Post by KYRIE BUCHANAN on Jan 27, 2012 12:30:56 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style, background-color: #131313;,true][cs=2] KYRIE ALYSON BUCHANAN  | |
| [atrb=width,200] nickname Ky birthday 08/07/1990 place of birth Baton Rouge, Louisiana gender Female | [atrb=width,200] sexuality Heterosexual nationality American membergroup Elite play by Heather Morris |
| [cs=2] likes: keeping appearance, listening to music, watching movies, playing MMORPGs (specifically WoW), riding horses, the beach, shopping, computer programming, reading, hanging out with friends, parties, fashion dislikes: high expectations, stereotypes, failure, showing weakness in any form, being used, guilt, animal abuse, conflict, being reminded of her past, judgmental people, being compared to her father, her father, politics, liars, infidelity, criminals, letting people in personality: distant, hard worker, determined, mistrusting, reserved, follower, closet dork, in a shell family: Zachary Buchanan, father, 50, California congressman/former Louisiana congressman Elizabeth Buchanan, stepmother, 30, secretary Isabella Buchanan, older sister, 29, fashion designer Curtis Buchanan, older brother, 26, author Russell Buchanan, twin brother, 21, college student (business major) Jack Buchanan, half-brother, 12, student Laney Buchanan, half-sister, 9, student David Dawson, stepfather, 52, US army general Vittoria Dawson, mother, 47, veterinarian Ryan Dawson, stepbrother, 30, accountant Belladonna Dawson, stepsister, 28, pediatrician Jezebel Dawson, stepsister, 28, psychiatrist Lou Dawson, half-brother, 10, student Jessica Dawson, half-sister, 8, student history: It seemed the fates either wanted to test her ability to endure to the end, or they just wanted to fuck with her. Either way, from the time she and her brother were born, she never had it easy. No, before you ask, just because you have money, it doesn't mean you're happy-go-lucky and have everything simply handed to you on a silver platter. Anyways, being born in Baton Rouge, one can only guess she was born into money. Generally, despite her hatred toward assumptions, they would be correct. She already had two siblings that had taken the spotlight before her and her brother, which meant she had to learn how to fly to get what they had walked for. Even at a young age, while going to Baton Rouge International School, she was compared to her siblings and forced into stereotypes. Luckily for her and unluckily for her family, a storm hit Louisiana. Well, to be more specific, it was more like a scandal, a very big scandal that never actually went public. Unbeknownst to her mother, her father was having an affair with a very slutty secretary. At the time, little Kyrie was about eight, almost nine. It wasn’t for another month or two that his infidelities would get the secretary pregnant. She threatened to call foul, and he left his wife for the conniving, little home wrecker. Right around that time, he also resigned his position as a Louisiana congressman. Of course, not wanting to fight with his wife or see the faces of the people he had let down, he packed up his bags and moved to Sapphire Bay with his new ‘family.’ It was also about that time that she knew hatred. She knew hatred toward her father, his mistress, his politics and most importantly, the way he had so easily turned his back on his family. A few months later, her mother met David Dawson. He became a constant figure in their lives, even if he wasn’t actually there a lot of the time. He taught her how to keep her chin up. Of course, with the divorce settlement a year after the fiasco had occurred, they got quite a bit of spending cash, if you know what I mean. David got down on one knee in front of the whole family, announcing that she was pregnant, and he was determined to be there for the child, along with the kids that so desperately needed a father figure. She watched in awe as her mother accepted with tears in her eyes. Catching wind of his ex-wife’s engagement, her father fought for sole custody of two children, the twins. Wanting to avoid conflict, at the tender age of ten, she told her mother that she’d go, if it meant keeping the peace a little longer. It killed her to be separated from her mother and dropped into the vindictive hands of her father, but she did it without much of a fuss. After all, she didn’t have much of a choice. While in his home, he taught her how not to embarrass him, which meant teaching her how to walk and talk like a proper lady. Translation: Don’t let on that you’re the daughter of a man whore. After all, his reasons for leaving congress had been that he wanted to focus on his family...and pigs could fly, right? Still, she kept up appearances, just so he could keep his spot as a California congressman. The lucky prick had been elected the year after he left her mother. Apparently, the good people of California cared more about his qualifications than his past. As time went on, she came to adore her stepmother, which came as a pleasant surprise to her father. Her brother, on the other hand, hated both father and stepmother for ripping apart his happy, little bubble of naivety. In high school, after begging to go to public school, having gotten sick and tired of private schools with stuffy uniforms, she had her first cheerleading tryout. Of course, she got in, and she was immediately immersed into the ‘popular’ crowd. She was thought of as easy by those she rejected, and she followed the crowd. When they laughed, she laughed with them, even if it did put her conscious through the ringer. Her heart went out to one boy in particular, but you’d never be able to tell, just by simply looking at her. She was a master at hiding what she felt. The one time she had asked about him, she was told he would have been social suicide so she never thought twice about it. Well, that’s not entirely true. She had a crush on him but like any follower, she was loath to leave the proverbial trail. She knew better than most that as a cheerleader, she had certain expectations to follow. One of those expectations was dating, at least, one jock from the football team. She never did. The thought of it was rather…well, sickening, to be honest. When she wasn’t around the band of bimbos, as she so fondly called them in the privacy of her own home, she was hanging around Russell like a lost puppy. She was also sort of watching out for Dexter, the very boy whom was dubbed social suicide by the band of bimbos. She didn’t directly defend him, but she did help to redirect the group’s attention from time to time. Still, when they laughed and poked figurative sticks at him, so did she. In her junior year, she was hooked up with a football player, much to her general distaste. After having a few beers, her hesitancy surrounding stripping her clothing was lost, and caution was thrown to the wind. The next day, feeling dirty after having had lost her virginity so easily, she left the cheerleading squad and let it rot in her rear-view mirror. It was about that time that she discovered World of Warcraft and the joys of programming. A year later, she walked across the graduation stage to receive her diploma. She still wasn't sure where she was going with her life or what she was going to do but hey, everybody had to shoot in the dark once in a while. While she waited to figure things out, she lived it up with her old man, watching in silence as her brother moved on to bigger and better things. All she could do was be happy for him while also feeling the smallest pang of jealousy. He had gone off to college, and she was tinkering with computers in her bedroom. It wasn't like she needed a job, but she would have liked to accomplish more than cheerleading and screwing a testosterone-infested jock. Another year passed before she started to slowly but surely come out of her shell. She still didn't trust people but who could blame her? It'd be another year before she started hanging out with her old 'friends.' All thoughts of cliques were gone, and she didn't much care about the standing of her social status, not that she ever had before but whatever. By the time her twenty-first birthday had come and gone, she was happier than she had ever been in years. To think, if she had kept it up a bit longer, her stepmother would have taken her to the spa to pour her heart out after several glasses of champagne. Even though she appeared happy, it was more of a mask, just like it had always been. According to her father, she had to keep a poker face on, or she wouldn't go anywhere in life. brenda - seventeen - five years At, precisely, four in the morning, her alarm clock had awoken her. She changed into her work clothes and tended the horses on the family farm, handled a couple tasks around the house, showered, and finally changed into the outfit she wore when trying out a mount. It was your basic attire of jeans, boots, a tee shirt, and a padded vest. With a quick note to her brother and an even quicker meal of plain toast, she was out the door and in her old pickup. Her trusty and somewhat dusty helmet was perched on the worn, red seat, shamelessly showing its age and misuse. Eye of the Tiger by Survivor was stuck on repeat, not that she minded, and it immediately began to play as the old truck coughed and roared to life. Pallid fingers extended, turning up the volume as she revved the engine and tore off down the driveway with a spit of gravel. The music pulsed and throbbed from the speakers, calming her frayed nerves. The song was her theme, and she wasn't afraid to lay down the law, so to speak. She only listened if she actually agreed with it but beyond that, she was an extension of the mount. She was able to quickly find the steed's quirks and habits, along with its preferences and more often than not, even if the owner didn't agree with it, she let the horse lead. The only time she stepped in was when the creature was losing its motivation and needed a bit of a pick-me-up. One of the few things she refused to use was a whip, especially considering she thought it to be cruel and unusual to push the animal when it was already doing what it could to succeed. Of course, she was also no stranger to throwing her weight around when riding high in the saddle at breakneck speeds. On rare occasions, she had the whip, just to appease the owner, but she didn't ever actually use it. She didn't feel as if she had the need. After what felt like a lifetime of driving, she finally pulled the old truck to a stop and cut off the engine, grabbing her helmet from the seat as she forced open the door by slamming her shoulder against it. The stupid thing stuck on occasion, but she was used to it so she didn't usually complain. All she cared about was whether or not it got her from point a to point b. A car was a car in her eyes, and they never measured up to the wondrous animals known as horses. A car could be personalized, yes, but they had no personality in her eyes nor were they particularly unique. A horse, on the other hand, was similar to a human. No, two horses were alike, and she always felt rejuvenated after a good ride, even if it was a bit of a competition. Snapping out of her thoughts long enough to remember why she was here, she jumped from the cab of the truck and stretched her arms above her head. She closed the door with a light slam, leaving the keys in the ignition. She was usually able to trust people around the track, especially in the case of her truck, which was undoubtedly older than the earth itself. She walked quickly to meet the man and her possible, new employer. As she walked, she listened to her boots as they crunched along the ground. This would be one of the few jobs, assuming she got it, she had received since returning to Kentucky. She had traveled a bit, participated in a few races, and she had even made a small name for herself. When she came up to the man, she regarded him quietly for a moment, her pale gaze unwavering as she extended her hand. "Mister Holyfield, I'm Kyrie Emerson." She introduced herself with a casual ease, holding her helmet against her hip. Assuming her had taken her proffered hand and shaken it, she turned toward the steed that stood before her, regarding him just as quietly as she had the man. Just that single glance told her many things. For several moments, she was silent, sorting through the mass of information in her head, which had been obtained from researching the previous night. "This is the horse, yes? High-spirited and probably a bit hard to reign in but overall runs like a dream." Her analysis was brief and somewhat abrupt, considering she wasn't the type of woman that enjoyed idle chatter. When it came time to do business, she allowed no room for nonsense and often cut right to the chase. Even now, she was clipping her helmet and making sure that all of her safety precautions were in place and properly fastened. Once more, she turned toward the man, tilting her head. A slight smirk tugged at her lips before she could bring herself to speak. "Just as employers have rules, I, as the employee, have rules as well. I do not use whips, I do not push a horse past its breaking point and if there's even the slightest doubt that something you instruct me to do goes against the horses abilities, I will not do it. Furthermore, I believe myself to be an extension of the horse while in that saddle, and the only time I shall ever interfere with the horse's natural abilities on the track is if he or she needs a bit of a boost. If you have issues with this, Mister Holyfield, then you can find yourself another jockey." Her tone was flat as she spoke, and the only hint that she was actually a human instead of a robot was the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She glanced back toward the horse as a frown tugged at her lips. There was just one question that remained. "My cards are on the table, Mister Holyfield. If we have a deal, we can shake on it. If we do not have a deal, I will turn around and leave this instant. The final decision is yours." There was no hesitation in her voice and as she spoke, her hand lifted to trail her fingertips along the colt's velvety muzzle. Indeed, she wasn't known for being nice, but she did get the job done, and she was able to see the horse as an individual rather than a walking, dollar sign. FLEMING @ CAUTION 2.0 |
