Post by Cap'n Sankari V. on Jul 20, 2011 19:31:13 GMT -5
SANKARI V
" Who's gonna fight for the weak?
Who's gonna make 'em believe?
I've got a hero -- I've got a hero living in me.
I'm gonna fight for what's right,
Today I'm speaking my mind
and if it kills me tonight,
I will be ready to die.
A hero's not afraid to give his life."
the basics,
»»character full name: Sankari V (Sometimes called the Drone)
»»age: 19.
»»gender: Female.
»»sexual orientation: Bisexual.
»»position: Captain of the SS Freedom.
»»race: Human, mostly.
»»alliance: Pirate.
»»powers: None.
»»weapons:
5 ft Katana (including hilt) -- strapped to her back that she wields without hesitancy.
Chains -- wrapped around her forearms and shoulder - she uses them as a guard, but they really serve to keep her skin from ripping apart, and her joints from disjointing from the weight of her bionic appendages.
Knout -- a long leather scourge consisting of a handle about 24 in long, a thong twice as long as the handle fastened to it, ending with a large copper brass ring, which was affixed a strip of barbed wire. Usually used for punishment, though she has been known to bring out the knout during battle; 20 lashes could kill a man, breaking his spine. 10, could maim.
the appearance,
»»eyes: Fiery blue.
»»markings: Stitch-scarring over her left hip bone, another one along the ribcage under her right breast. Her forearms are pale with slither thin scars; on the left side of her collar bone in the little hollow there is a huge knot of scars, looking like melted bone and skin that drips down her arm (looking a lot like acid, but is in fact, scar tissue) ending to her mid arm. What no one knows, but everyone suspects, her left shoulder and arm are not real. She also has a metal plate beneath the skin around the left side of her belly where her stitch-scar is. Her spine has a few metal disks to help support the weight of all that metal, but her body is still dying (at a faster rate than any human) and the stress of all that alien-ware puts pressure on bone and sinew.
»»height: 5'8
»»weight: 185 lbs (the metal in her arm and in her belly weigh 64 pounds)
»»general appearance:
Gears move, metal creaks -- the girl is moving this time, but it's against the laws of gravity, against the very laws of life and death. She had died once, but she still moves, still grins in that maniac sort of way: nobody can keep her down. She's like a locust, no, no the weed that comes to eat all of your flowers in the bed. She'll strangle them breathless, coming back no matter how many times she's squashed beneath the mud of your boot. Kari is death and life -- she is human with so much alien-ware within her body that it's almost hard to categorize her as simply one, or the other.
Instead, she creaks as she moves as her joints pop, weak against the constant onslaught of pressure of so much weight. Instead, she moves with intense focus -- every motion has a punch of her will in it. There is no time for needless motion, for the next one might be her last as her joints rip from their sockets, and her skin shreds like so much tattered satin. Standing at 5'8 she's slight and almost ungangly when compared to other women her age -- all of those delicate, soft women, meant for holding and sexing, and cuddling late at night. She's not a woman to have in your bed: she's as hard as a blade, rusty with blood. She has been recreated for utility, kept alive for the sake of her vengeance, and it is vengeance that is written across her forehead: in her eyes, as fiery blue as a cold flame.
She burns, but that's not what you notice -- it's the scars, impossible to not see, stitching across the bare curve of her left hip, horizontally across her ribcage beneath her right breast. There are knots upon knots of scars that boil and seem to move with the light in the curve of her left shoulder as if a blade, and something nastier, had completely ripped apart her arm and shoulder, stopping just above the curve of her inner elbow.
The woman wears small shorts, and pirate boots -- she wears a bikini top across her depressing lack of cleavage and showcases her skin (all that deathly pale white, almost grey, skin) to the world. How many scars can you carve into her body? First, she'll grin, you have to catch her. First, you have to get within range of her katana blade; she wears a jersey top with a hood wrapped around her neck like a cloak to hide the proof of her new alien body. The sleeves cover her arms, leaving the back to hang around like some sort of flamboyant cape -- but one thing that Kari has learned is that to be on top, you have to look the part. She is the fire in the center of all that fighting, the black and blue bruise in the midst of all that carnage.
With long, pig-tailed hair down to the small of her back, and shaggy, full bangs parted on the side, her eyes are flames between each black strand. She is like an emotionless animal staring at you, hungry for your death and nothing more. There is no hesitancy there -- no thought other than the mild glee she'll get from destroying one more faithless government official. Her nose is small, mouth smaller still, barely moving at all until she grins wide enough to frighten anyone away. Though she is in constant pain, or perhaps because of it, her face is usually cast in a stony expression, thoughts too far away to catch a hold of -- but one thing is for sure.
The chains that wrap around her arms aren't just for protection against oncoming blades. Wrapped around her forearm and shoulder they take the pressure of all those 64 pounds of machinery inside of her, off, acting like a harness that distributes the strain onto her shoulders and her back as well. Cut them, and she'll probably cut your head off.
the personality,
»»likes:
++ Killing Feds.
++ Smoking (opiates, usually).
++ Pain.
++ Efficiency.
++ Men and soft women.
++ Moving fast.
++ Drinking deeply.
++ Treasures
++ Warmth
++ Utilitarian lifestyles.
++ Sea shells
++ Stratagem
++ Freedom.
»»dislikes:
-- Water (she can't swim anymore)
-- Dreaming.
-- Luxury (she feels like she just dirties it)
-- Any Fed.
-- Stalling.
-- Losing.
-- Memories.
-- Her arm.
-- Her scars.
--That men only sleep with her because of her reputation.
-- Being feared by her crew.
»»strengths:
xx Persistence || Sankari V doesn't stop once she gets going. There is an intense amount of focus that is pushed into everything that she does that is frightening to see. No matter how many times she falls, she'll keep on going toward her goal.
xx Resilience || Physically, she can take more and less damage than another human being. Having a bionic arm (and bionic strength in that arm) most arrows don't do any harm if she guards with the left arm. If she's thrown about, she's the most likeliest to get up again and keep going; to her, there's no going back.
xx Efficiency || This girl doesn't suffer from hubris. She may want to be a hero, but it's a hero for the dead -- and she doesn't toy with her enemies, or play with them in any way. It makes her deadly: she gets the job done and moves on to the next target. There is no dallying, letting the other side get the upper hand. She's in it to win, and she'll win no matter what.
»»weaknesses:
oo Weight || the weight of all that metal is hard on her stamina. Yes, she's built up some, but for the most part she's falling apart and the longer a battle rages, the easier she'll be to defeat.
oo Helpless women || if there is a damsel in distress she will go, even if she knows it's a trap. She can't not go.
oo Her Enemy || Kari has an insane tunnel vision that sometimes gets in the way; when it's about the enemy, she sees no problem in going after them, regardless of the odds stacked against her. Usually, she can be talked out of doing suicide runs, but it's still an uncertain thing as to whether she would be aboard the SS Freedom when morning comes.
»»secrets: The doctor that put her back together was her lover that died a few weeks after her revival, killed by feds doing a usual search throughout the towns.
She plans to die the moment the resistance has won the battle against Corruption.
»»general personality:
There's no deceit here -- she is as blunt as her appearance, as brutal as every scar that slithers across her skin. She isn't a helpless victim -- not anymore. Not when she has the power to do what needs to be done: not when her goal is within her reach, and she has the means to get it. No when all the others have to die -- that is the strength of her conviction. She is a creature that has learned how to live on the fumes of hate and revulsion: to eat on a plate of bitter cold vengeance. Killing in cold blood takes a certain type of person, and she has molded herself to fit into that type, carved out every bit of friendliness, every bit of softness inside of her for the sake of this revolution.
There is no afterward -- her focus has been pinned on the feds, and she won't rest until they are all dead. So she lives in this shattered silence of creaks and groans, in a world that she has learned to love to hate; with a stony expression she listens to your complaints, but her mind isn't on your petty whimsies. It isn't on your little grievances, your hunger. It's on death, as it's always on death.
How can her thoughts stray when every motion for her is painful, when every breath she takes ignites a fire that'll one day explode within her lungs and kill her instantly? She is bound to die again, and only those who expect to die, are allowed to kill; her skill with a blade is efficient and cold -- that brutal smile playing on her lips is the only bit of normalcy you'll find here.
Everything else has rotted away with her lost arm, her lost heart. Emotionless, she has become more machine than human, going on her path without pausing, without hesitancy. Is it so hard to understand? The reason she leads, the reason the goddess has blessed her with their presence is because of her perseverance. Once, Kari wanted to be a hero -- now, she knows that to be a hero is only a dream, and she's become a cold killer in it's stead. But that doesn't' stop her; morals have become superfluous -- are the pirates the good guys or the bad guys? Even her fellow crew don't know anymore. What does she plan? What does she think? Does she ever sleep?
She has lost her humanity -- she has lost everything that has mattered to her, and the loneliness has burned cold as the embers of lost desires have snuffed out. She is still capable of love, but it long and distant, and those that she had once felt attraction to no longer hold any sway. The girl is no longer helpless; she no longer needs a hand to help her rise to her feet. Instead, it is her hand that reaches down through the shadows of corruption and delusion to rip free the chains of your enslavement. Don't worry, don't worry -- she'll shake the government until the slightest rattling of trees against their windows make them shiver in their shoes. She'll become the nightmare, the hated one, The Drone that leads the revolution, if it'll mean that there won't be another helpless girl in the world.
She'll make you strong, because she has lost all sense of what it is to be a normal human: instead, she has embraced the idea of the blade, of being nothing but gears and hated metal. And when she combusts, the pressure too much for her joints to take, she'll die in peace, with a smile lingering in the corners of her mouth.
the history,
»»mother: Nacola Dax'il
»»father: Jolan Dax'il
»»siblings: Emma (younger| f | 12) and Amias (youngest | m | 10) Dax'il
»»others: Luann Li (lover)
»»background:
They had taken everything from her -- her mother, cut through from nose to navel; her father -- his head squashed beneath a Fed's greasy boot. Her little sister, her little brother -- were they raped before they were killed? She barely remembered. But that was after -- after the conspiracy had ripped apart her entire family and neighborhood besides. That was after the government had taken jobs from men who had to support their families, before starvation, and hungry weeks crawling by. Sankari, at that time called Andronika, was nothing but skin and bones, her tears quick to rise at the slightest problem. She had been weak, at that time. Helpless. In love with a local doctor, and childish with it.
Her mother and father didn't know of her bisexual tendencies -- but it was love, she was sure, and pure despite what everyone else said. She loved Luann as fiercely as a timid bird. It was why she was so easy to break, why her tender bones broke within the vice of the government and it's corrupted, warped desires. Selfish and hating that Luann spent all of her time taking care of others for free, when she was here and lonely, and hungry, Andronika wasn't the kind to take a stand in face of adversity. No, no, she was the kind that crumpled and waited for someone to pick her up -- and that was Luann Li to a T. The slightly older woman had the patience of a saint -- but this isn't a story of their short lived love. Suffice to say they fit like two pieces of a puzzle, that they complimented each other in ways that could barely be understood in words, but in flesh, when it was just them -- it worked out in blissful ecstasy.
Andronika didn't know that while she was dallying with the doctor her father was bringing men and women over to the house, looking for ways to rebel against the laws that were starving their families. Famished and grown irritable, they planned a city-wide theft to take back what food and livelihood had been taken from them in the start -- but it wasn't meant to be. Someone slipped, though it didn't matter now. Someone slipped and word reached the High Council, who dispatched their armed forces to squash the rebellion. Little did they know that they would be murdering every day men and women, murdering children who cried out and ran around looking for dead fathers and mothers.
She didn't really remember what happened -- only that she came home to find that her mother had been killed, her father right after, and little Amias was screaming upstairs. Where was Emma? Andronika didn't have it in her to struggle: she broke down crying as the men pulled her apart from her siblings, as they interrogated her, disbelieved her -- tortured her looking for information she didn't have. No matter how much she cried, no matter how much pain she went through as she sliced into her skin, as they crushed the bones in her fingers and snapped her wrist she had nothing to tell them. Eventually, she lied. Eventually she gave in to their lies: anything to stop the pain. She said whatever they wanted to hear, lied about her parents, and their motives, lied about her brothers and sisters, about everything she had ever known, and everyone she had ever met. She didn't care anymore -- she was weak, and she broke under it all.
Bleeding, aching, in so much pain that the world was throbbing around her, the Feds tossed her aside saying they would let her live if she promised not to rebel again; of course she promised, over and over and over though she couldn't move from where she was, though the withdrawing troops used her as bait for their dogs and let them chew on her severed left arm. Eventually silence came, but she was past consciousness and was speeding toward death.
She woke briefly to severe pain hearing Luann's voice whispering how sorry she was, her voice thick with tears, only to pass out again. Pain or no -- it was too much and she couldn't stay conscious. Minutes slurred by into days for all she knew. How she recovered she didn't know, but she was riddled with high fevers and cold sweats, bed sores and a dull ache in her left arm she couldn't quite place. Her eyes wouldn't open. Her breath didn't come easy.
Eventually there came a day when she could open her eyes, when water passed through her lips -- and Luann was there, tears in her eyes, blood all over her skin, grit in her hair. They were in her basement as Luann tried to explain what she had had to do to keep her alive -- but it was all alien to her, and none of it made sense. Horror came swiftly after rage and grief. This wasn't her arm. Pain sparked through her body with every motion -- she couldn't even lift the damned thing beside her without using her other arm. Frightened, she almost hated Luann for bringing her back, but eventually even that dulled in the emotionless tide of numbness. When the Feds did another sweep of the neighborhoods, Luann was the next victim -- helping runaway convicts, treason against the government, against God: and Andronika listened as the woman was raped and tortured and killed, out of reach. It was here that all of that hate hardened into a knot: she rolled herself off of the bed and crawled toward the darkest corner, intent on living, knowing that she would personally kill the same men who had dared to touch Luann. The little helpless girl was gone, replaced by machinery and an empty, hard heart. Replaced by Sankari, a name meaning Hero. She would be the people's Hero, and take on the whole fucking world if she had to.
Kari tied chains around her arms to help with the unwieldy weight and escaped after dark, picking up a dusty old Katana, later to be replaced with the one she currently owns. She started her own band of pirates, commandeered a ship for herself and renamed it the SS Freedom. IT didn't happen over night, but she toiled for a crew that would follow her, worked herself ragged to be able to hold her head up for when she killed the head of the council. When she dreamed of a Goddess, she momentarily had Luann's face.
When she dreamed of that Goddess, all of that hard vengeance burned hot within her chest. She would do this. Sankari V, The Drone of the Pirates, would survive long enough to plunge her blade into every last on of those damned Feds.
the player,
»»alias: C1RCE
»»age: 22 (GASP!)
»»contact: however you please.
»»rp sample:
Password: ~Admin Edit~
How did you find us?: A little birdy told me.
" Who's gonna fight for the weak?
Who's gonna make 'em believe?
I've got a hero -- I've got a hero living in me.
I'm gonna fight for what's right,
Today I'm speaking my mind
and if it kills me tonight,
I will be ready to die.
A hero's not afraid to give his life."
the basics,
»»character full name: Sankari V (Sometimes called the Drone)
»»age: 19.
»»gender: Female.
»»sexual orientation: Bisexual.
»»position: Captain of the SS Freedom.
»»race: Human, mostly.
»»alliance: Pirate.
»»powers: None.
»»weapons:
5 ft Katana (including hilt) -- strapped to her back that she wields without hesitancy.
Chains -- wrapped around her forearms and shoulder - she uses them as a guard, but they really serve to keep her skin from ripping apart, and her joints from disjointing from the weight of her bionic appendages.
Knout -- a long leather scourge consisting of a handle about 24 in long, a thong twice as long as the handle fastened to it, ending with a large copper brass ring, which was affixed a strip of barbed wire. Usually used for punishment, though she has been known to bring out the knout during battle; 20 lashes could kill a man, breaking his spine. 10, could maim.
the appearance,
»»eyes: Fiery blue.
»»markings: Stitch-scarring over her left hip bone, another one along the ribcage under her right breast. Her forearms are pale with slither thin scars; on the left side of her collar bone in the little hollow there is a huge knot of scars, looking like melted bone and skin that drips down her arm (looking a lot like acid, but is in fact, scar tissue) ending to her mid arm. What no one knows, but everyone suspects, her left shoulder and arm are not real. She also has a metal plate beneath the skin around the left side of her belly where her stitch-scar is. Her spine has a few metal disks to help support the weight of all that metal, but her body is still dying (at a faster rate than any human) and the stress of all that alien-ware puts pressure on bone and sinew.
»»height: 5'8
»»weight: 185 lbs (the metal in her arm and in her belly weigh 64 pounds)
»»general appearance:
Gears move, metal creaks -- the girl is moving this time, but it's against the laws of gravity, against the very laws of life and death. She had died once, but she still moves, still grins in that maniac sort of way: nobody can keep her down. She's like a locust, no, no the weed that comes to eat all of your flowers in the bed. She'll strangle them breathless, coming back no matter how many times she's squashed beneath the mud of your boot. Kari is death and life -- she is human with so much alien-ware within her body that it's almost hard to categorize her as simply one, or the other.
Instead, she creaks as she moves as her joints pop, weak against the constant onslaught of pressure of so much weight. Instead, she moves with intense focus -- every motion has a punch of her will in it. There is no time for needless motion, for the next one might be her last as her joints rip from their sockets, and her skin shreds like so much tattered satin. Standing at 5'8 she's slight and almost ungangly when compared to other women her age -- all of those delicate, soft women, meant for holding and sexing, and cuddling late at night. She's not a woman to have in your bed: she's as hard as a blade, rusty with blood. She has been recreated for utility, kept alive for the sake of her vengeance, and it is vengeance that is written across her forehead: in her eyes, as fiery blue as a cold flame.
She burns, but that's not what you notice -- it's the scars, impossible to not see, stitching across the bare curve of her left hip, horizontally across her ribcage beneath her right breast. There are knots upon knots of scars that boil and seem to move with the light in the curve of her left shoulder as if a blade, and something nastier, had completely ripped apart her arm and shoulder, stopping just above the curve of her inner elbow.
The woman wears small shorts, and pirate boots -- she wears a bikini top across her depressing lack of cleavage and showcases her skin (all that deathly pale white, almost grey, skin) to the world. How many scars can you carve into her body? First, she'll grin, you have to catch her. First, you have to get within range of her katana blade; she wears a jersey top with a hood wrapped around her neck like a cloak to hide the proof of her new alien body. The sleeves cover her arms, leaving the back to hang around like some sort of flamboyant cape -- but one thing that Kari has learned is that to be on top, you have to look the part. She is the fire in the center of all that fighting, the black and blue bruise in the midst of all that carnage.
With long, pig-tailed hair down to the small of her back, and shaggy, full bangs parted on the side, her eyes are flames between each black strand. She is like an emotionless animal staring at you, hungry for your death and nothing more. There is no hesitancy there -- no thought other than the mild glee she'll get from destroying one more faithless government official. Her nose is small, mouth smaller still, barely moving at all until she grins wide enough to frighten anyone away. Though she is in constant pain, or perhaps because of it, her face is usually cast in a stony expression, thoughts too far away to catch a hold of -- but one thing is for sure.
The chains that wrap around her arms aren't just for protection against oncoming blades. Wrapped around her forearm and shoulder they take the pressure of all those 64 pounds of machinery inside of her, off, acting like a harness that distributes the strain onto her shoulders and her back as well. Cut them, and she'll probably cut your head off.
the personality,
»»likes:
++ Killing Feds.
++ Smoking (opiates, usually).
++ Pain.
++ Efficiency.
++ Men and soft women.
++ Moving fast.
++ Drinking deeply.
++ Treasures
++ Warmth
++ Utilitarian lifestyles.
++ Sea shells
++ Stratagem
++ Freedom.
»»dislikes:
-- Water (she can't swim anymore)
-- Dreaming.
-- Luxury (she feels like she just dirties it)
-- Any Fed.
-- Stalling.
-- Losing.
-- Memories.
-- Her arm.
-- Her scars.
--That men only sleep with her because of her reputation.
-- Being feared by her crew.
»»strengths:
xx Persistence || Sankari V doesn't stop once she gets going. There is an intense amount of focus that is pushed into everything that she does that is frightening to see. No matter how many times she falls, she'll keep on going toward her goal.
xx Resilience || Physically, she can take more and less damage than another human being. Having a bionic arm (and bionic strength in that arm) most arrows don't do any harm if she guards with the left arm. If she's thrown about, she's the most likeliest to get up again and keep going; to her, there's no going back.
xx Efficiency || This girl doesn't suffer from hubris. She may want to be a hero, but it's a hero for the dead -- and she doesn't toy with her enemies, or play with them in any way. It makes her deadly: she gets the job done and moves on to the next target. There is no dallying, letting the other side get the upper hand. She's in it to win, and she'll win no matter what.
»»weaknesses:
oo Weight || the weight of all that metal is hard on her stamina. Yes, she's built up some, but for the most part she's falling apart and the longer a battle rages, the easier she'll be to defeat.
oo Helpless women || if there is a damsel in distress she will go, even if she knows it's a trap. She can't not go.
oo Her Enemy || Kari has an insane tunnel vision that sometimes gets in the way; when it's about the enemy, she sees no problem in going after them, regardless of the odds stacked against her. Usually, she can be talked out of doing suicide runs, but it's still an uncertain thing as to whether she would be aboard the SS Freedom when morning comes.
»»secrets: The doctor that put her back together was her lover that died a few weeks after her revival, killed by feds doing a usual search throughout the towns.
She plans to die the moment the resistance has won the battle against Corruption.
»»general personality:
There's no deceit here -- she is as blunt as her appearance, as brutal as every scar that slithers across her skin. She isn't a helpless victim -- not anymore. Not when she has the power to do what needs to be done: not when her goal is within her reach, and she has the means to get it. No when all the others have to die -- that is the strength of her conviction. She is a creature that has learned how to live on the fumes of hate and revulsion: to eat on a plate of bitter cold vengeance. Killing in cold blood takes a certain type of person, and she has molded herself to fit into that type, carved out every bit of friendliness, every bit of softness inside of her for the sake of this revolution.
There is no afterward -- her focus has been pinned on the feds, and she won't rest until they are all dead. So she lives in this shattered silence of creaks and groans, in a world that she has learned to love to hate; with a stony expression she listens to your complaints, but her mind isn't on your petty whimsies. It isn't on your little grievances, your hunger. It's on death, as it's always on death.
How can her thoughts stray when every motion for her is painful, when every breath she takes ignites a fire that'll one day explode within her lungs and kill her instantly? She is bound to die again, and only those who expect to die, are allowed to kill; her skill with a blade is efficient and cold -- that brutal smile playing on her lips is the only bit of normalcy you'll find here.
Everything else has rotted away with her lost arm, her lost heart. Emotionless, she has become more machine than human, going on her path without pausing, without hesitancy. Is it so hard to understand? The reason she leads, the reason the goddess has blessed her with their presence is because of her perseverance. Once, Kari wanted to be a hero -- now, she knows that to be a hero is only a dream, and she's become a cold killer in it's stead. But that doesn't' stop her; morals have become superfluous -- are the pirates the good guys or the bad guys? Even her fellow crew don't know anymore. What does she plan? What does she think? Does she ever sleep?
She has lost her humanity -- she has lost everything that has mattered to her, and the loneliness has burned cold as the embers of lost desires have snuffed out. She is still capable of love, but it long and distant, and those that she had once felt attraction to no longer hold any sway. The girl is no longer helpless; she no longer needs a hand to help her rise to her feet. Instead, it is her hand that reaches down through the shadows of corruption and delusion to rip free the chains of your enslavement. Don't worry, don't worry -- she'll shake the government until the slightest rattling of trees against their windows make them shiver in their shoes. She'll become the nightmare, the hated one, The Drone that leads the revolution, if it'll mean that there won't be another helpless girl in the world.
She'll make you strong, because she has lost all sense of what it is to be a normal human: instead, she has embraced the idea of the blade, of being nothing but gears and hated metal. And when she combusts, the pressure too much for her joints to take, she'll die in peace, with a smile lingering in the corners of her mouth.
the history,
»»mother: Nacola Dax'il
»»father: Jolan Dax'il
»»siblings: Emma (younger| f | 12) and Amias (youngest | m | 10) Dax'il
»»others: Luann Li (lover)
»»background:
They had taken everything from her -- her mother, cut through from nose to navel; her father -- his head squashed beneath a Fed's greasy boot. Her little sister, her little brother -- were they raped before they were killed? She barely remembered. But that was after -- after the conspiracy had ripped apart her entire family and neighborhood besides. That was after the government had taken jobs from men who had to support their families, before starvation, and hungry weeks crawling by. Sankari, at that time called Andronika, was nothing but skin and bones, her tears quick to rise at the slightest problem. She had been weak, at that time. Helpless. In love with a local doctor, and childish with it.
Her mother and father didn't know of her bisexual tendencies -- but it was love, she was sure, and pure despite what everyone else said. She loved Luann as fiercely as a timid bird. It was why she was so easy to break, why her tender bones broke within the vice of the government and it's corrupted, warped desires. Selfish and hating that Luann spent all of her time taking care of others for free, when she was here and lonely, and hungry, Andronika wasn't the kind to take a stand in face of adversity. No, no, she was the kind that crumpled and waited for someone to pick her up -- and that was Luann Li to a T. The slightly older woman had the patience of a saint -- but this isn't a story of their short lived love. Suffice to say they fit like two pieces of a puzzle, that they complimented each other in ways that could barely be understood in words, but in flesh, when it was just them -- it worked out in blissful ecstasy.
Andronika didn't know that while she was dallying with the doctor her father was bringing men and women over to the house, looking for ways to rebel against the laws that were starving their families. Famished and grown irritable, they planned a city-wide theft to take back what food and livelihood had been taken from them in the start -- but it wasn't meant to be. Someone slipped, though it didn't matter now. Someone slipped and word reached the High Council, who dispatched their armed forces to squash the rebellion. Little did they know that they would be murdering every day men and women, murdering children who cried out and ran around looking for dead fathers and mothers.
She didn't really remember what happened -- only that she came home to find that her mother had been killed, her father right after, and little Amias was screaming upstairs. Where was Emma? Andronika didn't have it in her to struggle: she broke down crying as the men pulled her apart from her siblings, as they interrogated her, disbelieved her -- tortured her looking for information she didn't have. No matter how much she cried, no matter how much pain she went through as she sliced into her skin, as they crushed the bones in her fingers and snapped her wrist she had nothing to tell them. Eventually, she lied. Eventually she gave in to their lies: anything to stop the pain. She said whatever they wanted to hear, lied about her parents, and their motives, lied about her brothers and sisters, about everything she had ever known, and everyone she had ever met. She didn't care anymore -- she was weak, and she broke under it all.
Bleeding, aching, in so much pain that the world was throbbing around her, the Feds tossed her aside saying they would let her live if she promised not to rebel again; of course she promised, over and over and over though she couldn't move from where she was, though the withdrawing troops used her as bait for their dogs and let them chew on her severed left arm. Eventually silence came, but she was past consciousness and was speeding toward death.
She woke briefly to severe pain hearing Luann's voice whispering how sorry she was, her voice thick with tears, only to pass out again. Pain or no -- it was too much and she couldn't stay conscious. Minutes slurred by into days for all she knew. How she recovered she didn't know, but she was riddled with high fevers and cold sweats, bed sores and a dull ache in her left arm she couldn't quite place. Her eyes wouldn't open. Her breath didn't come easy.
Eventually there came a day when she could open her eyes, when water passed through her lips -- and Luann was there, tears in her eyes, blood all over her skin, grit in her hair. They were in her basement as Luann tried to explain what she had had to do to keep her alive -- but it was all alien to her, and none of it made sense. Horror came swiftly after rage and grief. This wasn't her arm. Pain sparked through her body with every motion -- she couldn't even lift the damned thing beside her without using her other arm. Frightened, she almost hated Luann for bringing her back, but eventually even that dulled in the emotionless tide of numbness. When the Feds did another sweep of the neighborhoods, Luann was the next victim -- helping runaway convicts, treason against the government, against God: and Andronika listened as the woman was raped and tortured and killed, out of reach. It was here that all of that hate hardened into a knot: she rolled herself off of the bed and crawled toward the darkest corner, intent on living, knowing that she would personally kill the same men who had dared to touch Luann. The little helpless girl was gone, replaced by machinery and an empty, hard heart. Replaced by Sankari, a name meaning Hero. She would be the people's Hero, and take on the whole fucking world if she had to.
Kari tied chains around her arms to help with the unwieldy weight and escaped after dark, picking up a dusty old Katana, later to be replaced with the one she currently owns. She started her own band of pirates, commandeered a ship for herself and renamed it the SS Freedom. IT didn't happen over night, but she toiled for a crew that would follow her, worked herself ragged to be able to hold her head up for when she killed the head of the council. When she dreamed of a Goddess, she momentarily had Luann's face.
When she dreamed of that Goddess, all of that hard vengeance burned hot within her chest. She would do this. Sankari V, The Drone of the Pirates, would survive long enough to plunge her blade into every last on of those damned Feds.
the player,
»»alias: C1RCE
»»age: 22 (GASP!)
»»contact: however you please.
»»rp sample:
Shouting, screaming -- she heard the rustling of feet in her sleep, the nudging of men and women, the gut-twisting sensation of fear, the excitement, the pulsing of desire pooling lower, lower, lower: her fingers slipped down, but this wasn't even the beginning. The prologue begins with a brooding voice murmuring into shadows -- into an audience that wasn't paying attention. But it was alright, it would always be alright.
That world, of fur and fangs, was only half real. This one, where she waited in breathless anticipation was the truth that let her consume all of that hate with a gleeful turn of her lips. It was coming, faster, tighter: she couldn't wait anymore -- her skin was getting slick, her fingers twitching, twitching.
3--- Her eyes slid to the side, but there was only shadows there. She was alone. Alone. No one beside her -- as always. No Henry with his little baby hands reaching for her. No Vaan with those tender eyes, wanting her, waiting for her on the hills of their home before the throne had called them to their death. No Tristan, with his sibilant tongue (that deliriously talented tongue!); no Julian, though she had grabbed him, used him, abused him. He wasn't here, though she had tried to train him in the end. The wolf within cracked it's jaw on a yawn: what did it care for pups that had grown and left her? Independence was fierce in it's nature and she couldn't fathom following their scent to see how they fared.
2--- She pulsed, caught in the thrum of anticipation. Their excitement. Their breath on her skin. The show was going to start, and with that calling came all sorts of moisture -- she grins, now. Alone perhaps, but she was fierce for her delights, and her whimsy. She was strong, where others were weak; impossible to contain, where others smothered their fire with stability and monogamy. Monotony, she amends. No, no, her life was the stage: her life belonged to these shadows that kissed her skin with heat, that urged her forward, forward as she tilted her head back, all of that glorious golden hair falling down the delicate, tender line of her back. Her figure was girlish, for all that she was old.
1--- They gasped. The sibilant whisper grew harsh, as the curtains rose sky high. Darkness was obliterated by the light of their love -- the light of the sun that splashed through the clouds to glitter around her hair. Nameless woman; shameless wolf, heathen, creature of lust and laughter, of fun and fierce freedom -- she steps forward onto the stage and lets the crowd fall silent as her gaze, as fiery as the light crackling around her, falls from one to the next. They all blur -- but it doesn't matter. To her, the world is the stage, and this stage, regardless of whether it existed solely in her mind, or if it truly tumbled forward before her every footstep, was everything.
The curtain called, and she stepped forward, as she was stepping forward now, through hostility and hate, wadding through the brilliant fire of all those horrible emotions. She made them burn, with desire, with rage, with hate -- and it was delicious against her skin, a heat that kept away the cold, kept away the cool breeze of monotony. Let them hate, if they wished -- it was for this that she called them: it was for this, with their eyes on her, burning, feeling, remembering the impression she cast on their minds, that she was created. This sloven creature, greedy and selfish, desired nothing more but that attention.
Rebeckah -- the heroine, no, no the antagonist has finally come; she smiles brilliantly, her eyes sparkling with a smile as razor sharp as a wolf fang. The Wolf growls, but it is like a purr, rumbling thunder echoing in it's throat.
"Ah." she exhales into the silence as she regards the sprawling, unchanging vista with mild-mannered disinterest. "I'm home." her smile twisted at the corners as if she could not quite contain her laughter, her voice warm with it, a fire sizzling on her tongue. Beckah hums quietly as she slips deeper into the grounds, inhaling the stench of many wolves as she passes by the bakery, the armory, the blacksmith (her eyebrow rises slightly), and pauses. Prey. Her head tilts in a playful way, a finger coming to play with her lower lip as she watches the aviary through heavy-lidded eyes. Oh yes, oh yes -- how marvelously interesting. "My, my" she croons ever so softly, slipping into the glass house; the birds were used to handling and came to her gentle hand, though the poor creature's heart soon began to pound as it was brought closer. "I wonder what Vaan would say if he found all his poor pets devoured by the big bad wolf?" she laughs, so softly it's hardly laughter at all, kissing the tip of the creature's beak. Her fingers twitch, tightening around the cage of it's breast, as she croons, and croons.
That world, of fur and fangs, was only half real. This one, where she waited in breathless anticipation was the truth that let her consume all of that hate with a gleeful turn of her lips. It was coming, faster, tighter: she couldn't wait anymore -- her skin was getting slick, her fingers twitching, twitching.
3--- Her eyes slid to the side, but there was only shadows there. She was alone. Alone. No one beside her -- as always. No Henry with his little baby hands reaching for her. No Vaan with those tender eyes, wanting her, waiting for her on the hills of their home before the throne had called them to their death. No Tristan, with his sibilant tongue (that deliriously talented tongue!); no Julian, though she had grabbed him, used him, abused him. He wasn't here, though she had tried to train him in the end. The wolf within cracked it's jaw on a yawn: what did it care for pups that had grown and left her? Independence was fierce in it's nature and she couldn't fathom following their scent to see how they fared.
2--- She pulsed, caught in the thrum of anticipation. Their excitement. Their breath on her skin. The show was going to start, and with that calling came all sorts of moisture -- she grins, now. Alone perhaps, but she was fierce for her delights, and her whimsy. She was strong, where others were weak; impossible to contain, where others smothered their fire with stability and monogamy. Monotony, she amends. No, no, her life was the stage: her life belonged to these shadows that kissed her skin with heat, that urged her forward, forward as she tilted her head back, all of that glorious golden hair falling down the delicate, tender line of her back. Her figure was girlish, for all that she was old.
1--- They gasped. The sibilant whisper grew harsh, as the curtains rose sky high. Darkness was obliterated by the light of their love -- the light of the sun that splashed through the clouds to glitter around her hair. Nameless woman; shameless wolf, heathen, creature of lust and laughter, of fun and fierce freedom -- she steps forward onto the stage and lets the crowd fall silent as her gaze, as fiery as the light crackling around her, falls from one to the next. They all blur -- but it doesn't matter. To her, the world is the stage, and this stage, regardless of whether it existed solely in her mind, or if it truly tumbled forward before her every footstep, was everything.
The curtain called, and she stepped forward, as she was stepping forward now, through hostility and hate, wadding through the brilliant fire of all those horrible emotions. She made them burn, with desire, with rage, with hate -- and it was delicious against her skin, a heat that kept away the cold, kept away the cool breeze of monotony. Let them hate, if they wished -- it was for this that she called them: it was for this, with their eyes on her, burning, feeling, remembering the impression she cast on their minds, that she was created. This sloven creature, greedy and selfish, desired nothing more but that attention.
Rebeckah -- the heroine, no, no the antagonist has finally come; she smiles brilliantly, her eyes sparkling with a smile as razor sharp as a wolf fang. The Wolf growls, but it is like a purr, rumbling thunder echoing in it's throat.
"Ah." she exhales into the silence as she regards the sprawling, unchanging vista with mild-mannered disinterest. "I'm home." her smile twisted at the corners as if she could not quite contain her laughter, her voice warm with it, a fire sizzling on her tongue. Beckah hums quietly as she slips deeper into the grounds, inhaling the stench of many wolves as she passes by the bakery, the armory, the blacksmith (her eyebrow rises slightly), and pauses. Prey. Her head tilts in a playful way, a finger coming to play with her lower lip as she watches the aviary through heavy-lidded eyes. Oh yes, oh yes -- how marvelously interesting. "My, my" she croons ever so softly, slipping into the glass house; the birds were used to handling and came to her gentle hand, though the poor creature's heart soon began to pound as it was brought closer. "I wonder what Vaan would say if he found all his poor pets devoured by the big bad wolf?" she laughs, so softly it's hardly laughter at all, kissing the tip of the creature's beak. Her fingers twitch, tightening around the cage of it's breast, as she croons, and croons.
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