It's ya boi, Simone Torre's Number 1 Fan, comin' at'chu once again with a character sheet. [hider=Character Sheet] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/19K63e2.png[/img] Work in progress; it'll get updated as it gets completed. [h1]Basics:[/h1] Name: Ines Levesque Gender: Female Age: September 16th, 1895 (Aged 19) Sexuality: Bisexual Race: Darcsen - From Ostend, Atlantic Federation Height: 178 cm / 5’10” [h1]Appearance:[/h1] If you knew anything about Ines prior to seeing her, you’d know two things by looking at her; She’s been in a lot of fights, and because her face doesn’t look like a pulped assortment of overcooked mashed potatoes, she’s won those fights. For gutter trash hewn from the back alleys and dirty streets of Northern Francia, Ines is very well-developed woman. Her back would make some circus strongmen put their shirts back on, to say nothing else of the rest of her. Nobody’s perfect, but a commonwoman without flaws is a rare thing, and Ines has flaws aplenty all along her sinuous, scar-tissue peppered body. She’s not bad looking by any stretch of the imagination, even if she often looks like she spent most of the day taking a mud and blood bath in a minefield, but Ines isn’t really the type to doll herself up, anyway. It would be black in any other light and by any other eye, but in direct noontime daylight (or under the headlamp of an Imperial interrogator), there’s a faint, radiant, midnight blue shine to her long, semi-splintered hair, betraying her Darcsen heritage. Most days, she’s fine with it being tucked into her undershirt and covered by a helmet. Her uniform is likely to be the nicest piece of clothing she owns. That a dirt-stained, patchwork overcoat mended and stitched back together more than any article of clothing has a right to be released from its’ eternal torment says enough about what the woman bothers wearing otherwise. She doesn’t bother ironing out the wrinkles or folding out the creases when the whole thing will just get dirty again. Jewelry tends to just get caught in things, and that’d also give the impression that Ines fancies carrying around a chunk of silver around her neck anyway. Across her chest lay her pocketed bandolier, each filled with stripper clips for her necessary ammunition, with the bottom two pouches remaining empty for used clips, or whatever else might need a pocket on the battlefield. Belt supplied with a simple leather holster - clearly secondhand from the numerous scratches, water stains, and restitching across the top - as well as a larger pouch situated near her back. Grenades would run along one of her various belt notches, ready to be primed and thrown as needed. [h1]Personality:[/h1] You’d call her “apathetic”, but that’s not a good descriptor for her since she isn’t going to let you do something incredibly stupid without getting yanked back to the ground where you belong. “Bitchy” is a closer one, but there’s a lot of times where you’ll come to appreciate her unique sense of honesty, and more often than not, she’s a fairly relaxed person. And somewhere along those fine lines, the brutally honest, hard-knock, debatably hedonistic, yet ultimately empathetic, comraderous, and utterly fearless to the point of lacking common sense image of Ines forms in a sea of fine lines. Within the mindset of Ines writhes a burn-down-your-house, rob-your-family, steal-your-girl, and “generally not into fair fights” mentality, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t follow rules. There’s plenty of unspoken rules she’ll never bother to tell you about, because if they bother verbal repetition, it’s honestly a miracle you’ve gotten this far in your life. Somewhere while she walks the fine line between vengeful and merciless, Ines shows a quaint sense of loyalty few come to truly appreciate. After all, actions speak louder than words, and Ines is a woman of few words. Ines isn’t a “model soldier” by any stretch of the imagination. When you give Ines an order, what you’re really doing is giving her a suggestion and praying she follows up on your sage advice. Regulations? What HQ doesn’t know can’t hurt them. Curfew? Make sure you fix your hair and chew some mint before you crawl back into camp at dawn so you don’t look like the rolled-off-a-bar-floor drunk you actually are. The things Ines *haven’t* tried at any point in time can be listed on one hand. Now, that being said, does that mean she’s going charging off to go kill a land-ship with a hand grenade and a bottle of whiskey? Of course not. Ines isn’t stupid. She won’t make stupid decisions and put everyone in jeopardy because the orders aren’t as good as “they could be.” Just don’t be surprised when she starts “making improvements” to the orders you give. It’s almost needless to say that there’s scant difference between her demeanor on and off the line of duty, yet for an occupation necessitating such ardent of discipline as hers, it’s prudent to mention. [h2]Details:[/h2] Rank: Private Role: Shocktrooper Equipment: SM Longfield Carbine Shrapnel-Ragnite Bombs [h2]Potentials:[/h2] “Don’t Tell Me What To Do” - Ines didn’t get as far as she did with some silver-spoon university officer breathing down her neck along the way. Nobody told her she wasn’t doing something right when she fought off thugs with knives and cudgels, or when she practiced 15 hours a day just to get a shot at a fight. Saying she finds herself estranged from most officers is a futile endeavor in understatement, and Ines much prefers to work as independently as possible. Pull her leash too hard, and she’ll yank back until she’s dragging you through a river of mud that game of tug of war. “Calm Like a Bomb” - Ines is a sub-zero, ticking time bomb waiting for anyone to challenge her. She’d fought off who knew how many people in her life, and she made sure they all took back with them a new lesson about trying to mess with her. What was giving one more lesson to her? What better place than here? What better time than now? She might be cool for a second, but once you set her off, all Hell can’t stop her. “Gant Argente” - Brass knuckles and sap gloves and boot-stowed steel knives, a bolo thrown through the air while it sings; These are a few of her favorite things. Close combat goes from chaos to absolute madness faster than a junkhead’s brain spins on a New Year’s Day, and Ines has learned well that the ability to use anything as a weapon is how you get through encounter after encounter in tight corridors. Rifle butts, knives, boots, sandbags, chairs, coffee pots, you name it; if you can put it between you and someone else hell-bent on making your smile stretch ear-to-ear via shiny steel, Ines will use it. [h1]Background:[/h1] Ines’ life was set up for failure since the day she was born. It only took her mom 4 months to realize she had gotten pregnant from her now-ex-boyfriend in a drunken affair on a New Year’s Day, and living on the shoreside of an inner city shanty town wasn’t any place to raise a child. A child without a father, no doubt. And the worst part? Her mom was a Darcsen. Ostend, Francia. Worst place in the world. That dockside city stood on the corner of nearly four countries, and sitting on the corner of 3 different continental powers meant someone always wanted something. When there’s a strong enough desire for it, people are going to get whatever that “it” is. That meant you could walk for half an hour and pass through two dozen cartels, gangs, mafias, and “militias”, their turf, and get yourself acquainted with the largest assortment of weaponry you’d see outside of the national armory. Let’s just say that not all of those gangs were interested in sharing their slice of the pie with some nasty Darcsen bitch walking all over their street. Ines came into the world fighting for her life, and one by one, the world conspired to make sure she was going to keep fighting if anything she ever had meant anything to her. Ines fought every day, with everyone and everything. They said she’d grew up to be nothing but a hoodlum, either dead, in prison, or being yet another ganger where there needed no more. She became a great fighter, no doubt, and given her lengthy history of picking fights with street rats and wannabe thugs, whoever her role model was in life told her she needed to do something with her God-given talents, and for once in her whole life, Ines took the advice of an authority figure. Northern Francia was steeped in a culture of street fighting, born and bred from years of experimentation and practical knowledge. Ines joined an underground fighting club and never bothered looking back, convinced that a ghetto-born bastard Darcsen with nothing to lose and everything to win had nowhere to go but forward. Money came quickly, and so did problems following that money. The woman won, no doubt about it, but really, who is naive enough to pay even a half-Darcsen in full? And who’s of sound mind to so quickly convince themselves Ines was an honest fighter, that those victories were hers and not those of an unseen fixer? Better yet, who wouldn’t want to beat up the best fighter on the city block, and take the champion’s name for themselves? The more she fought, the more blood flew; the more solutions she made, the more problems sprung up in their place. Good friends were a luxury Ines could scant afford; with friends like hers, enemies would have been a far more welcome substitute. The night she won the highest title - Gant Argente, begrudgingly granted to the greatest masters of martial arts - that title was not a reward, in spite of her victory. That was a farewell gift. The draft came to her city, and with it, the denizens of the poorest were offered up to the plate, most of the best fighters included. Nobody left dared fight her, either of fear or of superstition. And without fights, there was no money. She could teach, maybe, but who was left to teach? Ines had no other skills, no other fruits of labor to sell herself for. There was enough to worry about with debt and demands of tribute. So, what good was there to be locked away in a gilded cage? A big name title for being the best fighter really meant nothing when the city stood at the brink of invasion and her life at the helm of collapse, the slow realization that Ines had to do the only thing she knew how to do was how she would get out of this. She’d fight her way out of it, kicking and screaming, and dammit, she’d stand on a mountain of Imperials if it meant she’d just get a quick ducket. Walking into the recruitment office was just like the ring; With nowhere to go, nothing to lose, and everything to win. [h3]Affiliations:[/h3] Joan Levesque - Mother (Alive) Olivier LeBlanc - Father (Estranged) Guy Levesque - Half-Brother (Alive) [h3]Relationships:[/h3] Nobody. Yet. [/center] [/hider]