Post by DUFFY BREE JEANETTE FAIRLEE on Feb 26, 2011 22:00:25 GMT -5
*
[/b][/color][/font] DUFFY BREE JEANETTE FAIRLEE*
kinda looks like: Kristen Herrera[/font]
TONIGHT I'M FINDING A WAY[/color][/font]
to make the things that you say[/font]
+Age: 18
+Student or Riding Instructor: Student
+Riding Level: Advanced
+Gender: Female
+Sexuality: Straight
+Student or Riding Instructor: Student
+Riding Level: Advanced
+Gender: Female
+Sexuality: Straight
JUST A LITTLE LESS OBVOIUS[/color][/font]
i confess, tonight i'm dressed up in gold[/font]
Duffy was born and raised in the south, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to be exact. Her parents owned a prestigious horse farm, operated on an old plantation that had been in her family for years. They raised Warmbloods and Egyptian Arabians as eventers for the most part, each bred specifically for the English riding discipline. They raised and owned some of the best stock for eventing in the world, specializing in dressage and show jumping. Her parents were loaded, and absolutely spoiled their little girl rotten. She carries a bit of that spoiled princess attitude with her still, though she mostly has the perfect southern charm and manners that were taught to her by her strict mother and doting father. Duffy may be small, hardly topping 5 foot 4 inches, but she has a commanding presence when she feels like it, and everyone knows when she's not happy.
From the time she could walk Duffy was down in the barns, getting every single one of the staff down there wrapped around her little finger. She had that simple sweetheart charm that made everyone fall in love with her, and she always got her way. Since she was about 3 years old, her parents had her on the back of a horse, riding around and causing mayhem. She never even stood a chance of not learning to ride or loving horses, because they were an essential part of her life from the time she was born. As she got older, her parents started paying one of their top trainers to give her riding lessons in all the aspects of eventing: dressage, cross country, and show jumping. Duffy's natural talent for riding was apparant as she took his lessons in stride, learning everything she could. As her riding abilities grew, at 14 years, her parents let her pick out her first horse from their stock. She picked a 3 year old black Egyptian Arabian mare out of one of the place's best mares and stallions. It wasn't long before her and the mare took off, Duffy training her (with help from her parents staff) and riding her constantly. The two were a perfect match, and they went on to win many competitions together as time went on.
As she grew older, Duffy's competitive spirit rose, and she started getting up early in the morning to get early rides in and then going straight to the barn after school to ride somemore. Her efforts paid off, and she began riding not only her own mare, but a few of her parents young horses in shows for them. She even decided to pick up western riding (speed events, shows, and rodeo), though she's still in the beginners stage of that. Since all her parents owned were english horses, Duffy went out and bought herself a Quarter Horse gelding to learn on. Though she became quite serious about her riding, she never lost that sweet, little girl charm that she had about her, and was always a gracious loser and winner, though she was incredibly hard on herself afterwards, always thinking about what she could so to improve. When she turned 17, her parents surprised her with a 4 year old, imported Swedish Warmblood gelding for her birthday. She fell in love with him, and it didn't take long before she was competing with him as well. He was a doll, and he had impeccable bloodlines, bred for dressage especially. She really did well with him. A year after she got him, her parents told her that she would be going to Gemara Manor for more training. Completely ecstatic about going, yet sad about leaving her home, she packed up her horses and was off for Lexington.
YOU'VE GOT ME MESSED UP AND SO[/color][/font]
you talk like you're famous, you're shameless[/font]
hey there. so my name is Keely. i also play no others. i happen
to be female and i've blown out seventeen candles. if you want to contact me, no
sweat. just PM me! but check me out in action
The basement in which all the slaves were kept in cramped, dingy cells was cold. Very cold. Bordering on freezing in fact, with the musty air that lay stagnant not holding the slightest bit of warmth. The thin, dirty bodies of slaves shivered sporadically and weakly, hardly having the strength to do even that simple body function to keep themselves warm. The chains that bound their ankles and wrists were unforgiving, chaffing against already sore and tender skin. Metal chain link collars, or if you were lucky, leather collars, were cinched up tight around frail necks, with either a length of chain or a matching leather leash hanging off of it to jerk the slaves along. But usually, the leather collars were reserved for slaves about to be picked up by new masters, or those being led out to the auction if they had proven themselves well behaved. Most only had rags hanging off their bony bodies, or possibly a skin tight grey dress if you were a particularly attractive young woman. Most hadn’t had the luxury of a real bath in awhile, only knowing the cold, rough scrubbing that they got on occasion. Their skin was usually covered in dried blood and dirt stains from being beat and chained up for days on end. Scars and open wounds were not an uncommon sight among these unfortunate souls, so most never took much notice anymore.
But one young woman’s mind was far from the cold, her tiny cell, or even the raw spots where her restraints had rubbed fresh wounds on her golden tanned skin. Her thoughts were miles away, in Georgia, in her hometown. On her uncle’s peach tree farm to be exact. Her mind flicked through pleasant memories of warmth, love, and freedom made there on her uncle’s farm during the summer with her friends. A time when her body had been healthy and strong, her dark hair long and shining, and a smile always upon her beautiful face. A time when her warm hazel eyes had sparkled with something other than hatred and anger, when her future was bright and full of possibilities. They were so vivid, she fantasized that she could actually feel the sun’s gentle rays on her skin, hear her friends’ laughter, smell the sweet scent of peaches floating on the air, so heavy it seemed she could taste it. She remembered running through the trees with her friends, being chased by the worker’s dogs, and hardly being able to catch her breath from laughing so hard. Playing catch with a softball and her mitt with her best friend in between the rows of peach trees. Messing around with the workers who came from Mexico during harvest time to work for her uncle, helping them pick the ripe peaches from their branches. And especially the memory of running through the trees, giggling and looking back over her shoulder for the boy she’d liked since the beginning of summer, but knew they would never work since he would be going back to his home at the end of summer. Remembering how he felt when he finally caught her, wrapped her in his arms, tilting her chin up to look in her eyes. Then his lips meeting hers in an innocent kiss as sweet as the peaches they both ate while they worked. Oh how clearly she remembered each and every summer spent there, how much she yearned for that freedom and happiness, even though she knew she would never get it back.
Cadence had been kidnapped when she was eighteen, right from her home in Savannah, Georgia. She had just gotten a full ride softball scholarship to college, her senior year was almost over, and she’d been looking forward to one last summer at her uncle’s before going of to college. A summer vacation that never happened as she was kidnapped a week before she was set to leave, on a balmy summer’s night. She’d been whisked away to Abaddon City and placed into the slave trade, never to be seen by her family again. But that was three years ago, and she was still wasting away in the same disgusting cell, fighting and then being beat by the same disgusting people. She’d never stopped trying to provoke the people who held her captive, never stopped fighting against them and disobeying orders. Every time she’d been beat and whipped, resulting in the numerous scars, scabbed over and fresh wounds that criss crossed her body in a morbid pattern. She was definitely thinner than she ever had been when she’d been free, but she was still strong, still a fighter. She had resigned herself to a life of slavery, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, nor did it mean that she had to make it easy on her so called “masters”.
The monotonous pattern of her life had finally been broken, though. She had been sold. She didn’t know to whom, and she hadn’t even known she’d been bought until the day before when they’d jerked her from her cell and dumped cold water on her, scrubbing her sore body roughly until she was somewhat clean. She’d resisted, of course, and had even gotten in a good punch to the face of one of her captors before they’d been able to restrain her. Something that she was immensely proud of. She had been beat brutally until she’d actually cried out for mercy, begging them to stop before they killed her. This only made them laugh and get in a couple more good swings before throwing her back into her cell to nurse her wounds. She’d since then withdrawn into herself, being unusually quiet while she waited to be picked up. She sat in a corner of her cell, knees tucked up to her chest and arms awkwardly wrapped around them in spite of the chains the held her ragged wrists together. She’d been forced into one of those horrid grey dresses while she’d been delirious with pain, and it was now soaked through in spots with her blood where they’d failed to patch her up. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care where she went, what kind of master she now had; she just wanted to get out of this hell hole. Forever. Anything had to be better than this. Or so she thought.
But one young woman’s mind was far from the cold, her tiny cell, or even the raw spots where her restraints had rubbed fresh wounds on her golden tanned skin. Her thoughts were miles away, in Georgia, in her hometown. On her uncle’s peach tree farm to be exact. Her mind flicked through pleasant memories of warmth, love, and freedom made there on her uncle’s farm during the summer with her friends. A time when her body had been healthy and strong, her dark hair long and shining, and a smile always upon her beautiful face. A time when her warm hazel eyes had sparkled with something other than hatred and anger, when her future was bright and full of possibilities. They were so vivid, she fantasized that she could actually feel the sun’s gentle rays on her skin, hear her friends’ laughter, smell the sweet scent of peaches floating on the air, so heavy it seemed she could taste it. She remembered running through the trees with her friends, being chased by the worker’s dogs, and hardly being able to catch her breath from laughing so hard. Playing catch with a softball and her mitt with her best friend in between the rows of peach trees. Messing around with the workers who came from Mexico during harvest time to work for her uncle, helping them pick the ripe peaches from their branches. And especially the memory of running through the trees, giggling and looking back over her shoulder for the boy she’d liked since the beginning of summer, but knew they would never work since he would be going back to his home at the end of summer. Remembering how he felt when he finally caught her, wrapped her in his arms, tilting her chin up to look in her eyes. Then his lips meeting hers in an innocent kiss as sweet as the peaches they both ate while they worked. Oh how clearly she remembered each and every summer spent there, how much she yearned for that freedom and happiness, even though she knew she would never get it back.
Cadence had been kidnapped when she was eighteen, right from her home in Savannah, Georgia. She had just gotten a full ride softball scholarship to college, her senior year was almost over, and she’d been looking forward to one last summer at her uncle’s before going of to college. A summer vacation that never happened as she was kidnapped a week before she was set to leave, on a balmy summer’s night. She’d been whisked away to Abaddon City and placed into the slave trade, never to be seen by her family again. But that was three years ago, and she was still wasting away in the same disgusting cell, fighting and then being beat by the same disgusting people. She’d never stopped trying to provoke the people who held her captive, never stopped fighting against them and disobeying orders. Every time she’d been beat and whipped, resulting in the numerous scars, scabbed over and fresh wounds that criss crossed her body in a morbid pattern. She was definitely thinner than she ever had been when she’d been free, but she was still strong, still a fighter. She had resigned herself to a life of slavery, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, nor did it mean that she had to make it easy on her so called “masters”.
The monotonous pattern of her life had finally been broken, though. She had been sold. She didn’t know to whom, and she hadn’t even known she’d been bought until the day before when they’d jerked her from her cell and dumped cold water on her, scrubbing her sore body roughly until she was somewhat clean. She’d resisted, of course, and had even gotten in a good punch to the face of one of her captors before they’d been able to restrain her. Something that she was immensely proud of. She had been beat brutally until she’d actually cried out for mercy, begging them to stop before they killed her. This only made them laugh and get in a couple more good swings before throwing her back into her cell to nurse her wounds. She’d since then withdrawn into herself, being unusually quiet while she waited to be picked up. She sat in a corner of her cell, knees tucked up to her chest and arms awkwardly wrapped around them in spite of the chains the held her ragged wrists together. She’d been forced into one of those horrid grey dresses while she’d been delirious with pain, and it was now soaked through in spots with her blood where they’d failed to patch her up. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care where she went, what kind of master she now had; she just wanted to get out of this hell hole. Forever. Anything had to be better than this. Or so she thought.
[align=center]this template is molly (aka WEAR MY STILETTOS) of caution 2.0.
no taking without credit please and thank you.[/center]
