Post by Ayesha McMillan on May 23, 2010 0:32:05 GMT -5
Full name: Ayesha Diane McMillan
Age: 34
Birthday: February 2
Experience: Intermediate
Riding Interest: Cross Country
Favorite Breed: Thoroughbred. But as long as it's fast and agile, any horse will do.
Appearance: Ayesha stands around 5'7" tall and has brown hair and dark brown eyes. It's not easy to determine her origins from her looks. At first glance she appears to be perhaps Middle-American or Mediterranean. At work Ayesha dresses in average clothes like jeans, sneakers, and shirts. During the summer she sometimes wears a dress, but never anything extravagant. After work you might find her dressed a lot more stylishly. The same difference applies to makeup. At work she wears little, but during her off-hours she might add some.
Original or Canon: Original
Face Claim: Jennifer Lopez
Staff Location: English teacher
Likes:
- Fast horses, even if she isn't experienced enough to handle all of them
- Ice cream. Ayesha would murder (not literally) for some cherry-flavored ice cream. Vanilla is nice too.
- Men who know when to stop playing tough guy
- Starting the morning with a run
- Closed, confined spaces
- Macho men
- Marking tests, as actually interacting with people is what got her interested in teaching in the first place
- Determined
- Self-assured
- Strong-willed
- Patient with students who pay attention
- Can come across as arrogant
- Likes to be in charge
- Easily bored with paperwork
- Doesn't suffer fools gladly
- Appreciates people who stand up for themselves
- Willing to compromise - but only if there is absolutely no other way
Family Tree:
- Father: Arthur McMillan (British diplomat, retired)
- Mother: Samira McMillan née Hadid (former singer (a long while ago), housewife)
- Siblings: None
- Other: None that I think would be important enough to be named
History:Ayesha was conceived in Cairo, born in Berlin, and grew up in Paris, Madrid and Washington. As her father was a British diplomat the family moved wherever his work took him. Ayesha received half her schooling from teachers her parents hired for her, and the other half from whatever international school was at hand in the cities she lived in. As her dad was always busy with his work she spent most of her time with her mother, whom she adored. But her mother stood out in most countries they lived in, and that made Ayesha acutely aware how much appearances and first impressions can work against a person. But her mother also always stood up for herself, defended herself against any bigotry or racism she encountered, and Ayesha learned to stand up for herself from her mother's example. What she learned from her father - when he was around - was an appreciation of knowledge and language as a tool. She also learned riding from her dad on the few weekends they had together.
Ayesha spent the last ten years in New York, where her father finally settled down to a job at the British UN mission. While there she attended university and qualified as an English teacher, afterwards working at a school in New York. But at his retirement her father decided he wanted to move back to England and Ayesha decided to stay behind. England was his home perhaps, but not hers. But with her parents gone New York suddenly didn't feel quite like home any more, so she started to look around for something new to do. While Willow Brook is the smallest of small towns, compared to any place Ayesha has lived before, the school offered everything she could ever dream of, so she jumped at the chance and had her bags already packed when the letter of acceptance came from the school.
Nickname: Andreas
Age: Born in 1967
Years of RP Experience: Online? A few years. About 4 I guess. Offline? Around 26 years or so
Other Characters: None yet
The man who approached the Mead's Mate a scant few minutes after the bar opened had a dark skin that marked him as a foreigner, and his features revealed only his African heritage, but none of the French blood mixed with his ancestry. His clothes were unremarkable, except for the rather crumpled look of his midnight-blue trousers, charcoal-gray sportscoat, and white shirt. On the other hand, his black beard was neatly trimmed, pretty much immaculately so, as was the hair on his head that he kept even shorter than his beard for practical reasons only.
Jean Paul Riviere reached for the door of the Mead's Mate and gritted his teeth. He was looking for a man - a man who could perhaps provide vital information - but what he really wanted to do was push up the sleeves of his shirt and jacket and scratch the persistent itch on his forearm.
Obsessed his colleagues called him, mad even, but he knew he wasn't mad. Everyone else was, all those fools who had given up long ago. No, not him. He would catch his man, even if it took a lifetime.
The grin that played around his lips would have scared anyone who'd seen it, but Jean's face was too close to the door for that to happen. Ah, what he would do to that bloody bastard when he caught him...
He moved his shoulders slightly, to ensure himself of the weight of the two guns in his shoulder-rigs. He would empty both magazines into that asshole. Whoever - or whatever - that monster was, he, she... it would eat thirty expanding hollow-point bullets when the time came.
After that he would just walk away and take his own life. Jean was, after all, obsessed.
But he would catch his man eventually. The new itch on his arm reminded him of that. That's why it was there - a new scar, a fresh cut he had inflicted on himself this morning. His arm was littered with small scars. One for each girl this monster had killed. Every day he looked at that arm when he woke up, before cleaning his guns. And once every few weeks he had to add a new scar. He would not give up. All those cuts, all those women killed without mercy....
That bastard had to die.
Jean pushed open the door and walked into the bar.
"I'm looking for Raymeth Nen Tar."
Jean Paul Riviere reached for the door of the Mead's Mate and gritted his teeth. He was looking for a man - a man who could perhaps provide vital information - but what he really wanted to do was push up the sleeves of his shirt and jacket and scratch the persistent itch on his forearm.
Obsessed his colleagues called him, mad even, but he knew he wasn't mad. Everyone else was, all those fools who had given up long ago. No, not him. He would catch his man, even if it took a lifetime.
The grin that played around his lips would have scared anyone who'd seen it, but Jean's face was too close to the door for that to happen. Ah, what he would do to that bloody bastard when he caught him...
He moved his shoulders slightly, to ensure himself of the weight of the two guns in his shoulder-rigs. He would empty both magazines into that asshole. Whoever - or whatever - that monster was, he, she... it would eat thirty expanding hollow-point bullets when the time came.
After that he would just walk away and take his own life. Jean was, after all, obsessed.
But he would catch his man eventually. The new itch on his arm reminded him of that. That's why it was there - a new scar, a fresh cut he had inflicted on himself this morning. His arm was littered with small scars. One for each girl this monster had killed. Every day he looked at that arm when he woke up, before cleaning his guns. And once every few weeks he had to add a new scar. He would not give up. All those cuts, all those women killed without mercy....
That bastard had to die.
Jean pushed open the door and walked into the bar.
"I'm looking for Raymeth Nen Tar."
