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Quote: [Y]ou really want to know...-----[W]hat they can know;;
Biological Name - Malachi Eilian Phillip Radley
Alias - "Cowboy" ; Malachi/Radley [||Friends/Partners||] ; goes by "Sir" or "Mister Radley" when spoken to by rookies ; Mac [||Nickname when undercover.||]
Gender - Male
Age - Twenty and four years young: 24
Height - Six and one to spare: 6'1"
Weight - One ninety in pure muscle: 190lbs
Appearance - One look at this tempting blonde-haired man is all the motivation necessary for women to flock to Malachi. With his bronzed, sun-kissed skin and labor-built muscularity, there's little chance a city-bred gal wouldn't be curious as to what those muscles would feel like under their eager hands. He's built in the way of man who's worked for a living, with lean shoulders that flow out to long arms of steel-coiled sinew and pulsing vein work. His wrists are strong, and his hands even stronger: each palm carries a myriad of scars and old blisters, calluses and even bruises when he's gotten rough with the fists. There's a long scar between his thumb and pointer finger on his right hand where a knife once bit into the soft tissue there during a bar fight; during that time he learned how to write with his left hand and swing with his left hand while waiting for his right one to heal. Being ambidextrous has its uses from time to time after all.
Speaking of which, Malachi - Mac or 'Cowboy' as he's called in short - is more battle-ready than he appears when wearing a pair of jeans and a old work shirt. At an easy six feet and a spare inch, Malachi can be deemed tall and brawny, in a fit, narrow-hipped sort of way. His body is riddled with scars from past fights, brawls, accidents and plans that went haywire for some reason or other. His sharp blue-green eyes attract too many people for him to appreciate, but those tropical eyes have their uses when he's training someone or taking care of a business deal. Those eyes of his are rather clear and reflective, often portraying physically more than he wants known when it comes to his thoughts on a subject.
As for Mac's sense of fashion, he does pretty good for a guy who came from a town where a pair of new jeans was considered 'fancy threads.' He likes heavy, thick belts, sound shoes, leather jackets and comfortable shirts, along with an assortment of outfits required for his sort of job. He looks pretty damn good once he's cleaned himself up a bit, and there's no denying that head's will turn when this lean blonde strolls around the corner in a tux or a dress shirt. His free-flowing hair is an eye-catcher no matter what state it's in, from the shorter, straighter, lighter version Mac's currently had it styled to or back in the days where his hair was sun-threaded, thigh-length and somewhat wavy. Needless to say, he's got a lot of hair for a guy, but it's few and far between females that have complained once they've stroked a finger through the luxurious cornsilk tresses.
-----[W]hat they should know;;
Gang - Crimsonian Feather
Position - Master Strategist
Weapons - A man born on a ranch knows a thing or two about shooting. He's a quick draw with any fire arm and a sure shot; he can rope up the bad guys and hog-tie them before most can figure out where the hell the rope came from. Same goes with chains, lead pipes and belts. Anything suits him s'long as he wins the good fight. He's not so good when working against what he calls 'Jackie Chan crap' [aka, swords and stuff], but that doesn't mean he's unable to defend himself against the bizarre weaponry. He's got a good couple of knives he likes to carry on him, but nothing fancy. His dad's ol' army blade does good work, as does the serrated edge of his own hunting knife. He threw javelin and shot putt in high school, so heavy objects aren't going to be a problem when it comes to long distance stuff. His aims good, whatever it is he's using.
Talents - Well, despite the obvious fact Malachi could create a work out for rookies that could make their brains ooze straight out of their ears... He doesn't work as the trainer, although he makes a point of throwing in a 'helpful hint' now and then to who's in charge of them. Basically, Malachi's got a nearly unmatched grasp on the weak points of the human body, the strong points of various fighting techniques and how to improve upon these weaknesses/strengths. However, one of his largest talents would be not in what he can do with his body, but what his mind can do. For a wild-eyed farmer, his mind constantly at work, configuring data and statistics into randomized possibilities, making him into the ultimate strategist. His main talent are his wild ideas and organization skills - he'll be damned if someone calls him a secretary - but also his reliability. If you want something done, take it to Malachi. His ears are always open for clues/hints/facts/data that could be useful.
Despite his obvious grouchy attitude, Malachi's got a good system out when it comes to making sure all the individual branches mesh properly: through various forms of communication and cooperation, of course. He's the ultimate peace maker, the guy to come up with suggestions that 'just might work' during a no-go situation. Not to mention he's a bloody whiz with computers, hacking, intelligence matters and black market news. On the other hand, his physical skills come in handy when a fighter's down: his cell is on speed dial 1 for most Crimsonian members when they're in a tight spot. Once again, for a country lad born and bred, it's strange how he can have so many friends in so many places. Need a hand getting a deal done? Call up Mac. Need some not-quite-legal parts for this awesome new car/gun? Give him a ring. Not quite sure what to make of the enemy's new fighting technique? Knock on his door. Want a hand getting a date with that hot new rookie? You're screwed if you come within ten yards of Mac.
-----[W]hat they could know;;
Sexuality - Straight as a ruler... Heterosexual. Sorry, boys, he's all about the ladies... or he would be, if he could stop pretending the world would end if he decided to have a little fun with them.
Personality - Malachi's the sort of guy that would be called a b*****d and a friend in the same breath. Undoubtedly there's a lot for people to respect about him, considering that he's a figurehead in the gang and a lone-ranger with a brutal left-hook. In fact, respect and honesty are two requirements necessary in order to get along with Malachi on a working basis: he'll joke around occasionally, but when he's going full-steam ahead with a project he doesn't need some smart-a** trainee getting in his way full of bullshit ideas that won't work. At least he doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, which is bad news for all those stupid eggheads who think they'll get away for getting too arrogant in front of the Cowboy. If a job needs to get done, it'll get done, but unlike the red-head shrimp in Dark Blood, Malachi has ties to a number of sources and suppliers to help him. He's a great deal-making sort of fella, and he keeps his cool under pressure. In fact, his temper is extraordinarily hard to provoke if it comes to using insults and other catch phrases of a dirty mouth. So long as there's no fists flying, Mac's willing to stand there and take the heat until the swears-culprit runs out of steam. His blunt sense of irony gets most people ticked off, and since he also likes pointing out the obvious, it's no wonder Malachi's got people breathing fire down his back half the time. Stupidity is as stupidity does is one of Mac's favorite sayings when dealing with hot-heads and know-it-alls. If someone thinks they know something better than him, so be it, don't come whining and crying to him when that thing didn't go over well afterwards.
He's rough and tough most of the time, so people wouldn't think he's much of a romantic. In actuality, Malachi's all about finding the 'right woman' rather than looking for the next notch for his bed post. He won't be 'with' a lady unless he has some understanding and respect for her, and her likewise with him. There's no two ways about his reliability and intelligence either, so any 'dumb cowboy' jokes pretty much slip off him like oil trying to sink beneath water. His country, rural background raised him up as a good guy at heart and a tough man who's ready to work from dawn till dusk on the outside. His easy-going nature only lasts so long as the whiskey's cold, the food is good and the work is hard: any disrespect or smart-alack responses just might have some poor rookie running laps around the building wearing weights during the city's summer heat. He's comfortable in his skin, but not so much when he's asked about his brother or his father; he dislikes being interrupted and gets grouchy when he's sick/tired/annoyed. His temper's slow to start, but his irritation is almost always just beneath the skin. His hard-working, organized personality sometimes surprises those that know him outside of work, seeing as he likes to let loose to pass the time and watch all them pretty ladies stroll through the park with their children. He likes having fun if he has time - and since he never seems to - but it's the romance of the situation that he'll be remarking about...
"He's this supposedly laid-back, uncaring, sarcastic, crude, selfish and wolfish smexy-man who's really a tough-as-steel dude who's confident [not arrogant], easy going and... stuffs like that."
Likes
-Good whiskey or a cold beer.
-Sunday's.
-A comfortable chair.
-Lazing in a hammock during the summer evening.
-Dogs.
-Little kids.
-Excessive drinking every three days.
-Listening to women talk without really listening.
-Subtle perfumes.
-Vanilla ice cream.
-Horses and riding.
-Going to the beach occasionally.
-Country and classic rock music.
-Roads that just keep on going.
-His truck.
-Lemonade when it's hot.
-Making sure things are where they're supposed to be.
-Having the upper hand.
-Watching pretty ladies and their babies stroll through parks.
-A good work out.
-Getting things done, and done right.
-Sparring.
-Rodeos.
-His old jeans.
-Comfortable shirts.
-Warm, melting chocolate chip cookies…
-Wearing boots.
-Leather jackets.
-Respect and understanding.
-Beatin' on the bad guy's.
-Pointing out the obvious.
-Doing things the 'simple' way.
-Disney movies [shhh~!]
-Messing around with musical instruments.
-The smell of a woman's hair.
-Swimming.
-Hot showers.
-Riding as often as possible.
-Going fast.
-Pretty eyes.
-Long books.
-Computers and other gadgets.
-The feel of silk.
Dislikes
-Being interrupted.
-People who fail to learn things quickly.
-Idiots and their idiot ideas.
-Teenagers, in general.
-Cat litter.
-People who don't respect him, and don't respect themselves.
-Cheesy romance novels.
-Whips [used for people or horses.]
-Rap.
-Being sick.
-Small, rat-like dogs.
-Headaches.
-People entering his 'quarters' without permission.
-'Gangsta' people.
-Slang in general.
-Spoiled brats that can't take a joke.
-Smelly, noisy clubs after a short period of times.
-Being pressured into doing something without a good reason.
-Having no purpose.
Tendencies - He sighs when he knows someone's about to do something stupid again. He likes to throw his dirty clothes into the hamper like shooting a basketball. He tends to work with music blaring in the background and he'll purposefully ignore someone knocking on his door or his phone ringing when he's feeling comfortable/busy. He pinches the bridge of his nose when he's got a headache or if he can't talk sense into someone. He'll be blunt when something happens the way he said it would and the person he's with pays the price for not listening. He doesn't bet when playing cards, but he'll work his butt off to win something.
Biography - It all started with a kiss. In fact, most of what happened to Malachi Eilian Phillip Radley after the age of sixteen was because of a single twelve-year-old's jealousy-persuaded kiss. But, perhaps before learning about Malachi's past from the middle onwards, going back to when he was born might be a reasonable, rational idea.
Malachi Eilian Phillip Radley. Second son and one of the three children Mr. and Mrs. Radley had together during their twenty years of marriage. The young cowboy was born into a family of ranchers and farmers, where the way of the world was what could be made by one's hands and paid for with one's back. Labor was the way of the game and labor was what Malachi came to know as something of a natural way in life. Working hard was the only way to get things done, or else there might not be enough for supper on the table or hand-me-down's on the youngest child's back. Luckily, Malachi's family wasn't so bad off as some rancher's come to find themselves during the dawning age of technology and robotics. His father, Richard, had inherited his father's horse ranch at the young age of twenty-seven and had lived in the small Oklahoma town all his life. Mac's mother on the other hand had been a city girl all her life. How and why they fell in love was another story altogether, but the point was that these two people from opposite worlds came together and raised a family. Malachi's older brother was named Lucidian after their grandfather, while Malachi's younger sister, Saraphaena, became a mixture of their great-grandmother and their mother, Sophia. He, of course, had been the odd one out, seeing as his parents had been expecting a girl considering the track record of their family tree. Either way, he ended up with two first names: Malachi and Eilian. His mother wanted to name him after her father, Ellian, whileas his father had wanted to name Mac after his own, recently deceased, brother, Malacio. Having argued over naming him all the way up to ten hours after he was born, they finally decided to call him... well, both.
Malachi spent only sixteen years, two months and eight days in his home town. The problem with living in a small town, especially with farmers, ranchers and store folk being the only sort of people around, is that gossip is one of everyone's favorite activities. No secrets can be kept secret for very long in a town with fewer than three thousand people, nor can any trick be done and gotten away with. Malachi, however, wasn't the sort to muck around with other fellows who didn't know how to hot-wire a car properly and yet try to anyways. He went to school - and excelled - much to his mother's glee; at the same time he grew into a sturdy, responsible hand on his father's ranch, much to his father's pride. Although he was the middle child, Malachi got away with more than Lucidian ever could being the eldest, not to mention he didn't have to put up with his parents nagging and worrying over him like they did with Sara. He could run around freely if he wished, sneak out without being caught and even take a ride on one of the more wild horses without getting horribly scolded for the next five weeks. Still, Malachi was a strange child who liked his space, liked to read and liked to work hard until the day was done. What more could a parent ask for? Apparently, though, there was always something more. His parents fought on a weekly basis, and had ever since Malachi could remember. Sophia's city-bred needs were hard to ignore sometimes, while Richard was sometimes too stubborn, even for a ranch owner. The rural countryside was a place where dedication and understanding were needed by the truckload: most of the time, it would be a miracle if Sophia could dish out a plateful.
Growing up was a long, lesson-fraught experience Malachi wouldn't replace or return to for the world. Once was good enough. He had his goofy friends, Kyle and Davey, as well as a dozen or so female acquaintances. Up until his was fourteen, Malachi considered girls something of a hassle and a source of irritation. They were strange, alien and demanding. It was better off to just avoid them entirely; them and their cooties. There was one girl in particular that never seemed to leave him alone for more than a few hours at a time. That girl, ironically, had been none other than the vivacious Lierra. That girl could TALK. And talk. And talk and talk and talk. She bloody well near talked his ear right off his head! Anyways, Lierra and Malachi had one thing in common at the time: they were both individuals. With a four year difference in age, there was little that could be said about their relationship other than the fact they acted like a pair of squabbling siblings twenty-four-seven. Their parents were always breaking up their little arguments and fights; Malachi often suffered dirty, torn clothes and a bloody nose, while Lierra would look ruffled, flustered and muddy. He couldn't hit a girl at that age, but nothing stopped him from getting her dirty and wrestling and throwing her in the swimming hole every now and then. She really was like the annoying little sister Saraphaena hadn't been. Saraphaena preferred to keep to her neat country girl-friends than hang out with her older, messier brothers. Lierra, though? She tagged along with him almost everywhere; if he snuck out of the house, she more than likely was doing the same thing just down the lane. If he was going deer watching, she'd be at his door that same day with a pair of binoculars in her hand and some snack in the other. Once again, it was impossible to keep secrets in such a small town.
Lucky for Malachi, this bouncy irritant otherwise known as Lierra only came around during the summer time. Apparently she didn't live in town, but only visited her relatives when school got out in whatever city she lived in. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Malachi found himself letting her hang around him so much more than the other girls. When he turned fourteen, however, and hit that adolescent growth every boy goes through, he figured that girl's were 'all right' by him. By the age of fifteen, he had a crush on a new girl every other week. The longest crush had been on Delilah Robinson, grade eleven, when he was just newly sixteen and feeling on top of the word. Pretty Delilah was a woman in a sea of little girls to Malachi, with the body of an eighteen year old and the sexiest little laugh he had ever heard. Yeah, he had a major crush on pretty Delilah Robinson. What he had never figured during all his mooning and sighing over his crush was that there was the possibility that girls could have crushes on him back. Let alone Lierra, the girl who was more of a sister than anything. When he was sixteen, with a new pick-up truck to drive around in, Malachi found it harder and harder to allow a twelve year old girl hang around him - especially when he might get a chance to drive Delilah home from her summer job. So, on the last day he would see Lierra for some eight or so years - unknowingly of course - he told her to bug off. Leave him alone. Shoo. Go find some real friends. He hadn't known how much he could hurt one girl's feelings. He hadn't known Lierra had her own little crush on him. He hadn't know he wouldn't ever see her again for so long. He definitely hadn't been expecting that quick little kiss she gave him before running away and out of his life for the next eight years...
...Malachi's father killed his mother. Two months after Lierra disappeared, Malachi watched on in horror as his father struck his mother again... and again... and again... Frozen with fear and shock, he hadn't moved until his father raised his hand for one more blow and Malachi noticed blood gushing out of the side of his mother's head. It was then that he rushed forwards, knocking his father to the floor and diving over his mother's body, screaming for him to stop, for Lucidian to help him, for anyone to help him. His father was half drunk, enraged, and stressed thanks to numberless bill collectors and taxes. While Sophia died beneath Malachi's shaking body, Lucidian appeared in the doorway. For one instant, Malachi thought that he was saved, their mother would live and their father would come to his senses. He hadn't known how dead wrong he had been. Lucidian was the one who gave Malachi his first few whip scars. Lucidian was the one who nearly killed him with the knife that found a home in Malachi's hand rather than his heart. Lucidian was the one who found himself locked away in the state prison to rot away for the next fifty years. It was Malachi's father that committed suicide seven days later after a week long hunt by the police and the local sheriff.
It was Malachi that left home two months and eight days after Lierra disappeared from his life.
Reputation - As a cowboy in the big city, Malachi would appear to be much like a clueless tourist would: lost and, well, dense. Even with his muscle and height, he was a target for the sort of people looking for a quick steal. Malachi, though, had actually spent the last eight years living in various cities, learning a plethora of useful skills and, ahem, darker ones. His bright, sharp mind had been a tool and a way of passage for him when things got tight; so it was no surprise the day that Malachi was picked out among the crowd in Forquet to get his pockets raided - seeing as he did have a bulging wallet at the time. It hadn't taken him long - hardly two minutes - to figure out that 1) he was being followed, that 2) his pursuers were interested in what he had rather than who he was and 3) they would keep following him until they felt they had the upper hand. And, so, with this knowledge, Malachi did what any ordinary citizen would do: he walked along a crowded, relatively noise sidewalk like he didn't have a clue. Three minutes later and several broken fingers and bruised egos, Malachi was staring down the leader of the follower's, their two helpers in a heap besides some waste in a more private alleyway. There, he laid it out: all possible scenarios and angles the thief could use and a few hinted ways he would retaliate. With a few name drops and with the outline of a stout hunting knife showing in his left pocket, Malachi's pursuer did the unexpected. They laughed and invited him to meet their boss. It was then and two days later that Malachi found himself recruited to help a gang with their problems. How the hell could he have guessed that one long-lost Lierra would be there too?
Weaknesses - Kids, his mother, warm chocolate chip cookies, a good beer when it's hot out, a woman's body with curves in all the right places, talking about his father or his brother, being attacked behind his left kneecap.
Additional Information - He has a puppy. Her name is Sasha, but he calls her Silly most of the time. -----[W]hat they don't know;;Theme Song - Here I am by Bryan Adams
Take It Easy by The Eagles
Get Off of My Back by Bryan Adams
Once in a Lifetime by Keith Urban
Quotes -
By me - "This bureaucratic bullshit is pissing me off..." | "And none of this would have happened if you'd listen to me in the first place..." | "Hey! Showing off is for kids. You a kid or man, rookie?" | "So I take it you wanna do this the hard way, 'en... Okay, bring it all or don't bother." | "Darlin', I may've been raised on a farm, but I'm not an ignorant fool as you're takin' me for." | "Christ, that was enough fun for one day. Still breathin' there kiddo?" | "Spunk. No coordination, but he's got some spunk." | "Git your cocky, sexy a** over here right this minute or I'll... I'll... s**t, forget it." | "Wha'ya thinking?"
For me - :Hey you! With the funny hat!" - Random tourist. "I'd pay to see him without a shirt on..." - Random waitress. "You think he's from one of those shampoo commercials?" - Unknown. "You're not right all the time, so don't give me that bullshit. I'll do this my own way, thanks." - If only he had listened... "Mac? Talk about the perfectly compatible misfit - hell if I could could use a computer half as good as him and be able to stay on a wild horse." - Old friend. "You'd be dumb as a rock if you want to mess with that guy when he's in a bad mood..." - Rookie who knows better. "Who? The new guy? ...We're childhood acquaintances. That's it. I said THAT'S IT." - Lierra acknowledging his presence. The following are all from Dee: "Malachi? Malawho? Oh, yeah, him... I dunno. He never really has to be patched up, so how the hell would I know him?" "I appreciate his hard work and dedication, but the next time he follows an injured rookie into my office I'm going to gut him." "He's got nice hair. Will you stop bugging me, I'm trying not to let this kid die!"
Username - E- b o n y . E- c l a i r
Examples - Same on first profile.
Quote: [Y]ou really want to know...-----[W]hat they can know;;
Biological Name - Etna Laoise Maeve Rowanne-Mairsile
Alias - "Queen" ; Etna [||Friends/Companions||] --- Lil' Laoise [||Childhood nickname that refuses to die||] --- Miss Rowanne [||Acquaintances/Strangers/Business people||]
Gender - Female
Age - 19
Height - 4' 11"
Weight - 92 lbs
Appearance - Etna Laoise Maeve Rowanne-Mairsile: one hell of a long name for a girl who's five inches taller than a legal midget in the U.S. Her height will never amount to anything special, nor will she ever be able to overcome the dreaded nicknames that follow her everywhere. Shortie, Short-stuff and Small Fry are all common passing titles aimed towards her on a good-humored note. Still, she'd rather be addressed by an actual name than any of those goofy labels. On another note, with her height comes some advantages. Like leaving the enemy unsuspecting of her physical prowess as they consider just how hard it could be to beat a 'little' girl. Her body consists of smooth, svelte symmetry and wiry muscles. She's built with an internal strength like that of a steel coil: flexible, quick-to-react and compactly powerful. Her size can be used as an advantage when it comes to making quick getaways or getting lost in a crowd to throw off a pursuer: she could even blend in with middle school children if it became necessary. Her sinuous figure is thin and small-structured, which unfortunately meant that she would also never have one other female aspect: boobs. That's right, ladies and gents, poor Etna is short, skinny and boob-less. Her A-cup sized chest is the butt of half the jokes about her when she's not around, and it'll be Doom's Day when she catches any man talking about her chest.
Undoubtedly her Irish and British heritage is to be taken into consideration when Etna's busy pushing her bright, thick red locks up into twin pigtails on either side of her head. That hairstyle is her trademark look: whether it's ponytails, pigtails, braids or buns, her hair is almost always separated into two parts. Her locks are much longer than they seem, reaching nearly her waist when let loose. Of course, she only unties her 'up-do's' when asleep or taking a shower or swimming. Otherwise, nobody's bared witness to Etna's tresses blowing freely without tie or band or bow. Her eyes are bold, devilish and somewhat naive for the eyes of a born killer. Their intense wine-coloration shocks most people that meet her, and remain alive, seeing as the rich hue of crimson is interlaced with glints of gold and green. Her face is sharp-boned and yet cherubic, with resemblance to a medieval pixie or the an allusive sprite. With a small nose, a wide, pouting mouth and thin, expressive brows, her facial features are perfect for her dramatic attitude, leaving her trademark look something to remember.
Etna's a b***h about color. One would assume that with her being an assassin that she would stick to the all black trend stereotypical of her breed. Smash the puke button and hit the deck, because that cliche apparatus pretty much dies after one encounter with the peppery teen. Whether the style is gothic lolita preteen or boardwalk California surfer chick, Etna's all for shoving bright, vivid colors together in wild, shocking ways. It isn't a rare sight to see the red head strolling about in a skimpy outfit usually designed for hookers or strippers: it's not like she has cleavage to worry about. Even her formal wear seems a bit... too little. Sad fact is: she makes less look good. She likes the feeling of wind on her skin and sun warming her from the crown of her hair to the curl of her toes: hell, she'd run about in a bikini-like outfit and belts if there wasn't the possibility of attempted rape and stalking to worry about. She likes her reds, her greens, her blues, her yellows, oranges, silvers, violets and pinks: although, she isn't going to say no to the sexy feel of black leather sliding over her skin in all the right places. She just doesn't wear black as a primary color.
To say the least, the vivacious Etna is the accessory Queen. There seems to be no end, or limit, to the amount and variety of accessories she'll wear: the fact that she doesn't enjoy going shopping only mystifies those around as to how she comes to have such a large collection. This collection of hers includes belts, chains, ribbons, scarves, necklaces, fanny-packs, bracelets, earrings, hair-ties, bracelets, chokers, cuffs, rings, stockings, leggings, webbed-wear, multi-colored shoelaces, strings, ornamental metal pieces and who knows what else. The only part of her wardrobe that seems to have some amount of predictability would be her shoes: on average she throws on either a pair of light-weight, steel-toed boots or ballet flats that tie up the length of her legs, running sneakers or, well, nothing. Yeah, she's got a thing for running around barefooted too. Socks? Hell no; unless she's running, she'd rather not wear them. Too itchy and smelly.
-----[W]hat they should know;;
Gang - Dark Blood
Position - Defense Specialist
Weapons - The weapon of choice for a killing machine is indeterminable. There's no true weapon that Etna seems to favor more, although she does favor surprising the enemy with uncommon weapons. Such as the tessenjutsu, or the metal Japanese war fan. It's one of her favorites for close combat, as the hollow, titanium fan she carries specializes in defense and offense. She's capable of wielding a number of blades, firearms and even items that aren't weapons to begin with [it's amazing how household items can be so dangerous and useful.] As for firearms, she has a preference for the Italian sort, such as the Beretta Px4 Storm.
Talents - Ever met the sort of person that could be both loved and hated at the same time? That's the sort of person Etna is: she does one hell of a job protecting her fellow gang members, but she does it in such a way that they end up with more bruises, scraps and cuts than necessary. She's the quick-thinking time-bomb with a nasty sense of humor and an aim anyone can count on to save their life. Her ingenuity comes from her overactive imagination, which almost makes her seem paranoid when out on a mission: muttering and grumbling to herself while shooting speculative, suspicious glances at inanimate objects, that is... What sets her apart is the fact that she can play offense and defense in equal measures at the same time, combining sharp reflexes with her eagle-like eyes and uncommon weaponry expertise. Her small form makes for a hard target when she's running full out: mind, she can run damn fast, jump damn high and squeeze into most spaces grown men can't. An expert at the art of escape, her mind's always looking for a safe place to shove those she's protecting while maintaining a strong offense and figuring out the enemy's strategies: at the same time, yet again. Her gutsy attacks and limb-risking ways of defense rarely fail her since the enemy has a hard time predicting just what this wacky female is going to do next: the art of surprise and the strange is her own personal twist when it comes to fighting, and she's not frightened to keep going when she's hanging onto life from the skin of her teeth. If you want to live, stick with Etna, no matter just how crazy she sounds or how impossible her plans seem.
-----[W]hat they could know;;
Sexuality - What sexuality would a girl have when she has the body of a prepubescent boy? She definitely doesn't reject what comes her way, unless it's a stalker or a hitman.
Personality - If there was ever a girl who could impersonate an innocent devil, Etna would be that girl. Her vivacious, dramatic attitude shoves away any suspicion that beneath her foxy, nectareous charisma there's a killer in the wings. Her imagination often gets the better of her in the middle of a conversation, and her mind will stray away from the subject at hand. If Etna seems preoccupied, more than likely it's because she's busy daydreaming or imagining someone doing something funny. She's a professional mock-thou-behind-the-back, with a catty grin and a mellifluous voice that tends to drive people insane trying to figure out whether she's really as cruel as her profession suggests or if she's simply a confused and moody teenager. When people start rambling around her or if someone's talking her ear off, she'll let them talk until they run out of breath since there's always the possibility of teasing them later on. Teasing, taunting, toying and messing with people's minds is one of this energetic red-head's favorite pastimes, to the utmost devastation of new gang members and rookies. Mind, though, that there's another reason Etna's willing to sit back and listen to people spill their guts: an intense void, perhaps loneliness, perhaps an unbound curiosity, lives inside Etna day in and day out. She's very much an observer, unlike Lierra who enjoys the spotlight 24/7. She's a very private creature in actuality and seeks solitude when feeling overwhelmed, confused, or especially frustrated by an issue.
Being a red-head and Irish leaves one trait about Etna to be wary of: her temper. Such a strong, forceful, steely temper is a staggering force to be found within such a small body, but Etna's always had one. From hissing with agitation, growling out of sheer spite or stiffening and growing cold around men, Etna's the sort to be flippant; she's quick to snap a retort back into the face of the instigator. Her pride's bigger than most males are, yet again another surprising aspect about the small female, and her ego is just as large. Pinch it, poke it or question it and someone's in for a world of hurt. Oh, which also means that Etna's rather... aggressive. She's not one to get shamefaced and shy when embarrassed, and will throw herself at the offender. It isn't an uncommon sight to come across Etna in the middle of a fight with someone, grappling, kicking and punching away. Which might explain why she has so little luck with men... she tends to scare them off. Of course, her temper has quite a few different facets: she's sniping sometimes, sarcastic and blunt the next, and then derisive and malicious out of the blue. She's haughty and feisty, blood-thirsty and merciless: all needed to be a successful assassin.
Etna can take all sort of crap talk from those around her: call her a b***h and she'll sneer in your face while grinding her heel into your thigh. Throw out a variety of sailor curses and she'll have you locked around the head calling you pretty names like 'honey' and 'dear' while pain courses through your body. She can be exactly like payback: a b***h. However, there is one group of names, generally shot in a woman's direction, that will get your a** kicked six ways from Sunday and seven times till Tuesday. Call Etna a slut, a ho, a whore or any other degenerate name that hints at her private life, and you'd better pray that there's someone to call her off. There's no explaining why Etna gets so touchy and infuriated over her love life --- or lack of --- other than the fact she's never... done it. Yeah, that's right, the big 'S' word is one thing Etna hasn't ticked off her list of things she's done. Watching one's tongue around her when speaking about who slept with who or who's digging who might be a wise idea: a waggling tongue could end up with a broken collar bone.
On the other hand, Etna is a playful, childish thing when feeling good about herself: she'll will waggle fingers, make biting motions with her teeth, wrinkle her nose amusedly and act girlish and giggly for a few moments at a time when pleased or jovial. She's extremely dramatic, and will use both sarcasm and wry humor and her boldness to display this showy side to herself. -In every sense of the words, she's a "defiant temptress," and a "peppery siren". She can be nice when she wants to, even considerate, but that's a rare occasion in itself. Her insecurities are well hidden; there's something seriously wrong if Etna starts crying. The best thing to do in that sort of situation is to pray to whatever deity you believe in that she doesn't start feeling particularly murderous anytime soon.
Likes -
~Fruit and mint chocolate-chip ice cream and lollipops and ramen.
~Fighting and working out.
~Taking long showers.
~Dark chocolate.
~Sharp and pointy objects... like swords, shuriken, knives.
~Jewelry and eccentric clothes.
~Music: rock, mainly, as well as techno, hip-hop, soundtracks and alternative.
~Her headphones.
~Soccer, karate, running and roller-skating.
~Her stuffed animal collection.
~Feeling sexy and confident, like when wearing brand new undergarments.
~Messing with her phone and MP3 player.
~Teasing, taunting, joking and laughing.
~Winning games and bets; racing; taking up dares.
~Sleeping naked and walking around barefoot.
~Dancing around like a crazy woman and club-hopping.
~Watching people.
~Nighttime and sleeping.
~Puppies and kitties and bats and penguins and snakes.
~Motorcycles and fast cars.
~Smacking rookies around to show who's boss.
~Climbing up on random things, like tables or shelves or rooftops.
~Being a pain in the a** to get her way.
~Taking pictures, since she can't draw worth s**t.
~Target practice.
~Watching action, horror, sci-fi, fantasy and animated movies.
~Attempting to stay coherent when drinking.
~Seeing her homeland.
Dislikes
~The thought of getting a tattoo.
~Losing. And losing badly.
~Feeling weak.
~Being treated like a little girl (like when one of the guys throws her over his shoulder since she's so little.)
~Arrogant little boys... Men, in other words, who brag about 'scoring.'
~Being reminded of her... 'inexperienced' side.
~Being woken up from a catnap.
~Going hungry (she gets cranky and mulish.)
~Tripping and falling on her face in front of people.
~Getting teased about her bust size --- or lack thereof.
~Spicy Thai food.
~Idiots in general.
~Crying or calling for 'back-up'... help.
~Talking about her past.
~Needles and doctors and dentists.
~Stinky socks.
~Stereotypes and cliche attitudes.
~Rap, R&B and 'emo' music...
~Being called a sl*t, a wh*re, ect...
Tendencies - Etna has a plethora of bad habits - or tendencies, if you will - that she does on a daily, varying basis. Some are irresistible, childish tendencies, like sticking her tongue out or crossing her arms when thinking. She likes taking out her anger on inanimate objects, like a punching bag, and crawling up on top of things for no apparent reason. Her left eye twitches when she hears someone talking about her in an inappropriate name, and she likes to tackle people who are making fun of her. She's so small, the tackling part hardly bothers anyone, but the flurry of fists and punches and biting that comes with it sure does. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly when she knows something another person doesn't, and her eyebrows lift when she feigning innocence. Her face gets hot and red when she's really angry, and she clenches her fists when feeling overwhelmed, embarrassed or some other really powerful emotion.
Biography - Once upon a time there was this adorable little girl. She was born in Wicklow, Ireland, as had her mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and all her other female ancestors. In Ireland, Wicklow was recognized as a very old town, with history reaching back over four thousand years. For the first five years of Etna's life, she lived with her mother, father and grandparents in the same two-story brick home her grandmother had grown up in, exploring the coves of the South Quay a short twenty minute walk from her home. The South Quay in Wicklow Town was a naturally sheltered harbor, which had a safe-swimming beach and two piers: the East and North pier. However, her favorite place to visit and explore would have been the ruins of the Black Castle: the Black Castle had been built by the Norman family, otherwise known as the Fitzgerald’s, in the late 1170’s. It had been attacked on numerous occasions by local clans, such as the O’Byrne’s and the O’Toole’s. In the late 1640's it was finally destroyed by a fire, leaving only unique and interesting ruins for curious young girls and tourists to gawk at. Travilahawk Beach, directly under castle ruins, was also the reputed landing point in Ireland of St. Patrick in 432a.d. and it was on this beach that Etna quickly learned how to swim and run. Not that the little mischief-maker had any interest in the history of her homeland during the first years of her life. It was quickly known throughout Wicklow that the red-head was a rambunctious ball of energy and sly, winning habits: she often frightened her fellow playmates by crawling up on top of high stones, rocks and posts, sitting and dancing there until her parents came running to get her down. Of course, this habit was never to die, despite that her parent's really tried to talk some sense into their only daughter. Where she got her fearless, adventurous personality was beyond her poor parents, although the small, knowing smile of her grandmother sometimes mystified the both of them.
Etna loved both of her parents deeply, no matter how frustrated and angered they grew towards her for being unruly and wild. The fresh air of Ireland's coast and the green landscape and the refreshing chill of the wide ocean blue was all she knew as she reached her fifth birthday. She grew slowly and she always seemed to be the shortest of all her friends, but her height never got to her: she was the one who took all the dares and did them; she was the one who could run longest, throw farthest and eat the most of all the other children. Still, such a peaceful life was doomed to fail at one point or another: her father was a fisher turned carpenter and he often went into town to join his buddies at the local pub. Her mother was a beautiful woman, and often her father's friends joked about how lucky of a man he was. It was on one of these outings that tragedy would strike Etna's life. As the night grew late and Etna tossed and turned, unable to sleep having snuck a few extra cookies to bed with her, the clock struck eleven and it was then that Etna first heard it: a low, stifled moan. Rubbing at her eyes and making her way wearily down the hall, penguin pillow in hand, Etna followed the bizarre sounds until she reached the guest room farthest from her own. There, at the door, she heard more sounds strange to her young ears, not to mention a sound that sounded like someone... trying to scream, cry, or shriek...
Her mother was raped that night, and before Etna's eyes she was then strangled to death. Nataliene, her mother, had bloody scratches and cuts all over her exposed skin, left from the drunken carelessness of her attacker. One of her father's supposed friends, a former criminal from America, had taken her mother's life out of his greed and lust for her body, powered by the drug of alcohol and jealousy he had harbored for so many years. Unknown to Etna at the time, this had been the same man her mother had turned down before she married Emmerick, her father. That man escaped into the night as Etna stood over her mother's ruined, lifeless body, shocked into a paralyzed state of horror, grief and rage. Her mother was dead. Her father was away. Her grandparents were sleeping. She was alone, and her mother had been killed...
Four years later, a familiar red-head could be found exploring the alleyways of London, her clothes scuffed by dirt and her face bloodied from an earlier fight she had picked. Her father was at work, busy with a new apartment complex, while her grandparents wound their way through a fresh produce Faire. At the age of nine, Etna had already grown out of the naivety of most primary school children; instead, she spent her days skipping class, fighting the nasty teen boys that liked to pick on her for her size and throwing rocks at windows. She learned to shimmy up anything she could cling to, like flagpoles, rain gutters and plain old rope: soon, she was the Queen of downtown London, using the rooftops as her escape routes and the streets as her war ground. There was no end to her perpetual anger. Her professors couldn't get her to pay attention in class, ISS did nothing but give her time to break pencils, and her father was too busy working his life away to give her any proper attention. Only her grandparents made time to teach her and keep her relatively healthy and properly dressed.
One foggy London morning, her father passed away: he died of heart failure thanks to having ignored his own health over the last few years. Of course, Etna didn't take this too well: when her grandparents decided to move back to their home in Ireland, she left them, twelve and penniless. Despite efforts made by the London police, she was never found, and so her grandfathers left, heavy-hearted. From that day on, Etna was on her own, filled with hurt and anger and pain. As the year went by, her street smarts progressed, and with this abundance of knowledge concerning violence and survival instincts emerged Etna's need for revenge. Her mother's killer was still out there, back in Ireland or wherever, and he should have to face the consequences of having killed her beloved mother. Beneath the nose of her father and grandparents, Etna came to make several powerful acquaintances in the underground of raggedy-Anne orphans, thieves and ragamuffins. She stole and fought and learned, growing ruthless and merciless as the gangs of London learned of her small crimes and reputation as a fighter. Soon, something had to be done about her or the London gangs would have to find some way to live with an intruder on their territory. Attempts were made to end Etna's reign of theft and fights, but each time the plan was thwarted by either luck or her skill. In the end, one group, the Glass Eyes, ambushed her. By the end of the day, three boys were dead, and Etna was unconscious on the outskirts of London, hidden in the brush as the Glass Eye members gave up their vengeful search.
Fifteen and spunky, Etna was strolling down the streets of Forquet two years after her first experience of being thoroughly beaten. From that wretched day in the back alleys of rainy London, she began studying the art of surprise and defense. Having been chased out of London, Etna had scrapped together what money and belongings she had to make her way to Forquet, where she would be a nobody in a city where information, drugs, weapons and fights were the livelihood of the dark. Blood and sweat were common ingredients during her self-induced lessons: she picked fights and gradually began to win more than she lost. Size, sex and age didn't matter: her tiny frame would not be her downfall, not anymore at least. She had lost in London because she had been overwhelmed by boys twice her weight in muscle, if not so acknowledgeable when it came to fighting techniques. It was on a fateful day that she met Crisp Jetteric. Well, actually, perhaps not so fateful, seeing as it was Etna's fault that she ended up being outnumbered eight to one, cornered and without any suitable weapon. The only thing she could rely on was her untapped pit of anger, which would always help to give her an adrenaline rush when need be: by this time, the fiery red-head had grown used to fighting uneven odds, and had made it one of her purposes in life to be able to outwit the enemy when the odds were against her. By the time Crisp made himself known, she had already downed three, killing one that had tried to put a knife in her, bloodied her face and added another layer of bruises to her arms and legs. The mere presence of the renown cage fighter had the five other boys scrambling to leave: one made it out, the other four were unconscious before two minutes had passed. Etna, weary, hungry and weak, could only glare at the man as he approached her, cigarette in one hand, a jacket in the other.
She woke up in his house, in his bed. Needless to say, Etna was a bit freaked out - being nearly sixteen and fully aware of what could become of unsuspecting girls in a man's presence. To her surprise, there was a plate of hot food ready and waiting for her on the bedside table; despite the lingering scent of cheap cigarettes in the air, she dug in, willing to risk poisoning if she could still the growling in her gut. An odd friendship was born that day; Crisp, a retired, professional cage fighter with too many titles to count, allowed Etna to stay with him: in return for his kindness, Etna helped Crisp with household chores and other mundane things he didn't care to do more than once a week... or month. In return, Crisp taught her proper fighting techniques. Having been in numberless brawls himself, with bad odds and outnumbered, he explained the different ways large numbers of fighters would work together to gain an advantage over their prey. Crisp became Etna's mentor, her friend, and strangely enough, her first crush. Not that she ever told him that: her admiration for the fighter was too great to let her young, girly emotions wreck. Instead, she worked to grow stronger so that she could fight her own fights and, one day, find the man who killed her mother.
Reputation - Upon coming to America and living with Crisp, Etna came to know Lierra: a girl who was part of some gang Etna didn't care to know anything of other than where their territory was. Fate would have it that Etna would one day end up helping the gang Lierra's own had an olive branch with. It was during the beginning of the mysterious kidnappings and killings that Etna found herself once again surrounded, trapped in a game of cat and mouse. That day she saved the lives of two Dark Blood members and ended the lives of three unknown assailants. With them safely hidden, Etna kept watch as they reported what happened to their comrades; both had noticed the way Etna had handled the situation and between them it had been decided that someone like her might be able to help them with their 'problem.' And so, Etna was recruited. Her colorful background and training helped her in securing a station within the Dark Blood gang, and three years later she's found herself as the Defense Specialist of all things.
Weaknesses - Anyone mentioning her mother or why she became a killer. Etna becomes infuriated when she hears about someone being raped. Her pride and ego are two factors that get her to lose her cool; her size offers an upper hand for larger opponents if they know how to fight good offense and defense. Etna has a hard time remembering to eat enough and sometimes she collapses in a near-faint when she overtaxes her body. She's absolutely terrified of doctors and she hates dentists. Taking her to the hospital would only result in having her thrash around in hysterics unless sedated. She doesn't know when to stop sometimes and she can hold a grudge until the end of time.
Additional Information - Etna's accent is a delicious mix of Irish lilt and British slang. She has two cats and a dog, all of which she cherishes like they were her own children. She can cook pretty darn good, but prefers eating out anyways. -----[W]hat they don't know;;Theme Song - She's a Rebel by Green Day
Quotes -
By me - "Roger!" - either when receiving an order from a higher up, or mocking someone. || "GET YOUR ASSES OVER HERE!!" - trying to fight and talk on the phone at the same time. || "Saved by the bell, jerkwad..." - when training with rookies, nearly choking one, but stopped by a higher up or equal. || "Anything for you, babe." - Etna being a flirt and failing. || "Excuse me... WHAT DID YOU CALL ME? HUH? WHAT WAS THAT, TOUGH GUY, YOU SAY SOMETHING?? ... I didn't think so." - PMSing Etna on a bad day.
For me - "What do you mean you got beat by a woman!?! That girl's not even half your size and ---EGHH!" - enemy gang member before being 'offed' by Etna, having been referred to as a 'girl.'
Username - E- b o n y . E- c l a i r
Examples -
 b o n n a b y · Mon Jul 09, 2007 @ 02:44am · 0 Comments |
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