[hider=Monster] [center]"[color=66cd00]I cannot doubt my existence if I am able to doubt ... but this presupposes the existence of an 'I'. So who am 'I' then? Will your feelings, your struggle, your pain ... will what you have but I don't be able to tell me who I am? [b][i]wILl yOu bE ABle TO aFfIrM My eXIsTENcE?[/i][/b][/color]"[/center] [b]Name:[/b] Gratia Carosa Mindaro [b]Age:[/b] Late-teens to mid-twenties [b]Gender:[/b] Female [b]Race:[/b] Human [b]Affiliation:[/b] N/A [b]Weapon:[/b] Much like her approach to living through her pathetic dregs of an unlife, Gratia Carosa Mindaro is highly eclectic in her use of armaments, resorting to any tool possible to ensure that the maximum amount of damage is dealt to her enemies. She is not in any way an artist or defender, and her most common weapons reflect this: a set of simple rusty [i]bagh naka[/i], providing her with the ability to slowly rip away warm flesh with ease and violently tear apart at the pink muscle in a more personal environment, where she can see and understand the splatters of blood, the signs of men in pain and their screams with no other obstacle; a steel butcher's knife, dull and stained from constant use in a slaughterhouse, made for cutting deep into chilly-white bone with only the barest hints of resistance; a carbon-reinforced, wooden mace, lightly splintered from years upon years of crushing apart skulls, shattering apart everything in its way to pulp the brain; and a silvery revolver, loaded with ice dust in order to deliver freezing strikes to the bloodstream, turning the crimson liquid into solid shards that pierce the veins and into the tissue. Yet if she needs to create embolisms with empty syringes in a hospital, or brutally slice apart limbs with sharpened chicken wire on a farm, then that is what she will do. They are a means of to an end where she can feel again. [b]Speciality:[/b] Close quarters, where the primality of the fight is at its greatest, where two animals can rip apart at each other, spilling blood, snapping bones ... that is where Gratia Carosa Mindaro [i]excels[/i]. Her durability is almost peerless, and her inability to feel pain, nerves long burnt away, makes it so that she can function with a clear mind no matter how deeply an enemy cuts her, how hard a thick hand slams her head against a brick wall. She is a juggernaut, an unfaltering, implacable monster that fights like a wild beast, a berserker who seeks to bring swathes upon swathes of enemies down to Hell with her. [b]Semblance:[/b] [i]Calix Infractus[/i] - Trapped in a body that cannot feel, where her own soul seems so distant and cold, it is through her Semblance that Gratia Carosa Mindaro can understand the energies that seep through all other living creatures. She is capable of [i]playing[/i] with and manipulating the auras of others to her will, and has mastered a number of ways to do so through years upon years of experimentation. At its most basic, however, her power passively drains at the souls of every other living creature in her vicinity, improving her physical abilities at a slow, but exponential rate. From there, she has learnt to disrupt the very Semblances of others as well, driving their powers wild and out of control by redirecting her own outwards. In its active state, she can also permanently imprint herself onto the souls of others by pushing her own aura into them on physical contact, forever giving her the ability to track her enemies wherever they go. [b]Personality:[/b] Solemn and serious. Impassive and quiet. Venomous and insulting. Arrogant and condescending. Mere facades, mere attempts to pretend to be something that she cannot (will never) be. The woman known as Gratia Carosa Mindaro cannot truly feel. She cannot truly empathise. She cannot truly comprehend emotion. A nobody. A soulless, unliving thing wearing the skin of a Mistralese girl. Yet she wants, she desires, she lusts ... for the ability to understand, to fill that incomplete void within with knowledge, to reinforce her worth and superiority. So she pretends, pretends to be the ever-irritated stoic, pretends to be the overbearing asshole, pretends to be the quiet, professional worker. She pretends and she seems like she is. That she is a human, when she knows ... and embraces ... the fact that she is a monster. A monster that embodies the very evils of all humanity. How does one know existence? How does one know that they are a human or a creature or a monster made flesh? She can no longer feel that she is. Her skin's nerves, burnt out, gone, can no longer receive the world's input. She is dull to the world. Dull. It is nothing to her. Then is she nothing to it? So she imprints herself upon it. Forces it to submit to her. Her superiority. Her existence. Her will. Her crimson blood still flows through her veins. The sickly darkness oozing from the neck of the naked little boy she rapidly grinds upon no longer does. She is superior. She still lives. She has dominated him, took away his will, took away everything. Her existence is affirmed by him. The wordless screams of a tear-stricken mother pound her ears. The feeling of fear, the unadulterated emotion. She brought it into this world. She did. Her existence is affirmed by it. The convulsing responding officer, paralyzed by poisoned wounds, frozen by his partner's unconsenting service below him. She has forced him to struggle. She holds power. Her existence is greater. Affirmed. Lifeblood, draining away before her eyes and onto her cold, unfeeling hands. It's on her. She exists. Soldiers running from the monster that pursues them. Their cries. Their anger. Their fear of her, of her false, false words and her impossible laughter. Or her hands, stained with wounds. They hate her. They are terrified. Their minds know her. She exists. Homes burnt to ashes. The burning flames, cold and blue and hot, run up her arms. She cannot feel it. She cannot understand the pain. But it is there. It burns at her skin. She exists. Gratia Carosa Mindaro is the animal of the killing fields. She is the ruthless butcher of the innocent. She steals the ability of those to choose their own fate. Fraud. Thief. She destroys livelihoods. Kidnapper. Rapist. Murderer. She destroys lives. A sinner amongst sinners. It lets her pretend she can feel. [b]Appearance:[/b] [img]http://i.imgur.com/fyZ9qUT.jpg[/img] Six feet. Tall and imposing. Athletic and intimidating, towering any other woman, strong enough to crush a man. Short, dulled brown hair. It frames her pale face; well-defined, cherubic, a sense of eerie beauty that brings only death. Reserved smiles and scowls, lips creased into pondering lines. They never reach her eyes. Her dead, amber eyes. Cold, unfeeling, accentuated by long, sharp lashes. Her gazes are impossible, dead, resigned. Soulless like their owner. A beautiful woman harbouring the heart of a dead monster. A woolen turtleneck, jet-black and frayed. Jeans; hard, enduring, once-brown, stained and stained and stained until that nothing, nothing, can wash it out. She smells of blood. Of the lives and the sex she's taken, stolen, ripped from others. She smells of it, coppery, metallic, heavy and festering, raw and acrid. Pungent. A walking slaughterhouse in what should be a butcher's garb. Her black boots heavy, crushing, loud footsteps a reminder of her presence. Of her danger. Her stance. Her posture. Her straightened back. Her slow and methodical movement. The rustling of her clothes. She knows it. And it affirms she exists. Naked. Scarred. Burnt. Yet she no longer feels their pain. She cannot. Not a single nerve, not a single receptor. Her touch is gone. Dulled to near nonexistence. Her wounds. Those many, many wounds. They are testament to it. Stitches upon her shoulder. Wire cuts between her bosom. Needle marks around her toned stomach. A horror story. That's who she is. A woman with wounds and wounds and the inability to feel them. Her back has been carved apart many times. A terrible mess of skin and muscle. Her clothes, horrifying as they are, hide it all. But she still is. [b]History:[/b] Mistral. Empire of the Winds. Land of the Invincible Sun. Harsh and dry summers, sweltering heat under a bright, bright sun. Humid and cold winters, damp, insect-prone, unforgiving. And yet mankind fought it, unrelentingly, stubbornly. They conquered the Grimm. They imposed their will upon the weather. They dug in deeply and crafted a mighty city that sought to rival the heavens. A shining, glorious city. And at the very bottom, the docks. The ghettos. The slums. Too far from the city proper. To far from the fertile farmlands. Gratia Carosa Mindaro was born here. The first daughter of a alm-less metalworker and his wife. No money. No support. None at all. This was her life. Her life and her family's. And it was torn down. An unlucky roll of the die. A single occurrence of divine malice. The entire family died in the green fire that engulfed their home. The lightning struck too quickly. They were instantly gone. Except her. The unfeeling, uncaring little girl trapped under the fallen rafters, electricity and smoke and fire eroding away at the protection of her soul, eroding away at the skin and nerves that allowed her touch. Maybe she should have died. She didn't. The pain, the heat, the torture of the disaster ... it didn't kill her. And she awoke to a dull, dull world. A world that seemed so distant, non-existent. She felt she was the anomaly. She felt as if she wasn't. She felt inferior. An illusion. A false creature in a world that was false to her. Unliving. Gratia Carosa Mindaro refused to be that. She forced herself upon the world. She pretended to be who she needed to be. She needed to feel. She wanted to feel. So she took the life of an innocent old gravekeeper maintaining her family's charred remains and it seemed as if she had truly, truly felt emotion at his death. At his pain. At his suffering. So she kept going. She fought. She killed. She raped. She stole. She couldn't feel it again. But she pretended she could. It did nothing but she continued down her path. A little girl barely into her teens and her aura had been awakened. She devoured at the lifeblood of others, at their auras, at their souls. She couldn't feel from them. But she kept fighting, she kept killing, and she began to grow into her abilities, into her monstrous unlife. A girl just past puberty, and her cruelty had surpassed the Devil. A destroyer of lives, murdering families, breaking in their lovers, stealing their fortunes. She couldn't feel anything from it. But she kept bathing in the blood, she kept drinking her targets dry, she kept acting as the monster she was. A girl on the cusp of womanhood, and she was little more than a beast without a leash. A creature that should be caged. A threat that needed to be contained. She still couldn't feel. Couldn't at all. So she worked; she enforced the judgement of the mafia, she held violence inches away from the heads of kidnapped children, she assaulted anybody she was pointed at. She placed herself upon a leash. A monster pretending to be almost reasonable. She still couldn't feel. She kills and rapes and steals and she keeps on going. She toys with people. She ruins people. She takes everything from them. She doesn't remember how long she's been doing so anymore. All that matters to her is that she is Gratia Carosa Mindaro. And she demands the world recognise she exists. [/hider]