Librarian
Username:.Some.Other.Mercy.
Who recruited you?:Mono
I had a dream
I was someone else, for a while.
Only for a while.
And then I gave up.
Name:Beau Baudelaire
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Height: 6' 1"
Weight: 175 lbs.
It's rather hard to try on the shoes of someone else
When the someone else is nothing more
Than a poorly written facade
A glimmer of modern society.
Race: A human of the most fabulous variety.
Social Class: Dandy
Appearance: He wouldn't dare to be anything that wasn't dressed to the nines. He was over the top, eccentric, a clash of cloth and an echo of sound, the click and clatter of heels capering through the corridors at a break-neck run -- fashionably late for work again I see. Coatails, cut up the center so they formed twin curves expanding from his lower back, the delicate entrails of a dream left slaughtered upon the pillow when waking. Gold details, buttons engraved with a looping swirling pattern which echoed the thoughts in his mind. Going going gone. The structure of the shoulders on his clothing was always delightfully solid, speaking of something broad and orderly. Was it merely the design of the cloth or was there truly something beneath it which gave substantial credit to the frame of the coat? Sleeves were well sewn, ending in white cuffs which flared slightly, floating out at his wrists like the ghostly remains of a night haunting. His coats came in a variety of colors from the stately demure black, to an enchanting grey, to a deep orchid which stood out, but was not in the least bit tacky. His pants either ended at the knee, or traveled to the ankle. When he wore them to the knee, the appropriate stockings would be warn with them, in order to hide the pallor of his skin with the pallor of something white and creamy. Or, if he was feeling really kicky, the bold pattern of argyle. It all depended on whose eyes he was intending to catch on the day in which he wore them. If he was merely going to be surrounded by boring nobodies, he'd lose a bit of the frock and flair - but not enough to be noticed. He must keep up appearances at all time. All times I tell you. All times. Gloves, extending on long fingers, thin, but delicate. They looked like hands which would handle books and fine fabrics with the utmost of respect. Ruffles explode from his throat, as if he were literally speaking volumes, and each white ream of fabric was actually paper, with the story of his life flowing across them, rippling and folding into the ears of students or the mirror, whichever one was more attentive. He was rather large upon his grandfather's golden watch, hanging from a long fob against his thigh. It was always correct twice a day. Boots ride up to his thigh, wingtips to his ankle. Fashion was changed daily, depending on his mood. And he was a very moody man.
Of course, this is all the items of his daily apparel which is changed on a whim. None of this is constant. The hats, stovepipe and large, or soft and cabbie-ish, tossed aside at a moment's notice. This is not permanence. But the physical features, the cut of his body, the elegant bridge of his nose, coming down in a graceful slope between hazel eyes with catches of blue ringing the outside. They weren't noticable at first, something you caught onto later with a soft gasp and a rush of blood to the heart. Lips, slightly plush, ripe with youth and teased with teeth when lost in thought. His cheeks were rosy in nature, with his rolling cheekbones that could be mistaken for porcelain. Lashes, long and curling, and hair, the same pale blond as his eyelashes, wavy and soft, framing his face with a certain amount of whimsy which seemed completely necessary to his nature. Overall, he was a delicate specimen of a man, with all the tendencies of a boy.
Plus, his shoes were ugly.
And in a society where looks are everything
And sole is nothing
One can't be caught dead in ugly shoes.
Personality: Beau is a tried and true flake. His pattern of thought is apparent in his clothing, flowing and flickering, swooping and patterned, with paisley reflecting slowly inward on itself, moving in and in and then out to something else entirely different in one fell swoop. Oh hello, here I am and there I go and really, you'll never be able to catch me. Well, not unless I turn right back around and wind up in your arms. It's an entirely likely situation, since he really has no idea where he's going half the time anyway. Despite his flakiness, he can be an excellent listener when it comes to matters of society or literature. Keep in mind though that his ear has very selective hearing, and that if you mention one of a few key words, he is gone. Solid gone. Those key words tend to sound like 'math' and 'science'. Or 'blah blah blah', which is what anything sounds like to him once he's stopped paying attention to it. He's into fashion, and relationships. He tends to see himself as a bit of a love doctor, and thus enjoys lounging about listening to the students divulge the delicate details of their diaries to his ears. This leads to advice, which may have been unsolicited in the first place, yet is nonetheless given. Of course, this advice may not exactly be the best in the world, especially when he isn't very well versed in the topic, such as why some of the teachers just dress so...poorly. It never occurred to him that perhaps they actually were poor. He is particularly interested in the impossible romances played out in the world of storybooks. There was nothing like lounging on a divan, legs outstretched, arm poised at an awkward angle above blonde curling locks, the other hand holding a book which was enrapturing the mind with such wonders as Lady Chatterly's Lover. How desperately he too sought a lover, one who would rock the foundations of his life. But first, before he could have such a lover, he would have to have foundations, and those really didn't seem to be coming along for him at any point soon. Foundations. Ha, that required something solid, and, to be repetitive, he is too flaky to be solid. He is the crust on the bread that you love, but hate at the same time because as soon as you bite into it, it goes ALL over the place and just makes a big mess. Then, the dog starts eatting it, and gets sick, and you worry that the dog will die, and thus you bond with your dog and appreciate it more. Of course, the dog winds up being perfectly fine. You see, that moment of terror at possible doggie death wound up procurring some good (your newfound love for your dog) and some bad (sickness and terror), which is not unlike the personage of Beau, or anyone else for that matter.
Beau is optimistic, thrilled by the fact that he is living his own life story which he hopes to possible someday publish in novel form. He really wants to be a person of interest, and thus, he strives to be interesting, not knowing that he really doesn't need to try. He dabbles in this that and the other thing, getting distracted by the latest fad before moving on to something else, which just happens to be the new latest fad.
He truly aims to please...himself at all times, other people not as frequently. He knows he has to be realistic in matters such as that. Thus, when it comes to organizing the multitude of shelves with all the various books in the library, they are done by his own personal taste. So, you will find his most cherished favourites hidden within the drawer of his desk. Then, from there, the rest is willy nilly, the most liked right in front where everyone can see them, and the less loved thrust into the back. Nobody should be forced to endure such torture as reading them in his humble opinion. The library is entirely reliant on him since he is the only one who could possibly know where anything is there.
He's rather tight about hygiene, finding a lack thereof to cause one to smell the most foul, and really, who wanted their own body odor to be their social repellent? At least let it be your personality, sometimes, one just couldn't help but be a jerk. But, you could always clean underneath your nails and bathe. Right? It never occurred to him that bathing was a luxury some just couldn't afford much of less practice.
To be trite, he is as naive as he is wordly, as ignorant as he is cultured, as organized as he is chaotic and as loveable as he is obnoxious. If that makes any sense whatsoever.
My own shoes?
Prime leather.
I ordered them from a faraway land
Where I'm certain a little elf with little hammers made them for me.
My own, personal dream cobbler.
Character flaws: Beau is, by no means in touch with the class beneath him. The concept of poverty which he fully understands in the novels he reads does not translate well to the world before him. According to his world, every pauper eventually marries, or is adopted by someone who is financially better off than them, so really, their lack of food now is nothing to worry about. They'll have feasts in the future. He's a bit of a Marie Antoinette one would suppose. They don't have bread? Oh well, there's always cake in the future. Cake with succulent berries across the top and fine lacy frills of icing mincing across the borders in a fringe fit for a wedding gown.
He's also a bit of a nosy meddler which gets him, and everyone else involved into trouble at the worst moments. At the sound of a love affair, he is off with his nose to the ground, attempting to sniff out the culprits in order to know the full details of the whirlwind romance. He doesn't do it to be malicious though, if anything, he thinks that he will become the match-maker of the century, uniting couples who will stand the test of time, marry, and have oodles of children who will call him "Uncle Beau" and have nothing but respect for him. In fact, they'll often turn to him for advice with their own love lives and so the cycle will continue.
His money tends to be whittled away on little niceities that aren't necessary for his survival, but that he nonetheless adores. Thus, his savings aren't particularly stunning, but he does get by comfortably.
He talks whilst his mouth is filled with food, which is absolutely disgusting and against the proper terms of social ettiquette, I suppose he doesn't mind though, since he keeps right on doing it. He's a talker, and he likes to do it at any moment when it seems to be proper, and why not while eating? Eating together is an entirely social function, one must get in all the words that one can. Of course, it is still gross.
Above all, as has been emphasized multiple times, he is a huge flake. I don't think I can properly expound fully upon how flakey he is, but he certainly is. This is not viewed as a strength by any social circle that I am aware of, nor is he. But then again, he probably doesn't realize that he is indeed flakey. He probably thinks he is a solid figure whom one can always rely on since his means of organization and his thought patterns are to him - flawless. It doesn't occur to him that his organizing 'system' isn't really all that much of a system and is really, really, quite idiotic.
I always get compliments on my shoes.
I've become a bit paranoid with the worry that someone is going to steal them.
Just whoosh!
And I'll fall a** over tea kettle into the mud.
Barefoot.
Background: He wasn't born into the world with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. He was born with a scream echoing out of his little pink lips, climbing in octaves out into the wilderness where the wolves mistook it as one of their own braying for help. Of course, they weren't about to do anything to aid this one, since it's voice was rather annoying and grating on their ears. If anything, whatever was attacking it would be doing them a favor by killing it off. What a racket.
Unfortunately for them he was to recieve no crueler treatment than a mere spank on the bottom by the doctor as he held him upside down in the air by his ankles, proclaiming him to be a healthy baby boy. And thus began the noisy life of one Beau Baudelaire.
The parents of Beau Baudelaire was certain that he was brimming with talent. Why, his father was a man of political prowess, rising through the government, his oratory skills were renowned amongst the people. Thus, they sent him off to a school in which they would focus upon politics and speeches. Sir Baudelaire had set himself up for disappointment though, for his son did not care about the hustle and bustle of the real world, he only liked the hustle and bustle of the fictious lifestyle which the characters in his novels were thriving en masse. He never spoke much in class, and he never stayed on top of current events. It just wasn't the school for him.
His mother was a woman of music, and when the father's plan failed, she shipped Beau off to music school. Beau was forced into the choir, where he sang loudly out of key, his little high-pitched voice reaching levels meant to pierce the eardrums of the listener. They gave him instruments, which he either broke, or which would rather be broken then played again by him. All those poor violins, flutes, harps, tom toms, triangles, cellos, violas, and lutes...not to mention the instructors who most certainly suffered the most. So, Beau was tone deaf, what was the big deal? Certainly there was some niche in the world in which to stuff him.
That niche happened to be the library. He was sent off to a basic boarding school where he whiled away his hours in the library, reading and reading and reading. The librarian found him rather fascinating, this little blonde creature curled up in a chair, devouring books at the speed of sound. He would recommend literature, and the youth would read it almost instantly. It was something for the librarian to develop a warm fuzzie over - a boy who loved books as much as he did. A boy who would read what was asked of him and enjoy it. It was a librarian's dream come true.
Too bad Beau had not been the dream come true of any of his political professors or music instructors.
Due to young Beau's love of all things verbose, the library became a second home to him, and it was only natural he would persue a career in the place where he had found himself as well as many of his fictitious companions.
But enough about shoes.
I've probably bored you to tears.
Did you read the book I gave you
Oh...about a week ago?
The ending is superb. No happy ending there.
Skills: Beau is a people person. He loves to chit chat, he loves to listen. Normally, one wouldn't consider this a skill, but when you're always in the same building all the time, it could certainly be considered one. The ability to always be the same cheerful creature, bouncing about behind a desk, arms flailing at shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books, words spewing forth from pages that could crumble under the wrong hangs. Of course, Beau's certainly weren't the wrong ones at all. They were just right.
His advice isn't always stellar, but at least it's there, always ready for when you ask of it. He tends to relate things to characters in books or plays, which isn't always the most realistic reliable source, but nonetheless, something can always be better than nothing. And then again, even if you do take his advice, and that turns out to have been a very bad idea, at least you learned a lesson. Plus, you'll have a brand new tale to relate to your bosom buddy in the library, hiding behind a book, waiting to hear it. He lives off stories you know. No matter how well written or how poorly told. His imagination is vast enough to make up for the lack of verse. Internally, his mind is always adding little touches that you wouldn't think of, such as the curl of the lashes of the boy you adore. Or perhaps how his eyes aren't one color, but two, and they blend in a little jagged pattern about the iris, and it's most noticeable in the sunlight. Maybe, he's adding the slight flip of his hair since it's a bit too long and he really needs a hair cut.
Or perhaps he's adding the slightly chapped texture to her lips since she's a bit too poor to afford all the fineries of a lady of status. Maybe he sees the dirt which she's trying to hide around the fringe of her petticoat. Maybe he can see the blush on her cheeks while you talk to her, both of you looking at your toes so you can't see how each other looks, bathing in the glow of teenage passions - maybe he knows, his own heart tracing over the patterns of intersecting hearts, glances, minds, while two souls collide over the tile floor, while toes curl up in shoes, while hands begin to sweat and words begin to stumble over themselves in an attempt to be heard, but not to be looked into too hard because then the truth will be caught naked and scared.
Or maybe, he's just admiring your shirt because really it's so nice and where did you get it?
Classes: He doesn't teach a proper class, he merely aids you along in learning all the trials and tribulations of life without softening the blow of the fall. A proper teacher would never take away the impact of the lesson unless he truly didn't care about the student, and he cares about you all very, very much.
Character secrets: Beau really doesn't hold well with his own secrets. He usually slips up somewhere. Of course, he also doesn't think that he has anything to hide. So, I can't say whether he even really thinks he has a secret to tell. Of course, when it comes to your own secrets, he doesn't tell...well...I would say a soul, but that would be pushing the line seeing as he does tell a few people who he thinks would aid you if they knew your problem. For example, what if you like Cindy Loo, and he knows for a fact that Cindy Loo is tipsy tops for you too. Well, of course he's going to tell her. He just can't help aiding a romance. Hm...maybe he doesn't even really understand the true definition of the word secret after all. I mean, it is debatable. But then again, isn't everything with Beau?
Anything else? Beau
Username:.Some.Other.Mercy.
Who recruited you?:Mono
I had a dream
I was someone else, for a while.
Only for a while.
And then I gave up.
Name:Beau Baudelaire
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Height: 6' 1"
Weight: 175 lbs.
It's rather hard to try on the shoes of someone else
When the someone else is nothing more
Than a poorly written facade
A glimmer of modern society.
Race: A human of the most fabulous variety.
Social Class: Dandy
Appearance: He wouldn't dare to be anything that wasn't dressed to the nines. He was over the top, eccentric, a clash of cloth and an echo of sound, the click and clatter of heels capering through the corridors at a break-neck run -- fashionably late for work again I see. Coatails, cut up the center so they formed twin curves expanding from his lower back, the delicate entrails of a dream left slaughtered upon the pillow when waking. Gold details, buttons engraved with a looping swirling pattern which echoed the thoughts in his mind. Going going gone. The structure of the shoulders on his clothing was always delightfully solid, speaking of something broad and orderly. Was it merely the design of the cloth or was there truly something beneath it which gave substantial credit to the frame of the coat? Sleeves were well sewn, ending in white cuffs which flared slightly, floating out at his wrists like the ghostly remains of a night haunting. His coats came in a variety of colors from the stately demure black, to an enchanting grey, to a deep orchid which stood out, but was not in the least bit tacky. His pants either ended at the knee, or traveled to the ankle. When he wore them to the knee, the appropriate stockings would be warn with them, in order to hide the pallor of his skin with the pallor of something white and creamy. Or, if he was feeling really kicky, the bold pattern of argyle. It all depended on whose eyes he was intending to catch on the day in which he wore them. If he was merely going to be surrounded by boring nobodies, he'd lose a bit of the frock and flair - but not enough to be noticed. He must keep up appearances at all time. All times I tell you. All times. Gloves, extending on long fingers, thin, but delicate. They looked like hands which would handle books and fine fabrics with the utmost of respect. Ruffles explode from his throat, as if he were literally speaking volumes, and each white ream of fabric was actually paper, with the story of his life flowing across them, rippling and folding into the ears of students or the mirror, whichever one was more attentive. He was rather large upon his grandfather's golden watch, hanging from a long fob against his thigh. It was always correct twice a day. Boots ride up to his thigh, wingtips to his ankle. Fashion was changed daily, depending on his mood. And he was a very moody man.
Of course, this is all the items of his daily apparel which is changed on a whim. None of this is constant. The hats, stovepipe and large, or soft and cabbie-ish, tossed aside at a moment's notice. This is not permanence. But the physical features, the cut of his body, the elegant bridge of his nose, coming down in a graceful slope between hazel eyes with catches of blue ringing the outside. They weren't noticable at first, something you caught onto later with a soft gasp and a rush of blood to the heart. Lips, slightly plush, ripe with youth and teased with teeth when lost in thought. His cheeks were rosy in nature, with his rolling cheekbones that could be mistaken for porcelain. Lashes, long and curling, and hair, the same pale blond as his eyelashes, wavy and soft, framing his face with a certain amount of whimsy which seemed completely necessary to his nature. Overall, he was a delicate specimen of a man, with all the tendencies of a boy.
Plus, his shoes were ugly.
And in a society where looks are everything
And sole is nothing
One can't be caught dead in ugly shoes.
Personality: Beau is a tried and true flake. His pattern of thought is apparent in his clothing, flowing and flickering, swooping and patterned, with paisley reflecting slowly inward on itself, moving in and in and then out to something else entirely different in one fell swoop. Oh hello, here I am and there I go and really, you'll never be able to catch me. Well, not unless I turn right back around and wind up in your arms. It's an entirely likely situation, since he really has no idea where he's going half the time anyway. Despite his flakiness, he can be an excellent listener when it comes to matters of society or literature. Keep in mind though that his ear has very selective hearing, and that if you mention one of a few key words, he is gone. Solid gone. Those key words tend to sound like 'math' and 'science'. Or 'blah blah blah', which is what anything sounds like to him once he's stopped paying attention to it. He's into fashion, and relationships. He tends to see himself as a bit of a love doctor, and thus enjoys lounging about listening to the students divulge the delicate details of their diaries to his ears. This leads to advice, which may have been unsolicited in the first place, yet is nonetheless given. Of course, this advice may not exactly be the best in the world, especially when he isn't very well versed in the topic, such as why some of the teachers just dress so...poorly. It never occurred to him that perhaps they actually were poor. He is particularly interested in the impossible romances played out in the world of storybooks. There was nothing like lounging on a divan, legs outstretched, arm poised at an awkward angle above blonde curling locks, the other hand holding a book which was enrapturing the mind with such wonders as Lady Chatterly's Lover. How desperately he too sought a lover, one who would rock the foundations of his life. But first, before he could have such a lover, he would have to have foundations, and those really didn't seem to be coming along for him at any point soon. Foundations. Ha, that required something solid, and, to be repetitive, he is too flaky to be solid. He is the crust on the bread that you love, but hate at the same time because as soon as you bite into it, it goes ALL over the place and just makes a big mess. Then, the dog starts eatting it, and gets sick, and you worry that the dog will die, and thus you bond with your dog and appreciate it more. Of course, the dog winds up being perfectly fine. You see, that moment of terror at possible doggie death wound up procurring some good (your newfound love for your dog) and some bad (sickness and terror), which is not unlike the personage of Beau, or anyone else for that matter.
Beau is optimistic, thrilled by the fact that he is living his own life story which he hopes to possible someday publish in novel form. He really wants to be a person of interest, and thus, he strives to be interesting, not knowing that he really doesn't need to try. He dabbles in this that and the other thing, getting distracted by the latest fad before moving on to something else, which just happens to be the new latest fad.
He truly aims to please...himself at all times, other people not as frequently. He knows he has to be realistic in matters such as that. Thus, when it comes to organizing the multitude of shelves with all the various books in the library, they are done by his own personal taste. So, you will find his most cherished favourites hidden within the drawer of his desk. Then, from there, the rest is willy nilly, the most liked right in front where everyone can see them, and the less loved thrust into the back. Nobody should be forced to endure such torture as reading them in his humble opinion. The library is entirely reliant on him since he is the only one who could possibly know where anything is there.
He's rather tight about hygiene, finding a lack thereof to cause one to smell the most foul, and really, who wanted their own body odor to be their social repellent? At least let it be your personality, sometimes, one just couldn't help but be a jerk. But, you could always clean underneath your nails and bathe. Right? It never occurred to him that bathing was a luxury some just couldn't afford much of less practice.
To be trite, he is as naive as he is wordly, as ignorant as he is cultured, as organized as he is chaotic and as loveable as he is obnoxious. If that makes any sense whatsoever.
My own shoes?
Prime leather.
I ordered them from a faraway land
Where I'm certain a little elf with little hammers made them for me.
My own, personal dream cobbler.
Character flaws: Beau is, by no means in touch with the class beneath him. The concept of poverty which he fully understands in the novels he reads does not translate well to the world before him. According to his world, every pauper eventually marries, or is adopted by someone who is financially better off than them, so really, their lack of food now is nothing to worry about. They'll have feasts in the future. He's a bit of a Marie Antoinette one would suppose. They don't have bread? Oh well, there's always cake in the future. Cake with succulent berries across the top and fine lacy frills of icing mincing across the borders in a fringe fit for a wedding gown.
He's also a bit of a nosy meddler which gets him, and everyone else involved into trouble at the worst moments. At the sound of a love affair, he is off with his nose to the ground, attempting to sniff out the culprits in order to know the full details of the whirlwind romance. He doesn't do it to be malicious though, if anything, he thinks that he will become the match-maker of the century, uniting couples who will stand the test of time, marry, and have oodles of children who will call him "Uncle Beau" and have nothing but respect for him. In fact, they'll often turn to him for advice with their own love lives and so the cycle will continue.
His money tends to be whittled away on little niceities that aren't necessary for his survival, but that he nonetheless adores. Thus, his savings aren't particularly stunning, but he does get by comfortably.
He talks whilst his mouth is filled with food, which is absolutely disgusting and against the proper terms of social ettiquette, I suppose he doesn't mind though, since he keeps right on doing it. He's a talker, and he likes to do it at any moment when it seems to be proper, and why not while eating? Eating together is an entirely social function, one must get in all the words that one can. Of course, it is still gross.
Above all, as has been emphasized multiple times, he is a huge flake. I don't think I can properly expound fully upon how flakey he is, but he certainly is. This is not viewed as a strength by any social circle that I am aware of, nor is he. But then again, he probably doesn't realize that he is indeed flakey. He probably thinks he is a solid figure whom one can always rely on since his means of organization and his thought patterns are to him - flawless. It doesn't occur to him that his organizing 'system' isn't really all that much of a system and is really, really, quite idiotic.
I always get compliments on my shoes.
I've become a bit paranoid with the worry that someone is going to steal them.
Just whoosh!
And I'll fall a** over tea kettle into the mud.
Barefoot.
Background: He wasn't born into the world with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. He was born with a scream echoing out of his little pink lips, climbing in octaves out into the wilderness where the wolves mistook it as one of their own braying for help. Of course, they weren't about to do anything to aid this one, since it's voice was rather annoying and grating on their ears. If anything, whatever was attacking it would be doing them a favor by killing it off. What a racket.
Unfortunately for them he was to recieve no crueler treatment than a mere spank on the bottom by the doctor as he held him upside down in the air by his ankles, proclaiming him to be a healthy baby boy. And thus began the noisy life of one Beau Baudelaire.
The parents of Beau Baudelaire was certain that he was brimming with talent. Why, his father was a man of political prowess, rising through the government, his oratory skills were renowned amongst the people. Thus, they sent him off to a school in which they would focus upon politics and speeches. Sir Baudelaire had set himself up for disappointment though, for his son did not care about the hustle and bustle of the real world, he only liked the hustle and bustle of the fictious lifestyle which the characters in his novels were thriving en masse. He never spoke much in class, and he never stayed on top of current events. It just wasn't the school for him.
His mother was a woman of music, and when the father's plan failed, she shipped Beau off to music school. Beau was forced into the choir, where he sang loudly out of key, his little high-pitched voice reaching levels meant to pierce the eardrums of the listener. They gave him instruments, which he either broke, or which would rather be broken then played again by him. All those poor violins, flutes, harps, tom toms, triangles, cellos, violas, and lutes...not to mention the instructors who most certainly suffered the most. So, Beau was tone deaf, what was the big deal? Certainly there was some niche in the world in which to stuff him.
That niche happened to be the library. He was sent off to a basic boarding school where he whiled away his hours in the library, reading and reading and reading. The librarian found him rather fascinating, this little blonde creature curled up in a chair, devouring books at the speed of sound. He would recommend literature, and the youth would read it almost instantly. It was something for the librarian to develop a warm fuzzie over - a boy who loved books as much as he did. A boy who would read what was asked of him and enjoy it. It was a librarian's dream come true.
Too bad Beau had not been the dream come true of any of his political professors or music instructors.
Due to young Beau's love of all things verbose, the library became a second home to him, and it was only natural he would persue a career in the place where he had found himself as well as many of his fictitious companions.
But enough about shoes.
I've probably bored you to tears.
Did you read the book I gave you
Oh...about a week ago?
The ending is superb. No happy ending there.
Skills: Beau is a people person. He loves to chit chat, he loves to listen. Normally, one wouldn't consider this a skill, but when you're always in the same building all the time, it could certainly be considered one. The ability to always be the same cheerful creature, bouncing about behind a desk, arms flailing at shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books, words spewing forth from pages that could crumble under the wrong hangs. Of course, Beau's certainly weren't the wrong ones at all. They were just right.
His advice isn't always stellar, but at least it's there, always ready for when you ask of it. He tends to relate things to characters in books or plays, which isn't always the most realistic reliable source, but nonetheless, something can always be better than nothing. And then again, even if you do take his advice, and that turns out to have been a very bad idea, at least you learned a lesson. Plus, you'll have a brand new tale to relate to your bosom buddy in the library, hiding behind a book, waiting to hear it. He lives off stories you know. No matter how well written or how poorly told. His imagination is vast enough to make up for the lack of verse. Internally, his mind is always adding little touches that you wouldn't think of, such as the curl of the lashes of the boy you adore. Or perhaps how his eyes aren't one color, but two, and they blend in a little jagged pattern about the iris, and it's most noticeable in the sunlight. Maybe, he's adding the slight flip of his hair since it's a bit too long and he really needs a hair cut.
Or perhaps he's adding the slightly chapped texture to her lips since she's a bit too poor to afford all the fineries of a lady of status. Maybe he sees the dirt which she's trying to hide around the fringe of her petticoat. Maybe he can see the blush on her cheeks while you talk to her, both of you looking at your toes so you can't see how each other looks, bathing in the glow of teenage passions - maybe he knows, his own heart tracing over the patterns of intersecting hearts, glances, minds, while two souls collide over the tile floor, while toes curl up in shoes, while hands begin to sweat and words begin to stumble over themselves in an attempt to be heard, but not to be looked into too hard because then the truth will be caught naked and scared.
Or maybe, he's just admiring your shirt because really it's so nice and where did you get it?
Classes: He doesn't teach a proper class, he merely aids you along in learning all the trials and tribulations of life without softening the blow of the fall. A proper teacher would never take away the impact of the lesson unless he truly didn't care about the student, and he cares about you all very, very much.
Character secrets: Beau really doesn't hold well with his own secrets. He usually slips up somewhere. Of course, he also doesn't think that he has anything to hide. So, I can't say whether he even really thinks he has a secret to tell. Of course, when it comes to your own secrets, he doesn't tell...well...I would say a soul, but that would be pushing the line seeing as he does tell a few people who he thinks would aid you if they knew your problem. For example, what if you like Cindy Loo, and he knows for a fact that Cindy Loo is tipsy tops for you too. Well, of course he's going to tell her. He just can't help aiding a romance. Hm...maybe he doesn't even really understand the true definition of the word secret after all. I mean, it is debatable. But then again, isn't everything with Beau?
Anything else? Beau
