Tempestada Andreasen {D4/FIN}

[Deleted]

D A N C I N G I N T H E S T O R M

[presto]

T E M P I ▲ A N D R E A S E N

{a p p e a r a n c e}

As the storm rages on over the sand of the beach and the grass of the yards that sit peacefully outside of small houses, there stands a girl. She stands on the shore, the salty air biting ruthlessly at her fair skin, and the howling wind blowing her light blonde hair away from her shoulders. She does not appear to be worried or frightened, in fact she appears to feel nothing at all. From where you stand you cannot see the brightness of her eyes or the twitches of her hands, no you can only see the stirred sand beneath her feet and the disrupted sky above her head. Each drop of rain hits the ground with the force of what seems to be a bullet, but still, she seems unbothered. She does not move to wipe the drops that have landed on her face, nor does she wring the accumulating water from her hair. She stands there, still, motionless, and silent, as the world seems to be wasting away around her in a violent tumult. Run, child, before the tempest blows you away. But she does not move, not for the winds or the voice telling her to leave. In fact, she sits, her lanky legs crossing over each other in a mixed matched way.

Suddenly, the storm begins to calm. The winds have died down to an almost stillness that encompasses the surrounding area like a shelter. She pulls her hair back to its original position with fragile hands, the long, nimble fingers catching on each knot and tangle. She gently pulls each one apart, like a lock picker might solve the puzzle of a lock on an abandoned shed. Each finger is a key within itself, nicks and small cuts showing age that is beyond her sixteen years. She seems to know more than she will tell, hiding secrets and stories behind the storm in her eyes. What does she know that she is not willing to tell? What adventures and stories are hiding behind each cut and scratch that crosses her body from top to bottom? Maybe they are tales to be told, stories for another rainy day where the clouds cover the sun. Not for now, at this time. Now is the time for the blonde haired girl sitting in the shifting sand to find herself behind the hidden stories in her eyes and to unlock the barriers that extend just past her fingertips.

{p e r s o n a l i t y}

She is the eye of the storm herself, the calm that sits in the middle of the hurricane. Level headed in most situations, she falls away only in times of desperation, leaving the comfort of the eye to wander into the thickest part of the storm. She becomes lost in the pelting rain, blinded by confusion and fear that only grow with the time spent there. Eventually she will stumble out, soaked and terrified, striking around blindly until the silence around drowns out the former sounds of nightmares. She takes comfort in the center of the disasters that surround her, never bothering to push her way completely out of them, but only to shield herself for the time being. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there” is a phrase that is etched on her heart, every letter proving its meaning through each new instance that tests her ability to stay calm.

With a smile that is the sun itself (when it breaks through the thick clouds, of course), she is more often than not happy, or at least content, although she doesn’t always show it. Her blue eyes twinkle in the greatest feelings of joy, and those who see these rare expressions of unrefined enthusiasm say that it could strike excitement into anyone a mile away with the force of lightning. She is rash and adventurous, setting her mind to the impossible and not letting easing up until her feet have solidly found their way to the ground. If her ideas do not go as planned, she sits and pouts, blaming the failure of whatever she has not succeeded in not on herself but anything that surrounds her. The winds begin to pick up as she gets more and more frustrated, but she does not them blow from her mouth, no, they stay inside, cooling her body and forcing her to bite her tongue.

However, these situations happen very rarely, and for the most part, these tantrums are covered by the freedom the salty air brings to her heart, lifting her spirits and flying them back to the water that she has so often called a second home. Her mannerisms are gentle, her tender touch lighter than the feathers of the birds that fly above in the clear skies that accompany sunny days. She finds herself neatly picking at the bracelets she has carefully woven out of the thread that she keeps in the box under her bed. It’s more of a habit than anything, her constant reassuring of herself that there is always going to be something there, whether it’s human or not, there will always be something. The stock she puts in knowing this is high, and the slightest worrying of this sends her into the starts of pure panic, which eventually, if not put down by the reasoning of her own mind, can lead into something much more than just a little bit of worrying.

{h i s t o r y}

One stormy night there was a mother and father, huddled within the walls of a sturdy house. The winds roared about and the thunder sounded with an explosive boom that could be heard for miles around. It was then, in the thickest part of the storm, that a girl was born. Her eyes as piercing as the disrupted water and thin hair that would prove to be as bright as the sun that would shine the following morning. She did not make much noise except for an occasional cry, but when it did ring out throughout the house, it was quite the noise, clear and easy to be heard above the storm that raged just outside the walls that surrounded her, sturdy and concrete. She grew up surrounded by these walls, learning to walk and learn and love with them protecting her the entire way. However, she never outgrew them, and even now, at age sixteen, still cherishes the walls that have held her through the storms of life, both physically and mentally.

Around age seven she was given the nickname Tempi. It started when one friend, a little girl with hair as dark as the night sky asked her why her name was so long. Tempestada, having never thought of it as this, answered with the simple answer that so often falls from the mouth of a child: “just because it is.” Her mother had often told her why she was named what she was, for the storm that raged on that night. She had listened carefully as her mother carefully explained that a tempest was something beautifully destructive, the winds whipping with a loud voice, demanding to be heard. As she thought back to the definition, she suggested to the dark haired girl that she be called Tempest, but even that didn’t seem right. The two pondered on it for a moment, before Tempi came flying out as a suggestion from her friend’s mouth. It seemed perfect at the time, and even now, it still did. It was somewhere in between the elegant violence behind the tempest and the innocence of a child.

Now at age sixteen, the walls still protect her and the nickname still fits. There is still more than just a hit of adolescent innocence in the girl who runs to the waves in times of the storm. However, she doesn’t hide behind the walls quite as often, only looking to them in times of terror, not just anxiety. The beach, with its shifting sand and tumultuous waves, has taught her to toss her anxieties away. She is still friends with the girl with the dark hair and eyes, and often accompanies her to walk along the paths that they have carved out year after year. The name Tempi still flies from her mouth, along with the ideas of adventure that they got into from the day they met. Most recently they had tried to build a small boat to carry them just off the shore, to the point just past where they would not swim. It hadn’t been too successful, and mid-trip, both had jumped and swam for the shore, watching each plank of wood sink below the swirling waters. So there they sat on the shore, watching from the eye of the hurricane as the storm raged on, and on, and on.

{o t h e r}
Tempestada Andreasen
age: 16
district: 4
gender: female
face claim: Chase Carter
codeword: oDair
words: 409 + 489 + 558 = 1,456

[/presto]
T E M P L A T E B Y C H E L S E Y

[Deleted]

Finished!

[Deleted]

Bumpity bump bump.

[Deleted]

bump again because buried.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

The last line is especially beautiful.

ACCEPTED!