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@DruSM157 No, bad, go to the corner.
Hey all! The OOC is now open, and we're accepting sheets for review. If you're still interested, mosey on over here: roleplayerguild.com/topics/169643-let… !
M i m r i n
“You haven’t changed, no one has–you’ve just lost everything that made you great, and now you’re…this.”



Character Name

Mimrin of Draethir

Age

Early Twenties

Gender

Female

Archetype

Agile Duelist

Physical Description

Mimrin isn’t an entirely imposing person. She is of average height, but lean and boyish, lacking bulk. Her hair has faded to a pallid white, with only the faintest wash of pink dye remaining in a handful of strands, suggesting a more bombastic life. Her eyes are a burning emerald, miraculously untouched by the resurrection.

The mark of her death is fairly evident: from the ugly scar running the whole of her neck, it’s fair to assume she was decapitated, and not cleanly.

Personality Traits

There are two sides to Mimrin. The one who awoke would have been considered a disgrace to her warmongering homeland. She is reserved, timid, and shies from violence out of fear. Her Draethir blood has cooled, congealed, and left her with a worried, caring attitude. Some might even say Mimrin is friendly.

Then there is Mimrin, the Undying.

Most of those brought back from the grave may feel within them a tug towards their old ways. They may fight urges or give into impulses reflecting who they once were. True to the title once bestowed upon her, the Mimrin of old did not truly die. This past self still lurks in the depths of her mind, not a mere collection of impulses and memories, but a personality all its own. This Mimrin is vile, sadistic, hungry for violence and revels in coaxing the worst out of her compatriots.

And so the Mimrins, Redeemed and Undying, remain in constant struggle. While the former enjoys more frequent and complete control, as they say, old habits die hard. When backed into a corner, like any animal, instincts take over.

Attributes

The Undying
Nothing in Draethir was given lightly, Mimrin tore this title from the hearts and throats and guts of her victims, and its blood-soaked meaning endured in her memories, even after death. It was the duty of Draethir assassins to hunt down valuable targets on the battlefield and dispatch them with vicious efficiency. Often they were considered suicide soldiers, engaging commanders, chieftains and archons, individuals they knew to be highly-trained. Mimrin survived though, on the back of exceptionally quick reflexes and a savage mastery in the art of fighting one-on-one. It stands to reason that these skills do not transfer well when out-numbered, however.

Squeamish Sadist
Redeemed, Mimrin is generally concerned for the well-being of others and tends to shy away from conflict or violence. She’s even adopted a fear of blood since awakening. Mimrin the Undying however, was and is a sadist. She delights in the pain of others, sometimes just delighting in pain itself. Though plenty might find this detestable, at the end of the day if someone needs to be hurt, brought to the very brink of their tolerance for agony, she’s the person to go to.

She Who Fights and Runs Away…
There’s glory in a bloody death, but there’s more glory in living to kill again. Redeemed, Mimrin sees her natural agility and affinity for speed as a godsend to someone who fears and has no talent for violence. In truth however, these skills were developed out of necessity long ago, and Mimrin the Undying much prefers utilizing them to skirt about her enemies, often closer than is necessary.

The Real You
Mimrin lost her memories in the redemption, like all of the redeemed. However, with her past self enduring still, Mimrin the Undying is more aware than most just how changed they can be. If she herself can be reduced to a trembling coward, than the others brought back as well would surely wretch to see what they had become. She looks for signs, for slips back towards her compatriots’ more ruthless natures, and tirelessly attempts to urge them back to their old ways.

Inventory & Equipment

Wrappings of the Draethir Assassins
A tattered mix of dark leathers and iron, one would be hard-pressed to call what remains of this ensemble “armor.” As well, besides the faded black-and-red colors, the only claim it holds to Draethir is Mimrin’s memory.

The Tyrant’s Claws
Gifted during her service, these daggers were the only things buried with Mimrin. While once they may have been beautiful weapons, time has rendered their value almost entirely sentimental. Their conditions are poor, with the better of the two missing its tip and bearing chips along its inward-curved edge, and the worse snapped off entirely an inch or so off the guard.

Gift of Rebirth

Duality/Assimilation:
In addition to being initially unaware of the gift in general, it comes with a secondary caveat–it can only be used by her former personality. This Gift is a supplementary to Mimrin’s fighting style. Conceptually it is a form of sustain, with which she can recover damages done to herself by inflicting damage upon others. In reality what this equates to is a violent, horrid exchange of flesh. By carving into another, the viscera produced replaces what Mimrin has lost in a whirl of scarlet veins. The extent of this reparative Gift’s uses is thus far limited to healing external wounds.
M i m r i n
“Quote that reflects your character.”



Character Name

Mimrin of Draethir

Age

Early Twenties

Gender

Female

Archetype

Agile Duelist

Physical Description

Mimrin isn’t an entirely imposing person. She is of average height, but lean and boyish, lacking bulk. Her hair has faded to a pallid white, with only the faintest wash of pink dye remaining in a handful of strands, suggesting a more bombastic life. Her eyes are a burning hazel, miraculously untouched by the resurrection.

The mark of her death is fairly evident: from the ugly scar running the whole of her neck, it’s fair to assume she was decapitated, and not cleanly.

Personality Traits

Upon awaking, Mimrin would have been considered a disgrace to her warmongering homeland. She is reserved, timid, and shies from violence out of fear. Her Draethir blood has cooled, congealed, and left her with a worried, caring attitude. Some might even say Mimrin is friendly.

This is only half of what she is, however.

From her first waking moment, she has been plagued by a rift. Where some of the redeemed might have only ghosting emotions of their past lives, Mimrin’s old self would not fade so easily. It clings to her mind, disgusted by what she’s become, wanting nothing more than to step into its old skin again. This side of her is, quite simply, evil. It revels in violence, and lies like deceit is its mother tongue. Draethir’s ire for weakness burns within this self, but what does it want? With no more nations to war with, what good is there in national pride? Perhaps this lack of true direction is what allows Mimrin, as she is, to dominate.

Unfortunately the lack of war does not mean lack of danger, and though Mimrin and her old self may both be void of memories, only Mimrin lost her aptitude for violence. When backed into a corner, like any animal, instinct takes over. Mimrin may not know how to fight, but this old, lingering ghost, now calling itself “Mimi” hasn’t forgotten the Draethir way.

Attributes

As mentioned, the rift in Mimrin’s personality is drastic enough to have an effect on her abilities. While naturally agile and swift, one thing the present, more reserved Mimrin did not retain was her previous combative prowess. As such, it is only when succumbing to her more vile self that she becomes any real threat. In this regressed state, she shows an aptitude for close-quarters combat, and excels at hunting down and savagely assaulting singular targets. Her vicious fighting style combined with an almost masochistic disregard for her own wellbeing could lead one to see her as careless, which may be true, but to underestimate her for it would be a mistake. Whoever she was, she survived a long time doing exactly what she does.

Inventory & Equipment

Mimrin took little with her to the grave, implying perhaps that she was not buried with ceremony, if at all. Aside from the remains of a cloth-and-iron ensemble, tattered and bearing only the faintest reminder of the Draethir symbol, the only thing she has are her daggers. Their conditions are poor, with the better of the two missing its tip and bearing chips along its curved edge, and the worse snapped off entirely an inch or so off of the guard.

Gift of Rebirth

Duality/Assimilation: In addition to being initially unaware of the gift in general, it comes with a secondary caveat–it can only be used by her former personality. This Gift is a supplementary to Mimrin’s fighting style. Conceptually it is a form of sustain, in which she can recover damages done to herself by inflicting damage upon others. In reality what this equates to is a violent, horrid exchange of flesh. By carving into another, the viscera produced replaces what Mimrin has lost in a whirl of scarlet veins. The extent of this reparative Gift’s uses is thus far limited to healing external wounds.
M i m i c h i

Mimichi did most of her dreaming in the morning, it had come to be her most anticipated time of the day. When she opened her eyes, while the blurry world hurried into focus, she found she could catch full glimpses of the things that fleeted from her in the day. Some mornings she would see her home, nestled into the Lorro’s crux with naught but the torches to light it in the dark, early morning. Others, the grain in her eyes would fool her into seeing the valley proper, long and tapered like a delta of fertile land. Those were the nice mornings, the pleasant ones whose memories brought less pain than warmth. Some–bittersweetly few–were less kind. In the waking blur she would, on occasion, see her old friends. She would see the other Serpents, strolling the small roads or practicing in the field outside of the manor. She would see her brother, Sazo, sometimes happy, sometimes bearing the look of hatred and betrayal he’d worn the last time she saw him. Yuna, too, would appear on the drearier mornings. She was small, and still had hair down to her shoulders. Sometimes she would smile, sometimes she would cry.

These were the difficult mornings, where the nostalgia weighed so heavy her breath would catch and her eyes would sting. It hurt to see, but it hurt worse for the moments to pass. For every bit of agony, she would not trade them for the world.

This time she saw Hiroyuki lying beside her. His face was abnormally touched by the blur, but she could tell his eyes were shut, and he was smiling. By the way his side rose and fell, it was clear that this time he was sleeping.

A sting caught her eye, and when she blinked the world was focused, Hiroyuki was gone.

Mimichi rolled onto her back and groaned through a series of stretches. She reminded herself, 'this is not the valley,' when she was done and got to her feet. It wasn’t, these were forest trees, much taller and more densely packed than the trees of Lorro. The south was its own kind of lush, one she was not used to, but certainly welcomed. Forests were hard to track through and easy to hide in. Trading in a comfortable night’s sleep on the bed of an inn for the relative safety beneath the towering shadows was something she’d become long accustomed to.

She buried the remains of her cooking fire and pulled her bag down from the branches she’d hid it in. With dismay, she saw one of the flaps had opened, and some of her vials had come open. A misting had passed through earlier, the ground was heavily dewed, her blanket damp. Worst, the moisture had crept into her bag and turned a monkshood paste to slush, which had then seeped into a smaller satchel of raw ingredients.

Frustrated, she dumped the contents of the satchel, then buried the thing itself. It wasn’t exactly rare for ingredients to leak, but where she’d once just pick the replacements herself, her position and disposition made that difficult. She was near a small town, but during festivals even small towns were usually diligent about harvesting the most obvious herbs. What she had left–mostly odds and ends additives, and nearly empty vials of ingredients snagged from the valley–wouldn’t make much without the more basic components. She’d comb with careful eyes along the way, but it was becoming clear to her that she’d need to visit the town to restock what she could. A glance into the pocket holding her money told her it would not be much if she planned to eat.

‘There’ll be work,’ she thought with some level of certainty. Big events, big crowds, these things tended to spark conflicts, and conflicts–at least the way she implemented herself into them–brought coin. Even if nothing needed doing that day, she was confident the next days would see plenty of people in search of aid of one kind or another. Investing in the materials would be worth it. She could likely find cheap food during the festival anyway.

This time she made sure the bag was entirely shut, and all its contents were secure, before slinging it around her shoulder. Last, she hooked the two halves of her weapon to her belt, bound in cloth to keep them from clacking together as much as to hide what they were. She might have called the thing a naginata, if she’d ever seen any respectable form of the weapon come apart at the middle, and require a ridiculous twisting mechanism and pin to keep from breaking at the slightest motion. Even the blade was more a ruined spear than a glaive, which was due more to the shoddy quality of the metal than the shape itself. But it had been cheap, and, to her surprise, had endured crossing a bandit’s sword–though the edge was now severely chipped.

The town, of which she didn’t know the name, wasn’t far. With the traffic, she even felt she could follow the road without trouble. Indeed, festivals, crowds, excitement, they had their merits, and part of her wondered if she might find some enjoyment in the events herself. A small part, though, and one she didn’t give much mind to once she was on her way.
M i m i c h i


Name:
    Kuromizu Mimichi (formerly Kitamura Mimichi), Serpent of the Valley

黒-"Kuro" meaning "black" and 水-"Mizu" meaning "water."
海-"Mi" meaning "sea" and 道-"Michi" meaning "path."

Age:
    35


Totem:
    Snake


Appearance:
    Mimichi has always possessed a sort of youthful androgeny. She is too sharp in the joints to be considered strictly feminine, and too rounded elsewise to be called a man. Her face–unadorned–gives no hint either way. Long hair would have once given her away, but wild foxtails and messy buns are not uncommon among fighting men, nor are they with her.

    She stands at average height for her age, with the kind of lean muscle expected of a woman training since youth. Though she lacks bulk, one could almost tell from her posture alone--straight, with a shell of former pride to it--that she'd spent her life in service to a lord.

    Her attire could be described as “formally practical” or perhaps “ceremonially dutiful.” Toughened yet flowing cloth laid under cured guards about her limbs, never clunky or restrictive but never quite casual either.

Personality
    Once, Mimichi was a brash, hot-headed girl fueled by a competitive nature and an eagerness to serve the ruling family of her home. Later, through a dutiful friendship and eventual marriage to the heir, these fires were tempered by the virtues of combat and second-hand politics.

    Patience, key to the philosophies of the Serpents and the court alike, is engrained into her. Though no longer given to meditation, Mimichi boasts a level of self-control one might expect of a monk. As such, her approach to most things on and off the battlefield is steady and tactical.

    However, beneath Mimichi’s subdued nature is an eroded sense of duty, an understanding reached during the treacherous collapse of the Lorro Valley: loyalty–true loyalty–is without bounds. Sometimes, for the sake of what and who you love, heinous sacrifices must be made and retribution must be forgotten.

Strengths

    Serpent of the Lorro Valley:
    Hailing from a long line of retainers loyal to the daimyo of the Lorro Valley, known as the Serpents of Lorro, Mimichi is a viciously weathered and experienced warrior. Her weapon of choice, the naginata, has long been among the Serpents’ icons, and as such she wields it like an extension of herself. The Serpents utilized an outwardly simple combative style, utilizing the naginata's reach to keep enemies at bay and retaliate with swift pokes or cuts, but they have always molded to a single combat philosophy: Patience. As such, she is a keen observer, able to weave nimbly around opponents, studying their movements until faced with the opportunity to go on the offensive.

    Venomous:
    Aside the naginata, the Serpents’ namesake also derives from their affinity for poisons, and habit for coating their weapons with them. The Lorro, being a lush and plentiful valley, lent its resources to the study of toxicology, which became a founding block of the Serpents’ teachings. Mimichi is able to concoct a variety of elixirs–few of which bear any properties beneficial to long-term health–as well as trace poison through things like smell, taste, and symptoms.

    Motherly Disposition:
    Though separated from her daughter for over a year since they fled the ruined valley, Mimichi raised the girl almost entirely on her own. She understands children, but she also understands what it means to teach, how to nurture, and how to convey meaningful things in simple ways.

    Politically Minded:
    She saw little of her husband in the last years of their marriage, but her years as his body guard taught her many things extending beyond combat. She accompanied him to court, met many nobles, and learned how to navigate the political landscape as she would any other battlefield. Later, when her daughter was poised to become Lady of the valley, she was prepared for the brutal cruelty that would befall her. Now branded a traitor to the empire, Mimichi cannot–and truly never did–consider herself a politician, but she’s taken measures to ensure she would not be so easily ensnared in the many traps the field holds.

Weaknesses

    Wanted Woman:
    Mimichi finds herself entangled in the conspiracy surrounding the fall of the Lorro Valley. Blamed for the murder of her husband, the former daimyo Hiroyuki Kitamura, as well as the kidnapping of her daughter, Yuna, there was a brief time following the siege’s conclusion that Mimichi could hardly step into a town without being assailed by imperial soldiers and headhunters. Though the pressure to bring her in has since slackened, and though the young heiress herself–now living with her uncle–attests that her mother in fact saved her from the siege, the warrant and price on Mimichi remains.

    Honorless:
    The carnage of the siege and the shame brought by Mimichi’s conviction utterly ruined the Serpents of Lorro Valley. The guilt of the bloody swathe she carved in her escape with Yuna combined, weighed heavy enough to break many of her virtues. None would trust a woman condemned of such crimes, and perhaps that is rightly so. The codes of honor, the vows to protect those in need, and the loyalty to her allies, these things have all gone from her. She acts in her own interests, and even in the company of others, one can never be sure if her plans and suggestions truly consider everyone’s wellbeing.

    Nostalgic:
    Mimichi is haunted by the loss of her old life. Often she will see her husband still in the edges of her waking vision, or hear him call out to her in the peaking bustle of a busy street. The greatest ache, though, is that for her daughter, Yuna. The heiress resides with Mimichi’s brother, and a daimyo more powerful than Hiroyuki had ever been, she is still gone under the protection of the Empire. There is little, if nothing, Mimichi would not do to see her daughter again, she is her crux. As well, while she may not consider herself as loyal to the emperor any longer, she always keeps an ear to the ground for news of Yuna’s new home, and any threats that may be encroaching upon it.

    Venomless:
    A wide understanding and skill in toxicology is wonderful when surrounded by a variety of plant life. However, it is currently difficult for Mimichi to obtain the ingredients needed for the more potent poisons of the Serpents. Being a wanted criminal makes navigating more renowned markets difficult, and the smaller farms rarely carry the herbs she requires. As a result, her current collection consists mostly of petty toxins, unfit to adorn her weapon, if prime for meager tasks.
Will also have my CS up today.



Droppin' hella interest in this
V e r a

• Convention Center, Smith's Rest •



It was still cold, Vera wasn’t sure what she’d expected. She wasn’t so flustered as to try and dunk her head into the fluff again, but a nervous boiling had begun to bubble up back in the bar, and she was thankful for the little twists and drifts of icy air that wormed their way between the fabrics of her coat. Of course, as soon as they led to shivers, their presence would no longer be as welcomed. So, to stave that off for as long as possible, she stuffed her hands into her pockets and trotted off at a leisurely pace.

Soon enough that too was interrupted.

“Stop. I’d like a word with you.”

Vera jumped and swiveled around, surprised to see how quickly a woman she hadn’t so much as heard had snuck up on her. She didn’t look particularly official–then again few people besides her mother did–and she didn’t have a badge or anything of the like, but there was something else. Something in the woman’s face, her expression, how everything seemed to be off to her like she was coping with a bout of vertigo, it made Vera afraid, deeply. They were hard eyes staring back at her. Disciplined eyes. Eyes of authority.

“Oh gosh, are you in with the convention?” she stumbled over every word. It couldn’t be that their first day back in town they’d already gotten into trouble, it just couldn’t be. “Is it the noise? You guys probably heard us from the canteen. I’m so sorry, I think–really just one of my friends, a pilot, I think he’s just had a little too much to drink, you know? We’re not trying to make a racket, I promise.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Oh," Vera said, relieved though now just as much confused. “Well uh, what's up? Everything alright?"

Before Vera had a chance to react she found her shoulder grabbed by the cold hands of her pursuer. She saw it coming, Graham’s training had conditioned her just the same but between the surgeries and being disoriented it caught her off guard. It didn’t help the woman was stronger and faster, not unlike a soldier. Without much of a struggle, she was quickly backed into the adjacent wall.

“Don’t. Trust. Ingram. Kalfox.”

Vera stared at the woman like she had headlights for eyes. One hand had, on freshly-forged instinct, come up and grabbed the invading arm by the wrist, but she was small, pinned. Her other hand covered her face, expecting some kind of blow, but nothing came. Nothing but the unnaturally cold warning.

“Wh-huh? What? What do you mean?" she asked, more sputtered, actually. She tried to press herself away, feet up trying to bar the woman's legs from shoving her further, but she kept an iron grip on the sleeve.

“Ingram Kalfox is not your friend. He is not your ally. He is not a saint. Do not trust him.” She spoke again in the same militant tone. Her cold, faded green eyes invoked a sense of seriousness and rage.

Then she let go of Vera’s shoulder, as if affirming that she was not here to hurt her but something entirely different. Nonetheless Vera quaked, and for a few moments kept hanging onto the sleeve. When she realized of course, she let go, but couldn't take her eyes away. Didn't. She yielded gaze, but watched the woman's face. It was strong but weathered, and anger seeped through its cracks, almost desperate. She didn't know this woman, but she knew that look, faces like it, she'd seen it almost every day in Lizzy, sometimes even in mom.

“Okay," Vera said, nodding gently, putting her hands up, as if she even needed to surrender against someone like her. “Something's wrong, I get it, and it's stressing you out. But try and sit in my shoes, this is weird, right? I'm not saying I don't trust you I'm saying this is weird. I'm not gonna call for anyone, okay? You could explain it to me, help me and I'll help you."

“I can’t explain it, Vera. It’s probably better that I don’t. Ingram Kalfox will seek to ruin you and if you let him, he will. Everyone who has ever known him knows this. If you are alone with him, your childhood will be over. Just like Ana’s.” She paused, as if the woman realized something and didn’t like it. Before Vera could speak out with any more questions a gloved hand covered her mouth. “Don’t ignore what I am saying. Always have a gun in your pocket.”

As Vera reached for the woman’s hand for a second time she released her grip and turned as she began to hear footsteps and took off in the opposite direction. Vera wanted to shout 'wait!' or 'stop!' or anything, but when she tried, she coughed, and by then the woman was gone. Still, she scrambled after for a few feet, trying to spy her among the people walking this way and that, but it was hopeless. A few passersby shot her odd looks, but otherwise, it was all as if nothing had happened.

But that wasn't true, something had happened. A stranger had just warned her at force about Stein's dad, and Ana, and she found herself reeling. What had happened to Ana? Was she in trouble? Stein had never mentioned much about her dad, but everyone seemed to get on well enough with him. Everyone except Percy, anyway.

“Oh god," she said, spooking herself. What if Ana was in trouble? She didn't have the clear head or the time to try and work out how, or why, but if there was even "if", then she was wasting time. Wildly, she oriented herself back towards the canteen, and sprinted off to find Percy.
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