THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE
WHERE WE EITHER LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER OR DIE OF HORRIBLE CURSES
Feb. Spotlight Thread
He could draw on Earth's ability to heal and regenerate plants, to thrive in harsh conditions, and that was one of the reasons he was being hunted. That and the ancient sword or two he had stolen from Anghus. Dick deserved it.
ATTICUS O'SULLIVAN && DELTA SONG
Cecil Bellewyn doesn't have a custom title currently.
Location: No Information
Born: No Information
Website: No Information
APP Profile Image: http://i30.photobucket.com/albums/c304/LeeLee042305/Characters/Fairytale%20Site/cecil1.png
APP Author Alias: Weezie
APP Author's Age: 26
APP Author's Timezone: Eastern
APP Author's Gender: Femme
APP Character Name: Cecil Edgar Bellewyn
APP Character's Age: 99
APP Character's Birthday: October 1st, 1917
APP Character's Species: Magi
APP Character's Group: 10th Kingdom
APP Character's Face Claim: Chris Schellenger
APP Character: Cecil
APP Character's Story: Nightvale
APP Character Quote: If you spend enough time with a story, eventually it buries itself in your blood, and takes on a life of its own.
APP Character's History: Tessa Baldwin was a sweet young girl. With big pale blue eyes, and blonde hair. She was never an overly social creature. Always too sweet, too kind, and easily walked on. She was a poor author. She wanted nothing more than to stay inside with her typewriter, and work on her books. She was just fine living that way, living in those worlds. Living those lives, instead of her own. To read their adventures instead of going out and having her own.
Until one day, she had one of her own adventures. It was quite by accident. She had gone to the market, and gotten caught up in a snow storm. She went into a bar to wait it out. She didn't drink, she never had drank. So she sat in a darkened corner of the bar, with a hot tea in between her hands, watching the windows and hoping the storm would pass. It was like something out of a book, something out of one of those sappy romance novels. He ordered a plate of scones, and a cup of tea. He saw her before she saw him, and made his way over to her table with the plate of scones, and his cup. He asked her about the book in her hands. Asked her what she usually liked to read.
They talked for what seemed like hours, as the snow piled up outside. Sipping tea, and eating scones. The man had brown, soulful eyes, and flopping brown hair that flopped into his eyes. Flopped the way in which she wanted to run her fingers through it, and brush it from his eyes. More tea, and more scones. Soon Tessa was out of her jacket, and she was laughing, and smiling more than she ever had. And then he was touching her arm, and she was brushing that impossibly floppy hair out of his face. It was late when they finally realized that the walk ways outside would be frozen over, and there was no way for Tessa to get home. So he rented a room in the inn upstairs, and they spent the night together. It was so easy with him. Everything was so easy with him.
In the morning when they woke up the snow had stopped, and the roads were clear enough to travel. They said goodbye with promises of meeting up again. With promises of staying in touch. He walked her out. They swore they were going to meet up, for a date, soon. One day, blended into a week. A week blended into a month. Tessa wasn't sure why she didn't search him out, she just never got around to it. And she assumed he simply never got around to searching her out either. She didn't feel angry about it. She didn't hate him for it. It was simply that they never met again. In a city full of people, that happened.
Our hero is born nine months later. The young boy with the lavender eyes wide, watching the world, just as his mother did. Seeing the things the world didn't want them to see. He was beautiful, and his mother named him Cecil Edgar Baldwin. And she knew he would always keep her company. For the whole first first year of his life the only sound that got him to sleep was the tap-tap-tapping of his mother's type writer. She supported them both with her writing. It was never overly much, but the little boy loved hearing her typing. Even when it went long into the night.
By the time he was five, he was sitting on her lap reading as she wrote. Learning as they went. Learning about science fiction. Learning about words. Learning about people. He learned everything through her words, through her stories. Learned how to see the world as it should be seen. Learned how to spin a tale. Everything he needed to know about life he learned from the world of books. When he learned to read, he read everything he could get his hands on. His mother raised him in that world. In the world of books. He never needed a father, he never needed anything else. He just needed the books, and his mama.
The boy was ten, when he realized there was something not quite normal about his mother. He noticed how normal people didn't obsess over their stories. He noticed how they didn't hole themselves up with their typewriters for weeks at a time. Once she got a thread for a story, she just couldn't stop. And Cecil quickly learned that it was his job to make sure the work didn't consume her. That he had to take care of her. That he had to be the hero, the man his mother wrote about. The one who cared for his family, and did what was right. So the ten year old started buying food, and cooking. Started taking care of himself and his mother.
By the time he was sixteen, our hero had two books published, was making his own money, and had learned that his father wasn't just a person but some magical being. Which made him a Magi. He was a late bloomer it seemed, and at sixteen it become very obvious that the charming man his mother had met hadn't been human. And with everything going his way he decided it was about time he move out on his own. He decided it was about time he had his own writing space. So he started renting a small little apartment above a shop. It was the perfect place to hole himself up and write. He would go to check on his mother once a week. To make sure she was eating. To make sure the work hadn't consumed her. It was during that time that he gained a few friends. Mainly because Baxter forced him to go out, and meet people. He made a few friends, didn't go out too much, but enough to no longer be considered a shut in.
Cecil was eighteen when he had been forced to one of the publisher's "networking events". Really it was just an excuse to drink with other writers, artists, and people in the publishing business. The kind of bohemian party people get roaring drunk at, that sometimes churns out artistic masterpieces, but usually just churns out migraines. That's where Cecil met him, the boy named Nick. Nick was beautiful, and charming. He dressed the way you'd imagine a writer would. Not all cardigans, and comfortable jeans. But with a sharp vest, and pressed dressed shirts. With a bow tie tied neatly around his neck. And Cecil loved him almost instantly. With his grey eyes, and dirty blonde hair. There was simply something about him.
That night was only the beginning of what Cecil considered a torrid love affair, even if it never really went beyond kissing and touching. But it wasn't about that for Cecil. For Cecil it was about the work. The way the pair of them were able to play words off one another. Nick was a playwright. A beautiful playwright. His lines may not have been particularly original, but Cecil found he didn't really care when they were played off his own words. They spent weeks together holed up in Cecil's little run down flat. Working off each other's own brilliance, or so Cecil told himself. The truth was this, Nick was working off Cecil's brilliance, and not really putting up much of his own. And then one chilly November Nick simply disappeared with the manuscript Cecil had just finished. He had declared it his greatest triumph, and it was gone. A month or so later the piece turned up, published, with Nick's name on it. And our young hero's humiliation was complete. He had been taken it. Played the fool.
Our hero turned twenty two and it seemed that all hell broke loose. His mother started slipping more regularly, making it more difficult for her to finish a manuscript. Things got progressively harder for himself and his mother. Soon enough their separate households had to be combined again. People weren't reading anymore. The land of books was slowly growing less and less populated. So he moved back home, to take care of his mother, and to make sure she didn't lose her small home. He did the right thing. Our hero also took a job writing advertisement slots for the town's small paper. One week, the writer who handled the serials got ill, and Cecil filled in. His few short stories were so popular that he replaced the old serial writer.
Things worked out for Cecil that way. Until it sunk in that his Magi status meant he'd outlive his mother by centuries. He was fifty when her illness took her from him. And Cecil found himself... bereft. He stayed bereft, for many years. Writing his stories. Keeping to himself. Slowly he pulled himself in deeper, and deeper. Shutting out the world around him, just as his mother did.
It was his 81st birthday, and a friend demanded he go to a magic show to celebrate. She said it would change his life... and it did. That's where he met Oliver Bellerose, and fell head over heels in love with him. Things progressed rather quickly from there. Soon they were living together, and then married. And now, eighteen years later Cecil Bellewyn is father to three children, and quite happily living with Oliver. It seems that life just couldn't get anymore perfect.
APP Sample Post: Cecil didn't usually like going out of the house. He especially didn't like leaving his mother in the middle of the night. Because he never really knew what could happen in the middle of the night. He'd heard the stories. People disappearing. People turning up dead. People not turning up at all. It made him nervous. The idea that his mother could be gone in a second made him extremely nervous. She was always placed precariously on the edge as it was. She was always walking that edge. It had always been that was for Tessa Baldwin. And usually the madness that always threatened to take over was just enough to make her a genius. Of course there was other kinds of genius. Other ways it manifested. But in Tessa, in his mother, that's how it had always manifested. Like she was sitting close to the edge of a world that didn't even exist. For Cecil it was more like he was seeing that world through glass. Like he could see everything in vivid, glaring detail, but he couldn't always hear the words. Sometimes they were muffled. Sometimes he couldn't even read their lips. But that didn't matter. Because it was the world that mattered, not the words. He could make up the words. Then at least he could manipulate them how he liked. But when his mother wrote, she became entirely immersed. Leaving nothing of herself in the real world at all. Being nothing of herself. And it scared him.
But he'd been invited to one of the shows by Oriana. She told him it'd be good for his work. He'd informed he was thinking of turning the book about the magician who could do magic into a series. He told her he was going to make the girl into something more. Something bigger. Castle always bragged about how well his series did. Much better than his stand alone, and Cecil thought maybe he'd take a crack at it. He liked his stand alone pieces. He liked the possibilities of always being in new worlds, and following new characters. He liked knowing that he was never stuck with them if he didn't really like them. He liked knowing that the next book would bring a change. He liked knowing that he would be able to do all the things he wanted to do. It was like every story he'd ever written was a fresh idea. Something new to flesh out, and he loved that. But he wondered if he wasn't giving them enough credit. If he wasn't paying them their due for helping him. If he wasn't giving the characters the kind of attention they deserved. The kind of life they were really capable of. This would really be an experiment. To see if a character of his had the staying power it would need for more than one story. Emily would be his first shot at that. And maybe he really needed to research to have this thing work. To watch an actual magic show.
He shifted nervously, pulling the invitation from his pocket once more. Looking at the beautiful scrawling handwriting that he could only assume was Oriana's. Lavender eyes examining the address, and then glancing up once more at the run down theater. This was the place. There were people lining up to get in the door. Why did he even need an invitation? It seemed like everyone here had just shown up. Like they'd heard about the event, and came with their money. Oriana had said he didn't have to pay to get in. That the invitation was his ticket. She said to just give it to Dobbins, the old man at the door, and the man would escort him right to his seat. A balcony seat, she said. Where no one would bother him while he took notes, and he wouldn't feel trapped with all those other people. He supposed he should feel grateful that she was taking into consideration how much he disliked being around huge crowds of people. But instead he was silently having a moment of panic. What if the old man wasn't there? What if no one was able to show him to his seat? He reached into his pocket, pushing past the notebook, and the pen, and the crinkled paperback. From the bottom he pulled a handkerchief, fingering aside a tiny bottle of cologne, and pulling it from the pocket, and to his face. Taking a small slow inhale of the peppermint tea smell smeared on the hanky, he calmed considerably, and took his place in line.
The hanky was returned to his pocket, and he looked down at the crinkled invitation again. The line scooted forward, and finally he was standing before the old man. The old man with startling green eyes, much like Oriana's, and he had to wonder if they were related. Cecil held out his invitation. He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what to ask. He felt like an idiot holding out the invitation. But he kept holding it. ”I'm... I'm Cecil...” he offered uselessly. As if his name could explain what he was doing here, and why he was holding up an invitation. He didn't want to use the Baldwin though. People might recognize that. And he'd prefer to not be mobbed. Or they might not recognize it, and he didn't want to think about how people didn't read his books. Either way, he didn't want that kind of reaction. ”And um...” he could feel his face getting hot. He was holding up the line. Damn it.
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APP Character Occupation: Writer
Joined: 7-July 15
Status: (Online) (Reading Board Index)
Last Seen: 58 minutes ago
Local Time: Jun 18 2018, 05:02 PM
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