[center][img]http://i64.tinypic.com/6oh2yg.jpg[/img] [i] Credit where credit is due, the artist behind this wonderful painting is one [url=http://butjok.deviantart.com/art/10-Jan-2012-278605852]Butjok[/url].[/i][/center] [b]Name/Nicknames:[/b] Charly [b]Race:[/b] Arcane Construct (Golem) [b]Age:[/b] Charly appears to be in her mid-twenties, but it is likely that she is considerably older. [b]Appearance:[/b] Charly stands slightly above average height and has soft, delicate features that exude an aura of perpetual fragility and sorrow about her person. Her eyes are a gentle, muted green, full of calm and quiet reflection. Her skin is fair, only gently touched by the sun and bears precious little indication of the number of years she has seen. She has long black hair that is held back only loosely by a bit of string, and always threatens to escape. The unassuming guise of the golem has led more than one observer astray and ultimately hastened them to an early grave. For Charly's lithe appearance belays a remarkable strength and she has been known to best even large Orges in hand-to-hand combat. She moves with an inhuman precision, not with the stiffness of a machine, but with an eerily perfect fluidity to her movements. When given the choice Charly is a pragmatic dresser. She tends to wear simple black jeans, matched with a non-descript t-shirt, inevitably black, and a well-worn leather jacket, that is perhaps unsurprisingly also black in color. She wears practical shoes, disregarding anything with heels, and is generally found sporting a pair of unremarkable sneakers. [b]Personality: [/b] Charly unquestioningly follows the orders of her superiors, having learned quite early that feedback or creativity is rarely desired from an arcane construct. She possess an iron willpower and a self-control far beyond that of your run-of-the-mill mortal being. While she may not be quite as bad in social situations as one might first assume, neither is she a great conversationalist. For while Charly may understand the patterns of human interaction, she does not possess an innate understanding of what it means to be human. She is direct and to the point, even at risk of being rude, and has little patience for what she deems to be unnecessary social niceties. However she knows her place, will defer to the expectations with those with power over her when required. Unlike a great many arcane constructs or golems, Charly is capable of feeling emotions, an archmage would not never have been satisfied by anything less than achieving the remarkable. However, Charly has learned to ignore, if not completely silence, the voice of her burgeoning conscience. She is the tool not the craftsman and her judgement is not required for the task at hand. For those that make the effort, Charly may even display a remarkably robust sense of humor, although it is a trait she rarely has reason to show. When she is left to her own devices Charly indulges in her love of Jazz music and can be found listening to a much prized collection of well-worn LPs that she has acquired on a battered turntable connected to a positively ancient set of speakers. Charly’s life is driven by two distinctly paradoxical motivations. She feels a strong, almost irresistible compulsion to acquiesce to the demands of her masters. Yet, at the same time, she has of late begun to feel a burning need to secure her own freedom and escape the bonds that imprison most of her kind. Deep within the heart of the golem, is a growing, nagging hatred, rage, so much rage, rage at years spent trapped by the whims of twisted fools and mortals lost to their own pride. [b]Bio: [/b] [hider=The Alchemist's Court] Charly stood aloof from the Rats that sat gathered in the basement of the decrepit building that the Alchemist and his gang had claimed as their own. Three stories of what had once been a fashionable brownstone in the heart of Santa Somabra had been reduced to a collection of empty beer bottles, assorted garbage reclaimed as seating, peeling wallpaper, and all that was needed to produce a sizable amount of the narcotics which had poisoned the city over the decades and twisted it into a dark shadow of itself. On a couch turned throne in the middle of the room sat the man known only as the Alchemist, an infamous leader of a most infamous band of Rats, the Chemical Fiends. Drug pushers, thieves, and murders one and all, led by a middling magician with a gift for the alchemical arts, and widely considered to be one of the vilest gangs under the banner of the Rats to stalk the streets of Santa Somabra. "Who’s the girl?" One of the gathered thugs said with a sneer, his voice carrying above the electronic music that droned from an expensive (and therefore stolen) sound system. He cast a disdainful and less than chivalrous look in Charly’s direction, offering the well-practiced smile of a true scumbag. "I thought standing orders were not to bring floozies around the product." The Alchemist looked up from the array of foul connotations and vile narcotics gathered in front of him with a slight frown on his brow, unhappy at the unexpected interruption. He sniffled, blowing his nose in a handkerchief that seemed to materialize in his hand. Adorned in rags with his face hidden beneath a mask of cloth painted with the visage of a demon, and wearing a tricorne hat, the Alchemist looked like some sort of pauper villain. Charly watched every motion of the robed figure, knowing full well that trouble was brewing. Unmoving she waited for his cruel temper to erupt and began to consider what he’d have her do this time. "Ah, you mean Charly," the Alchemist answered, smiling as if laughing at a secret joke. "Careful brother, she’s a gift from Telvus, so don’t touch, she’s beyond you and your ilk." "That old fool? What’s he got to do with her?" The thug replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. "That my brother is not for you to know," the Alchemist said as a deep frown took hold over his features. "From where did this sudden curiosity arise? Are you questioning me?" "No, of course not! Sorry boss," the unfortunate Rat muttered in a low, apologetic voice, cowering like a dog and slinking away to a corner of the room. "Frankly, I’m more offended that you would disparage Telvus so," the Alchemist continued with a satisfied grin, lazily returning to the chemicals and arcane ingredients gathered in front of him. "You forget, he was quite the talent once, feared by all, before addiction left him weak and addled, consumed him from within. The last great archmage of this forsaken city, and not a man you’d cross if you wanted to remain among the living." Telvus, the named still burned to hear, awoke the golem from her own thoughts, and rekindled the hatred that burned inside of her. It filled her mind with unwelcome memories that tasted of fire and smelt faintly like kindling slowly being consumed by flames. Charly felt the pull of the ethereal chains that bound her, the last betrayal that the archmage had inflicted upon her soul, and she nursed the hope of one day finding her hands wrapped around his neck, watching what little life remained leaving his retched body. "Whatever you say boss-man," another of the Rats interjected. A neon upstart dressed for a night of raving, with a face that Charly could not recall, he was one of the newer additions to the gang, unimportant cannon fodder. This Rat, unlike his comrade, spoke with fresh vigor and a hint of rebellion, the strength of youth at its prime. "Then what’s she doing here if she isn’t a decoration, oh wizard? You going soft on us old man? You some exception to the rules now? This waif supposed to be one of us, a servant of the Chemical Lord himself?" Biding her time, Charly resisted the idle urge to send the loudmouthed thug sailing into the unfinished brick wall. She had learned quickly that her new employer (a much preferred term to master and one she had been quick to adopt) did not take kindly to independent action from those in his employment. She had paid dearly for her last dalliance with freedom and now she simply wanted to do what the Alchemist commanded and to stay on his good side, far from trouble. "You wound me brother, do you think I’d keep for my own a servant as weak as you? Do you truly believe that I, of all people, have forgotten the law of our land," The Alchemist replied, his voice now carrying a deadly edge of threat. "Unlike you the rest of you miscreants, she’s of the dependable sort. She’ll break your bones if I ask her to, leave you a pile of broken bones in a puddle of blood, and it won’t cost me so much as a pretty penny." "Bullshit, that wisp of a girl couldn’t hurt me if she tried. You know, I'm already tired of you, your magic mumbo-jumbo and this dump." Laughter escaped from the Alchemist’s pale lips, a hint of wild madness apparent, "Try then my brother, test her strength, but do not blame me when you face your doom." Waving nonchalantly at Charly, the Alchemist gestured at the source of his current displeasure, "If you please Charly, a demonstration, and don’t mind the carpet I’ve been meaning to have it replaced." --- To fearful murmurs and terrified gazes Charly wiped the blood and viscera off of her knuckles with a dirty rag, standing over the shattered remains of her challenger with an unchanged face. The gathered Rats had grown pale and sat in shocked silence, entranced by the carnage they had just witnessed, all save the Alchemist, who laughed and laughed, rolling across the couch on which he lounged, practically convulsing in a fit of mad laughter. Charly had learned to hate the familiar sound of his laughter, almost as much as she hated the Alchemist himself, and almost as much as she hated Telvus, the source of all her sorrow. Yet, what did it matter? These foolish things of flesh and blood were dying, slowly, and with each passing moment. She had time on her side and she would have her vengeance, even if it took a hundred years. She would not forget. [/hider] [b]Other:[/b] - Charly serves as an enforcer for the infamous, but not quite high ranking Rat gang leader known only as the Alchemist. A mysterious figure clad in a robe of rags, this man, a wizard of middling talent and power, rules a small piece of territory in one of the poorer areas of Santa Somabra holds court in a rundown building. Focusing on the creation and distribution of drugs, he has christened his motley band of villains the Chemical Fiends. A brutal and fearsomely violent group, the gang survives largely due to their willingness to deal with anyone if the price is right and thanks to a surprising ability to recuperate from losses that would dissuade many other gangs. They are however far from organized professionals and operate in a most chaotic fashion. - Charly has a general disdain for both knives and guns, preferring to use her own hands (so to speak) in combat. On the rare occasion that she is armed, when compelled by her master or when the task requires it, she carries a sawed-off shotgun, appropriately nicknamed the “Door Knocker” by the other members of the Chemical Fiends. - At a first glance, Charly appears to be a human of flesh and blood, although a remarkably resilient and strong one. Very perceptive characters or those possessing great magical gifts may be able to notice that something is different about the young woman and begin to entertain the idea that they are not dealing with a normal human being. A particularly talented practitioner of the magical arts might even be able to detect that there is a distinctly ethereal air about Charly that suggests origins beyond the corporal realm.