quietly:: You can take a look at me. ::In manners of her looks, she's plain: small, about five feet three inches, with a body that matured into womanhood quite late. She isn't thin--she's heavy, curved, but she isn't overweight. She almost always dresses in dull colors of browns and reds--at the moment she's in a brown shirt that has no real color, it's been so faded, and a skirt with ragged hems that just barely has a tint of burgundy. Over her shirt, she has a peculiar vest: it's red (a brilliant shade of red when it was new--now it's worn and dusty), with gold braiding designs around the hems. It almost resembles an antique military uniform. A gray shawl is draped over the chair she's sitting in. She stands to allow you to see her more fully. Her left boot laces up tightly to the curve of her calf, while her other is kept untied and loose. She pulls hi her skirt to show you why--her right leg is twisted out of position from a birth defect, and to lace up the boot would cause her incredible pain. She walks with a limp, her foot twisted inward and upward so she can only walk on the outside edge of her right foot. Recent injuries cause her to simply drag her foot when she walks, and it gives the impression that Quill is oafish and slow, possibly retarded. This is far from true, and that's obvious when anyone looks at her large, childish brown eyes. They often have a haunted, faraway look in them, like she's not entirely there--But when she is, they glitter brilliantly with intelligence, and convey her every emotion. Her features are plain, with light freckles across her nose and cheeks that are just barely noticable, a round, open face, and thick tresses of dark brown that fall to the middle of her back. At the moment, her hair is tied back loosely with a thick cotton ribbon. There are scars on her wrists from suicide attempts, but that's all in the past:: Alright now . . . You can stop looking.

Background: You . . . want my background. It's so complicated. I'm the daughter of Thomas and Eleanor Hammond. When my mother died, I was a year old and I was brought to an orphanage temporarily so my father could find some way to support me. He went back and learned I was dead--I wasn't dead. My name was changed and I was raised there until I was fourteen. I met my father again two years ago. He died the December after I met him. ::frowns quietly and shakes her head:: So did the woman I was staying with before then. But it's a long, long, complicated story. ::another near-laugh:: You don't want to hear about it.

Relationships: Most people don't like me because I'm too quiet. Or they avoid me because they don't think I'm too bright, because of the way I move. I generally don't say anything, but when I do, it's something stupid. ::laces her fingers together thoughtfully:: I've found, when reviewing previous events, that I often try to be like the heroes in the books I read. I stand up for myself and try to save the day. Unfortunately, there's no need for it and all I get are stares. ::smiles lightly:: I speak before I think, and therefore I do my best to be quiet. Ah, but as for relationships, my best friend is Gwen Minton. We're so different, but I suppose that's why we go so well together. I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for her.. And Smoke Schaefer's nice to me. Schlomo Morstein--he used to be a newsboy here, but I haven't seen him in so long I suppose I've forgotten about him. Then I--Then there's Cordelia, the girl who plays the piano. There's magic in her hands.

Other notes: I earned my nickname because I'm a writer. Well, no. I try to write. I don't think I'm very good but other people say I'm a genius. And for Valentine's Day a while ago Gwen gave me this necklace. ::with ink-stained fingers, she holds up a gold-plated quill charm on a chain around her neck:: I never take it off. And this one I've had since October, 1901. ::she holds up her wrist and pulls back her sleeve.. over the scars there, she has a loose bracelet with a small heart charm that reads "LH":: When I was a baby it was a necklace, but naturally I got to big for it. There's a doll on my bunk that my father gave to be when I was an infant.. and then again when I was fourteen. She has a matching necklace. ::she smiles, rubbing her wrists absently:: Oh.. the scars aren't anything. I tried to kill myself twice, that's all. ::smiles brightly::

A poem for Quillow, who needn't weep
by Beth

The sky, she notes with mixed dismay, is leaving common blue,
and soon the sunset’s colors will be vanished from my view.
For the buildings, tall around her, force her witnessing askew,
and since everything had left her, why not the sunset too?

The other girls don’t care for me, is what she contemplates,
they run off every evening to their dinners and their dates.
While Quillow in her loneliness entire worlds creates,
her paper and her quill pen her invariable traits.

At times the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl allows herself to dream
of someday being someone with a quite contented theme.
And she wonders to herself if anyone could deem
her worthy of a focus and shared livelihood downstream.

Her limp, inherent to her walk, some nights makes her leg ache.
Nearly every evening she thinks she ought to take
her life, somehow, as recompense for every small mistake,
but every time she gets too close she cannot help but shake.

Her ears are closed to peoples’ words—she cannot hear concern—
she’s dangerously well-convinced that she can never learn.
Too afraid to love but lose, she waits for their return,
the other girls will never know how much for them she yearns.

Full Name:	::there's the sound of a quill scratching on paper at the writing desk in the corner, and muttered grumbles and grunts as the girl sitting there furiously crosses out line after line after line.. and crumples the paper in her hands and tosses it down to the floor. She looks up at you, almost thoroughly irritated with you, as though you ruined her streak of inspiration that was never there in the first place.:: My name. That's a long story, actually. ::she shakes her head, almost laughing:: My name is Lydia Hammond, legally, and that's what I've gone by since I was fourteen. However, my name before then was Olivia Swipple. I was raised in an orphanage since I was a year old and they had my name changed for . . . some terrible reasons. You can call me most anything you'd like: Olivia, Lydia, Livvie, Lyddie. But most of the girls around me spare any confusion and simply call me Quill. Or Quillow. Quilla. Quillikins . . . Quill. ::smiles briefly, using the end of her quill to tuck her hair behind her ear::
Age:	I was born on the sixth of January, 1888. That would, indeed, make me fifteen. I came here, actually, on my fourteenth birthday. And I didn't know my birthday until November or December of the year before. ::she shakes her head as she looks back to her writing, tapping her quill against her chin:: I'm a little hazy on the date I learned my birthday. As you can see, I'm a little hazy on who I really am.
Appearance:	::She shrugs quietly:: You can take a look at me. ::In manners of her looks, she's plain: small, about five feet three inches, with a body that matured into womanhood quite late. She isn't thin--she's heavy, curved, but she isn't overweight. She almost always dresses in dull colors of browns and reds--at the moment she's in a brown shirt that has no real color, it's been so faded, and a skirt with ragged hems that just barely has a tint of burgundy. Over her shirt, she has a peculiar vest: it's red (a brilliant shade of red when it was new--now it's worn and dusty), with gold braiding designs around the hems. It almost resembles an antique military uniform. A gray shawl is draped over the chair she's sitting in. She stands to allow you to see her more fully. Her left boot laces up tightly to the curve of her calf, while her other is kept untied and loose. She pulls hi her skirt to show you why--her right leg is twisted out of position from a birth defect, and to lace up the boot would cause her incredible pain. She walks with a limp, her foot twisted inward and upward so she can only walk on the outside edge of her right foot. Recent injuries cause her to simply drag her foot when she walks, and it gives the impression that Quill is oafish and slow, possibly retarded. This is far from true, and that's obvious when anyone looks at her large, childish brown eyes. They often have a haunted, faraway look in them, like she's not entirely there--But when she is, they glitter brilliantly with intelligence, and convey her every emotion. Her features are plain, with light freckles across her nose and cheeks that are just barely noticable, a round, open face, and thick tresses of dark brown that fall to the middle of her back. At the moment, her hair is tied back loosely with a thick cotton ribbon. There are scars on her wrists from suicide attempts, but that's all in the past:: Alright now . . . You can stop looking.
Background:	You . . . want my background. It's so complicated. I'm the daughter of Thomas and Eleanor Hammond. When my mother died, I was a year old and I was brought to an orphanage temporarily so my father could find some way to support me. He went back and learned I was dead--I wasn't dead. My name was changed and I was raised there until I was fourteen. I met my father again two years ago. He died the December after I met him. ::frowns quietly and shakes her head:: So did the woman I was staying with before then. But it's a long, long, complicated story. ::another near-laugh:: You don't want to hear about it.
Relationships:	Most people don't like me because I'm too quiet. Or they avoid me because they don't think I'm too bright, because of the way I move. I generally don't say anything, but when I do, it's something stupid. ::laces her fingers together thoughtfully:: I've found, when reviewing previous events, that I often try to be like the heroes in the books I read. I stand up for myself and try to save the day. Unfortunately, there's no need for it and all I get are stares. ::smiles lightly:: I speak before I think, and therefore I do my best to be quiet. Ah, but as for relationships, my best friend is Gwen Minton. We're so different, but I suppose that's why we go so well together. I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for her.. And Smoke Schaefer's nice to me. Schlomo Morstein--he used to be a newsboy here, but I haven't seen him in so long I suppose I've forgotten about him. Then I--Then there's Cordelia, the girl who plays the piano. There's magic in her hands.
Other notes:	I earned my nickname because I'm a writer. Well, no. I try to write. I don't think I'm very good but other people say I'm a genius. And for Valentine's Day a while ago Gwen gave me this necklace. ::with ink-stained fingers, she holds up a gold-plated quill charm on a chain around her neck:: I never take it off. And this one I've had since October, 1901. ::she holds up her wrist and pulls back her sleeve.. over the scars there, she has a loose bracelet with a small heart charm that reads "LH":: When I was a baby it was a necklace, but naturally I got to big for it. There's a doll on my bunk that my father gave to be when I was an infant.. and then again when I was fourteen. She has a matching necklace. ::she smiles, rubbing her wrists absently:: Oh.. the scars aren't anything. I tried to kill myself twice, that's all. ::smiles brightly::