000 // Application
User Name/Nick: Belle
User LJ: ink_cat
AIM/IM: jellybean sundays
E-mail: bella.que.tal@gmail.com
Other Characters: none
Character Name: Irene Adler
Series: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Age: A lady never reveals her true age; her passport says 25, but who knows how accurate that is?
From When?: Post-Scandal in Bohemia
Inmate/Warden: Inmate. The self-described "adventuress", though elegant and charming, is utterly without scruples. She is, among other things, a thief and a black-mailer.
Abilities/Powers: none; she's human through and through.
Personality: Irene is a unique combination of passion and hard-heartedness. She is clever, and knows how to use her considerable charms to disarm or otherwise take advantage of others. Although not an inherently terrible person, her morality has become warped; she cares first and foremost about herself, and if others get hurt in the pursuit of her desires, well, everyone else is expendable.
On the surface, Irene is well-spoken and cultured, though she does have a bit of a smart mouth. Beneath this, however, she is driven, and has a cruel streak (and one hell of a temper). When it comes to men, Irene is manipulative, and has no qualms about using her abundant powers of seduction to lure men in. Despite this, her fiery nature can get the better of her - she has been in love before. But her romantic entanglements have left her, if anything, more cold and jaded. Life is just a game to Irene, one in which the rules can be twisted to suit her advantage.
Path to Redemption: Irene's issues probably stem from the fact that she grew up too fast. There are two ways in which she could be changed for the better: if she can be softened to regain some measure of childlike trust and wonder, or if she can be taught to empathize with others. Irene's primary issue is her heart of stone; all her bad behavior stems from that unfortunate feature.
History: There is not a single person alive who knows Irene's entire history. It is full of gaps and confusions, due to her secretive nature and unwillingness to remain in one place. The facts that are known are these: Irene Catherine Adler was born in New Jersey in 1858. She had a fine contralto voice, and at the age of seventeen she was discovered and taken to perform at La Scalla in Milan. This was the start of Irene's professional career; she traveled through Europe performing, and served a term as prima donna in the Imperial Opera of Warsaw at the age of twenty-one.
While in Warsaw, she had an affair with the crown prince of Bohemia which lasted nearly a year. But the prince, who was soon to become king, intended to marry a Scandinavian princess, a marriage which would be threatened if his affair was discovered. The prince broke things off with Irene, who had by then retired from her singing career for unknown reasons and moved to London. But Irene kept a single piece of evidence of the affair: a photograph of the lovers together, taken in happier times. She used it to blackmail the prince, who could not afford to lose his engagement to the princess.
The prince employed Sherlock Holmes to retrieve the offending photograph. He failed, and Irene escaped with the photo, Holmes' highest regard, and a new husband. In a letter to Holmes, she claimed that she had forgiven the prince and was happy with her new husband and determined to live a virtuous life. She was never seen or heard from in London again.
From that point on, only fragments are available. Irene's husband died of "undetermined causes" a mere year later, leaving her a very rich widow. Records of her crop up across America, Europe, and the near East. When a priceless ruby went missing in India, Irene was photographed at a market near the museum. When a political official was shot in a crowd in Calcutta, Irene was having her clothes laundered down the street, according to a receipt found later. And around the time the son of a Swedish nobleman was kidnapped and ransomed, there were hospital records in Stockholm for an Irene Jackobi, nee Adler.
After roughly three years on the continent, it seems Irene's illness - which had forced her early retirement from the opera - caught up with her. She was found dead in a run-down Parisian hotel in 1885.
Sample Journal Entry:I miss London.
I miss London, and Paris, and Prague, and Vienna. I miss the broad, paved streets, the plazas with candle-lit windows, the boxes and boxes of flowers, and the fruit - good Lord, the fruit. I haven't seen so much as a pear for months - let alone figs or pomegranates. I miss London, and I loathe - absolutely, scathingly, deeply detest - this godforsaken vessel.
I was never good at staying in one place. Even now, it's as if I can hear the aria of La Traviata, coming to me from over the waves.
I want Paris in the spring, and the clatter of wagon wheels in Vienna. I want the London fog, the exquisite melancholy of not seeing the sun for weeks. I want. I want so deeply that it aches.
Sample RP: There was blood in her palm.
It had leaked through the delicate linen of her handkerchief; the daintily embroidered material was not made to hold up to such an assault. Irene clutched her hand to her breast, struggling to draw breath into her lungs. It felt as if someone was tearing her apart. Every breath she took made her shake violently. The hacking cough was so hard that her muscles hurt. Everything hurt, really. Even in her fevered delirium, if there was one thing she was aware of, it was the pain.
She was weak; she was thin. She was finished, and she knew it. Silently, she cursed her fate. She had thought there was time for one last magic trick - one last vanishing act which would leave the world speechless, and she could slip away cackling and satisfied. Now, shivering in the rat-infested hovel which passed for a boarding house, she knew it was not meant to be. She would die here. She had reigned in this city, once. But no one would recognize her here, or now. Now, she was just another nameless woman, dying of consumption.
It wasn't supposed to end like this, she thought desperately, her glassy eyes shining in the sputtering light of candles which smoked and reeked of fat. I was beautiful. I was brilliant. She could hear the waltz coming for her now. She had heard it for years, and with all that movement, she had managed to outrun it. It was catching up to her, though; she could run no longer, and it was catching up to her.
Close your eyes. Let it sweep you up, like the embrace of an old lover. Perhaps it will be better, and you will be radiant as you once were. Perhaps, she thought, it will not hurt. Irene closed her eyes, and her frail body fell still.
She didn't expect to wake up again. She certainly didn't expect to wake up in a cell, feeling as if her skull had been bashed in. No, this isn't possible, she thought, grasping at the bars in a panic which quickly changed to fury. This isn't fair. I suffered, I was punished. It's supposed to be better on the other side. And yet she was caged, trapped, in a strange place. Oh, she'd been in prison before and this? Well, this looked remarkably like prison.
Special Notes: This character's history is somewhat problematic, in that in the actual Sherlock Holmes canon she appears only once, and then very briefly. Nevertheless she is compelling and does leave an imprint upon the work. As for the recent movie, almost none of it is true to the canon of the original stories, although it does flesh the character out significantly. I intend to run with some of the character traits presented in the movie, but remain faithful plot-wise to the original written stories.
User LJ: ink_cat
AIM/IM: jellybean sundays
E-mail: bella.que.tal@gmail.com
Other Characters: none
Character Name: Irene Adler
Series: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Age: A lady never reveals her true age; her passport says 25, but who knows how accurate that is?
From When?: Post-Scandal in Bohemia
Inmate/Warden: Inmate. The self-described "adventuress", though elegant and charming, is utterly without scruples. She is, among other things, a thief and a black-mailer.
Abilities/Powers: none; she's human through and through.
Personality: Irene is a unique combination of passion and hard-heartedness. She is clever, and knows how to use her considerable charms to disarm or otherwise take advantage of others. Although not an inherently terrible person, her morality has become warped; she cares first and foremost about herself, and if others get hurt in the pursuit of her desires, well, everyone else is expendable.
On the surface, Irene is well-spoken and cultured, though she does have a bit of a smart mouth. Beneath this, however, she is driven, and has a cruel streak (and one hell of a temper). When it comes to men, Irene is manipulative, and has no qualms about using her abundant powers of seduction to lure men in. Despite this, her fiery nature can get the better of her - she has been in love before. But her romantic entanglements have left her, if anything, more cold and jaded. Life is just a game to Irene, one in which the rules can be twisted to suit her advantage.
Path to Redemption: Irene's issues probably stem from the fact that she grew up too fast. There are two ways in which she could be changed for the better: if she can be softened to regain some measure of childlike trust and wonder, or if she can be taught to empathize with others. Irene's primary issue is her heart of stone; all her bad behavior stems from that unfortunate feature.
History: There is not a single person alive who knows Irene's entire history. It is full of gaps and confusions, due to her secretive nature and unwillingness to remain in one place. The facts that are known are these: Irene Catherine Adler was born in New Jersey in 1858. She had a fine contralto voice, and at the age of seventeen she was discovered and taken to perform at La Scalla in Milan. This was the start of Irene's professional career; she traveled through Europe performing, and served a term as prima donna in the Imperial Opera of Warsaw at the age of twenty-one.
While in Warsaw, she had an affair with the crown prince of Bohemia which lasted nearly a year. But the prince, who was soon to become king, intended to marry a Scandinavian princess, a marriage which would be threatened if his affair was discovered. The prince broke things off with Irene, who had by then retired from her singing career for unknown reasons and moved to London. But Irene kept a single piece of evidence of the affair: a photograph of the lovers together, taken in happier times. She used it to blackmail the prince, who could not afford to lose his engagement to the princess.
The prince employed Sherlock Holmes to retrieve the offending photograph. He failed, and Irene escaped with the photo, Holmes' highest regard, and a new husband. In a letter to Holmes, she claimed that she had forgiven the prince and was happy with her new husband and determined to live a virtuous life. She was never seen or heard from in London again.
From that point on, only fragments are available. Irene's husband died of "undetermined causes" a mere year later, leaving her a very rich widow. Records of her crop up across America, Europe, and the near East. When a priceless ruby went missing in India, Irene was photographed at a market near the museum. When a political official was shot in a crowd in Calcutta, Irene was having her clothes laundered down the street, according to a receipt found later. And around the time the son of a Swedish nobleman was kidnapped and ransomed, there were hospital records in Stockholm for an Irene Jackobi, nee Adler.
After roughly three years on the continent, it seems Irene's illness - which had forced her early retirement from the opera - caught up with her. She was found dead in a run-down Parisian hotel in 1885.
Sample Journal Entry:I miss London.
I miss London, and Paris, and Prague, and Vienna. I miss the broad, paved streets, the plazas with candle-lit windows, the boxes and boxes of flowers, and the fruit - good Lord, the fruit. I haven't seen so much as a pear for months - let alone figs or pomegranates. I miss London, and I loathe - absolutely, scathingly, deeply detest - this godforsaken vessel.
I was never good at staying in one place. Even now, it's as if I can hear the aria of La Traviata, coming to me from over the waves.
I want Paris in the spring, and the clatter of wagon wheels in Vienna. I want the London fog, the exquisite melancholy of not seeing the sun for weeks. I want. I want so deeply that it aches.
Sample RP: There was blood in her palm.
It had leaked through the delicate linen of her handkerchief; the daintily embroidered material was not made to hold up to such an assault. Irene clutched her hand to her breast, struggling to draw breath into her lungs. It felt as if someone was tearing her apart. Every breath she took made her shake violently. The hacking cough was so hard that her muscles hurt. Everything hurt, really. Even in her fevered delirium, if there was one thing she was aware of, it was the pain.
She was weak; she was thin. She was finished, and she knew it. Silently, she cursed her fate. She had thought there was time for one last magic trick - one last vanishing act which would leave the world speechless, and she could slip away cackling and satisfied. Now, shivering in the rat-infested hovel which passed for a boarding house, she knew it was not meant to be. She would die here. She had reigned in this city, once. But no one would recognize her here, or now. Now, she was just another nameless woman, dying of consumption.
It wasn't supposed to end like this, she thought desperately, her glassy eyes shining in the sputtering light of candles which smoked and reeked of fat. I was beautiful. I was brilliant. She could hear the waltz coming for her now. She had heard it for years, and with all that movement, she had managed to outrun it. It was catching up to her, though; she could run no longer, and it was catching up to her.
Close your eyes. Let it sweep you up, like the embrace of an old lover. Perhaps it will be better, and you will be radiant as you once were. Perhaps, she thought, it will not hurt. Irene closed her eyes, and her frail body fell still.
She didn't expect to wake up again. She certainly didn't expect to wake up in a cell, feeling as if her skull had been bashed in. No, this isn't possible, she thought, grasping at the bars in a panic which quickly changed to fury. This isn't fair. I suffered, I was punished. It's supposed to be better on the other side. And yet she was caged, trapped, in a strange place. Oh, she'd been in prison before and this? Well, this looked remarkably like prison.
Special Notes: This character's history is somewhat problematic, in that in the actual Sherlock Holmes canon she appears only once, and then very briefly. Nevertheless she is compelling and does leave an imprint upon the work. As for the recent movie, almost none of it is true to the canon of the original stories, although it does flesh the character out significantly. I intend to run with some of the character traits presented in the movie, but remain faithful plot-wise to the original written stories.