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[b][i][color=f7941d]“Nice piece, how many rounds it got?”[/color]	[color=crimson]“…It’s called a six-shooter, Darce. It’s got six shots.”[/color][/i][/b][/center]
	[color=f7941d][b]NAME[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]Darcy Marl[/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]ALIAS[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]”Darce”, “Marl”[/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]GENDER[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]Female[/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]SKILLS[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]
[b][u]Give and Take:[/u][/b] Darcy’s a sturdy girl, tough enough to headbutt without much of a flinch, and crack a cheek without breaking her knuckles. Turns out getting pummeled frequent and early had its perks.

[b][u]Clean Shot:[/u][/b] Darcy wouldn’t be in this business if she wasn’t passably quick and accurate with a gun. Being a rookie, there’s a [i]lot[/i] left to desire, plenty of clumsy habits to kick, but it would be a mistake to underestimate her. Not that she doesn’t love that. 

[b][u]A Thousand Words:[/u][/b] In short, Darcy may not be even notably literate, but she [i]is[/i] very receptive to faces and voices. These skills are rather useful in finding individuals who may have changed since last meeting, or seeing them. 

[b][u]Look Ma, Both Hands!:[/u][/b] Simple enough, Darcy is ambidextrous. Doesn’t help her so much with writing, but it has its uses. [/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]PERSONALITY[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]In old stories, people who slunk about in the shadows, or blended through crowds unnoticed, on the hunt for their fellow man, were feared and revered. They were lauded as refined yet brutal killers, prizing a code of honor and dignity, executing their contracts with deft grace and vanishing in the yet-settled dust. Possessed of high-diction and cut wardrobes, able to shift seamlessly between alley-lurker and aristocratic paragon, these hitmen and women were dark legends. 

Darcy possesses few, if any, of these qualities. She’s abrasive and unsubtle, rash, loud, foul-mouthed and blunt, with a penchant for humor in humorless situations. Unlike her unsociable coworkers, she loves a good drink, and likes to make a habit of getting chummy in the saloons wherever she goes. 

Her overconfidence and impulsive nature often lead her to say things she can’t back up, or do things she can’t talk her way out of. This, combined with an aversion to apologizing, led to a mostly-friendless professional life. 

Still, even the people who don’t like her won’t deny she’s fun to watch, if only for the inevitable crash. [/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]HISTORY[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]Darcy grew up watching trains. In the morning, when pa was still asleep, and ma was reeling from a long high, she’d go out and sit by the tracks while her sister, Sara, brewed something up. In the afternoons, once pa was done throwing his fits, she and Sara would go out on the porch to nurse their blackened eyes, or bloodied noses, and watch from there. At night, though, when the rare trains did come through, were her favorite. Ma would be sober enough to cook dinner, pa would be too drunk to yell, let alone stand, and in the fields it was so quiet, she could hear the tracks rumbling from the table. They’d have lights on them then, big and bright running every cart, like some holy chariot. 

When she was ten, and Sara was sixteen, they started getting visits from New Rojas folks. Seven or eight people at a time, men and women in dusters and caps. And guns, they’d always have guns. The first time they came, pa was passed out, a few cornered ma in the living room, the others waited outside with them. 

When they left, ma had bruises. Pa eventually woke up, found out what had happened, and how little money they had left, and gave them all a beating. Ma didn’t stop using though, even when Sara tried to get her to. They kept working the farm, she kept splitting the earnings between food, drugs, and debts. They debt pile was never quite big enough.

The third time New Rojas visited, they were broke. Ma begged for another month, Pa offered to let them take her if they’d square the debt. Instead they came to Sara. 

“How old are you girls?” 

Sara was seventeen, Darcy had only just turned eleven. They said ma could have one more month, then they broke Sara’s arm, and because Darcy was little, they only broke some of her fingers. Pa broke the rest once New Rojas had gone, though. 

A month passed, Sara didn’t speak a word the whole time, even when Darcy hugged her, begging. She wouldn’t watch the trains, wouldn’t work the farm despite how many bruises she got for it, wouldn’t do anything but sit and stare, like a gargoyle. Ma tried pleading too, they needed the extra help, even if it was only one hand, and Sara would soften for just a moment, but still wouldn’t budge. 

New Rojas came back, and, of course, they didn’t have the money. Pa wanted to fight them off, he’d been a guard once, and was convinced he could take six or seven if he had surprise on his side. They showed up with ten, he got on his knees and groveled with ma. The collectors just about tore the house apart looking for any hidden cash, anything valuable they could sell, but it was true, there just wasn’t enough. 

Then Sara said: “Take me.” 

“What for?” 

“I’ll work off the debt.”

They laughed, Darcy might have too if she were them, it was ridiculous. Sara wasn’t much taller than anyone else, and she was scrawny–they all were, save for pa. One of the collectors asked if she even had the stomach for it. Sara asked for a gun. 

Silence, then, for a while. One handed over a pistol, the others didn’t bother being subtle when they aimed at her, but she didn’t seem to care. 

“Darce, stay with ma.”

Then Sara grabbed pa by the hair and dragged him, yelping, outside. She threw him to the dirt, told him to run, then shot the ground at his feet when he started questioning her. For how old and out of shape he’d gotten, he was fast, and be it by choice or imbalance, wavered along his way. He almost made it to the crops before she shot him clean through the nape, then he dropped like a sack. 

Darcy’s heart nearly stopped, her stomach twisted up, but she stayed quiet, everyone stayed quiet. Sara gave the gun back. 

“And I’m not even left-handed.” 

The collectors let them say goodbye to ma. Sara, tearful, promised to send money, and if she came back and found out ma was still using, she’d shoot her too. 

They got to ride a train to New Rojas, but Darcy couldn’t find joy in it. She wasn’t prepared for the city, it was loud, crowded, and every look was mean or uninterested. The collectors took them to a company building, told them they could stay while everything was sorted out, and left. 

Darcy burst into tears, and Sara hugged her close, promising everything would be alright. And for the most part, this was true. They put Sara to work, and even found minor jobs running through the city for Darcy. She got savvy quick, both of them did, it wasn’t good work, it wasn’t clean work, but it was work. After a few years collecting, Sara got wrangled into a different branch of the company, publicly seen as its “bounty office.” In reality, the work was, while similar, much more sinister. She wasn’t a bounty hunter, she was a hitwoman. 

Darcy started seeing her less often, but she heard plenty. Sara was a rising star, she was making a name for herself. Every time she’d come back, she’d look a little different, hair cut a new way, a new nick on her skin, even, rarely, a tattoo. Most of the stories Darcy heard came from other folks who went with her on contracts, but Sara would share a few of her solo goings with her, then swear her to secrecy with a smile. 

Soon enough, Darcy was old enough to go out collecting, and she was eager to prove herself. A little too eager, sometimes. She developed pugnacious habits, offering debtors chances to pay out with fights, going just a bit too far roughing up late-payers. Many times she had to be reminded of her job, that she wasn’t with the “bounty office” yet, but she was determined to be. 

It ended up taking her four years, where Sara had only taken three, but Darcy had started a year earlier, so she squared it off in her mind. Not that it was a competition, of course. She loved her sister, looked up to her like a hero, but she was twenty, it was time to bring her own stories to the table. 
[/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]INVENTORY[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]
[b][u]-Wilson .45 Revolver x2[/u][/b]

[b][u]-Wilson Snub-Nose Shotgun[/u][/b]

[b][u]-Serrated Survival Knife[/u][/b][/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]REASON FOR VISITING[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent][color=gray]Having just completed a contract, Darcy is currently in transit back to New Rojas through Blackfinger. However, given the haste with which she did her job, she finds herself with a little down-time, and has decided to remain there for a few days. The Free Cities aren’t so bad, after all.[/color][/indent]
	[color=f7941d][b]RELATIONS[/b][/color]
[hr][hr][indent]
[hider=Relations][color=Crimson][b][u]Sara Marl:[/u][/b][/color][color=gray] Darcy’s sister, older by six years, her hero, and her role model. She is who she is because of Sara, and though they don’t see each other as often any more now that they both work, their bonds have never weakened.[/color]

[color=white][b][u]Louisa Marl:[/u][/b][/color][color=gray] Darcy’s mom. She was always decent in comparison to her father, but she was also negligent, and an addict. Despite her repentance, and despite that Sara vowed to return one day and check on her, neither girl has seen their mother since they left for New Rojas.[/color][/hider]
[/indent]