Is this the part where I say, "hail sithis"? Everything's completed save for the histories - which will probably be revealed during the story - Elliot's nickname, and the team name. [hr] [hider=Elliot] [center][h2][color=deepskyblue]Elliot[/color][/h2][/center] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/rruZ140.jpg[/img][/center] [center][quote=Elliot][i][color=deepskyblue]"Let's see you talk shit with your teeth in your stomach!"[/color][/i][/quote][/center] [b]Name[/b] - Elliot Ferris [b]Official Title [/b] - White Fang. Kid's a goddamn beast. [b]Team Title[/b] - Checkmate; Elliot is small and pale and Azariah is tall and dark. Fitting. [b]Gender[/b] - Female [b]Age[/b] - 22 [b]Position[/b] - Asylum [b]Specialty [/b] - Silencer, and an excessively brutal one, at that. [b]Alchemic Style[/b] - A relatively even mix of Motem and Vocem. She hates sitting still and she never shuts up, so it’s fitting. [b]Asylum Code [/b] - XXV (25), positioned directly beneath her right shoulder blade. [b]Weapons[/b] [list] [*][url=http://cdn3.volusion.com/xgvnc.rgmke/v/vspfiles/photos/knuckles-aoknuckleknife-2.jpg]Knucklefang Switchblade[/url] - a set of spiked brass knuckles that are mounted on a spring-loaded switchblade. Scary. [*]A collapsible iron staff used for mid-range combat. Can be wielded with one or both hands. [*] A sturdy, custom-designed iron baseball bat. Primarily used to direct the magnetic portion of her abilities. Discreet, but still capable of cracking skulls.[/list] [b]Alchemy specialization[/b] - Manipulation of ferrous substances. Anything comprised of at least fifty percent iron is under her dominion, and she can shape and mold it at will. She's also somewhat ferromagnetic - she serves as a walking magnet, in a sense. [b]]Appearance[/b]- [indent]Whiter than Wonder Bread doused in mayonnaise. Primarily German heritage. Her face shape is reminiscent of the classic, generic anime protagonist: thin, gently rounded cheeks that taper off into a slightly pointed chin. A delicate, slightly upturned nose. Small lips born to twist into a petulant pout. Cursed with a truly tiny stature; clocks in at approximately five feet - and the term is used extremely loosely - tall. Slender, narrow build; her collarbones could open letters and her hipbones could sand glass. White hair that varies in exact hue depending on the lighting, worn in long, wavy layers. A choppy, side-swept fringe feathers across her forehead. Tragically pale, she can’t even take a leisurely stroll through a park without suffering from some degree of sunburn. Insofar as fashion goes, she has a certain affinity for flannels and jackets. She considers herself a connoisseur of baggy sweaters and flannel jackets, often pairing them with dorky beanies or flat-brimmed baseball caps. Thanks to her tendency to instigate fist fights, she’s learned how to accessorize the common bandage. Her eyes are rimmed with dark smudges equal parts eyeliner and exhaustion; it’s deliberately smudged to further highlight that nonchalant, flippant brand of [i]don’t talk to me you fucking walnut[/i] she wears so well. Has a crooked, devil-may-care grin.[/indent] [b]Personality[/b] - [indent]Elliot grew up with resentment festering in her heart, born of a crippling sense of inadequacy. This hate bleeds into her overall disposition, making her constantly tense, prone to snapping at the drop of a hat, and granting her a vast arsenal of vulgar - if not creative - insults. Her repertoire is constantly expanding, too; most of what she says is blurted out in the heat of the moment, enabling the existence of nicknames like “joyless shitpail” or “a literal, actual bag of dicks”. The world wants girls to play the sweet, vapid sex kitten role, and Elliot’s grown tired of faking smiles. As such, she’s painfully blunt, and speak her mind, even if voicing her current thoughts seems inadvisable. Governed almost completely by her bellicose nature, Elliot absolutely loves to fight - loves the dizzying, intoxicating rush she gets whenever the adrenaline starts coursing through her veins, loves the flutter she gets in her heart when she think she’s about to die, loves the thrill of the danger - of the possibility she might lose. Nothing gets that infuriating grin of hers going more than a proper brawl. Elliot’s an adrenaline junkie born and bred, and she’s yet to realize that just because no one’s died doesn’t mean it can be considered a victory. Prancing through life with an infuriatingly cocky grin and enough cheerful arrogance to power a small regiment, it’s little wonder this kid makes enemies nearly everywhere she goes. She is quick to judge and even quicker to dismiss; it’s this flippant sort of insouciance, especially regarding serious situations, that makes those enemies turn to nemeses. She’s been keeping a running tally of how many people have publicly declared her their eternal archenemy. It’s about as big as her ego.) She’s brash, she’s brazen, and she’s six kinds of reckless. She’d grind every bone in her body to dust if it meant inflicting even a single bruise on her adversary, and she doesn’t care if achieving her goals means tearing down the structure of society brick by dusty brick. Her level of ambition is staggering, so immense it borders on arrogance, and she labors under delusions of grandeur. Insurmountable odds are viewed as a fun challenge; even the biggest threat can be broken down into smaller, more manageable chunks if you pummel it hard enough. Elliot is wreathed in an aura of vitality. A childhood spent in relative solitude - save for those precious few hours in which her single, multiple-job-working mother was both home and awake - bestowed upon her an impressive imagination, and she’s always conjuring up some sort of wild scheme. This, coupled with poor impulse control and a predilection toward improvisation, means she can orchestrate some truly nefarious plans, but they often fall to the wayside in favor of a sudden innovation. She’s easily flustered, especially when showing affection. “Fight me”, is essentially Elliot’s catchphrase, and it’s usually uttered when she’s embarrassed, scared, or frustrated. In tandem with the above, her mannerisms suit her gruff, rough-and-tumble gutter punk persona to a “T”. She has a difficult time paying attention to verbose lectures, and tend to fidget unconsciously during most mission briefings. Sitting still poses an extreme problem. Elliot is also hopelessly naive, interpreting everything at face value, be it her surroundings or what they perceive as a factual statement, leaving her fairly oblivious to the nuances of human nature. This has made many love confessions awkward and kind of unbearable; kid’s denser than a slab of granite. As is the case with most Silencers, Elliot is extremely irascible, and she’s more than capable of bearing a grudge. She’s extremely rash, meaning if you jokingly slap a cup of coffee out of her hand, she’s probably going to try to wedge it up your ass. The only way to win her respect is through some kind of physical or verbal altercation, which is unwise, because this asshole once made plans to fight the sun. She’s got a certain amount of respect - however begrudging - for Azariah and his accomplishments, though she’s loathe to show it. However, she does call him a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker and a clowny bastard, so at least she (sort of) cares. [/indent] [b]History[/b]- WIP [b]Other[/b] - [list] [*] Elliot doesn't know how to swim, and, as such, has a severe fear of deep water. [*] Of the two, she's the only one with any sort of culinary knowledge. She's a fairly proficient chef. [*] Her hobbies include violent video games, unleashing a devastating barrage of insults on her teammates in said violent video games, sleeping, exercising (especially running and punching things), and berating Azariah. [*] She has a bit of a hero complex, meaning she'll risk her life for fame and recognition. A self-serving hero, indeed.[/list][/hider] [hider=Azariah][center][h2][color=orangered]Azariah[/color][/h2][/center] [center][img]http://41.media.tumblr.com/1f8e5ab809c636f27e8bdc1454e1e9e6/tumblr_npwt31JlwU1r26ck5o1_500.png[/img][/center] [center][quote=Azariah][i][color=orangered]"Monster . . . ? Why, you flatter me! Very astute, my dear!"[/color][/i][/quote][/center] [b]Name[/b] - Azariah Finch [b]Official Title[/b] - Salamander, after the mythical beast. Team Title - Checkmate; Azariah is tall and dark and Elliot is small and pale. Fitting. [b]Gender[/b] - Male [b]Age[/b] - 33 [b]Position[/b] - Asylum [b]Specialty [/b] - [indent]Hybrid; he’s got the nose of a Hunter and the perception of a Sniffer, with just enough of that Silencer ruthlessness to make him truly dangerous. [/indent] [b]Alchemic Style[/b] - [indent]Primarily Sigillum, with a bit of Vocem for added flavor. Elegant and visually impressive, but slow to cast. Sacrifices efficiency for aesthetic appeal.[/indent] [b]Asylum Code[/b] - XXIV (24), etched just beneath his left clavicle. [b]Weapons[/b] [list] [*]Dead Weight - A .44 Colt equipped with A.M.R.O-regulated anti-alchemy bullets. Reserved expressly for emergencies. [*]A small bag filled with a popular brand of individually-wrapped sour candies, most of which contain a deadly poison. The green ones are commonly regarded as the vilest-tasting flavor ever to desecrate the sanctity of candy itself, and those are the only ones not tainted. (The green ones are his favorite, and the only ones he’ll eat, so this does wonders for dropping his target’s guard.)[/list] [b]Alchemy specialization[/b] - Pyrokinesis; manipulation and extinguishing of existing flames, generation of fire, and mild dominion over heat. [b][url=http://41.media.tumblr.com/bbb43196249f30d5d94fb97c9bd03c2b/tumblr_n8z3igq5AV1qiwofwo1_500.png]Appearance[/url][/b] - [indent]Tall and lean, Azariah possesses a sharp, almost distinguished sort of gauntness about him. This lankiness, born of a preference for sweets absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, a relatively time-consuming occupation, and a lack of interest in food altogether, means Azariah doesn’t cut much of a figure at all, much less one of an imposing nature. He emanates this unnerving, almost repellent sort of aura - the cheerful sort of defiance that only a hardened criminal or an absolute maniac might bear. His face is molded into lean angles, sharp lines carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. Dark stubble lines his jaw. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and contrast his darker skin quite nicely. His dark, perpetually tousled wavy hair curves to a stop just past his jaw, falling diagonally across his face to partially obscure his left eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way. His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing. He prefers loose, comfortable clothing, such as hoodies and sweatpants, and doesn’t really care for professionalism. Rarely is Azariah seen without a brown pair of combat boots encasing his feet. [/indent] [b]Personality[/b] - [indent] It has taken Azariah a long time to come to terms with the fact people cut from his cloth were born to end lives. Eternally smiling, be it his typical condescending, unsettling grin, a scathing, derisive sneer, or a mutinous, dangerous smirk, Azariah’s wreathed himself in an air of his own truly baffling whimsy. Working tirelessly to shroud himself in enigma - not for any contrived, cliched desire to be “mysterious”, mind you; he just enjoys seeing the stupid looks of consternation on people’s faces - he imparts little more than the bare minimum on whomever he allies himself with, yet does it in a way that makes it seem like it’s their fault instead of his. Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Azariah can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He’s well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There’s something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really. Incisive remarks or petty insults don’t really bother him; he’s always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he’s quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, “my dear”, to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he’s patronizing a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well; his sentence structure and word choice are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind. It’s rare to spot Azariah engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It’s a massive waste of everyone’s time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn’t much like whining about things he knows he can’t change. Not all of Azariah’s childish immaturity is an act, however. He’s actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can’t have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that’s just a sad, sad travesty. He’d hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who’s committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn’t deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right? He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he’s already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe’s luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he’s not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he’s seen it in action, so of course he’s got to believe it exists, but he’s yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time. He’s also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he’s currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it’s certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he’d never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!) Azariah often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he’s quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, “Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!” He’s got a certain disdain for battle and bloodshed, viewing them as uncouth and foolish.[/indent] [b]History[/b] - WIP [b]Other[/b] - [list] [*] He'll occasionally refer to Elliot as "Elli" to incense her. [*] Despite the aforementioned Elli nicknaming him a "lazy, good-for-nothing slacker", he only gets about two or three hours of sleep each night. Doesn't quite like the nightmares, you see. [*] He's ambidextrous. [*] He can handle alcohol surprisingly well, given his thin physique. [*] He doesn't care one whit about heroics or even winning a fight, so long as he's gotten his message across.[/list][/hider]