Name: Preacher Maria Age: 15 (she thinks - it's not like she has birthday parties) Gender: female Facial expression: * a raised brow * or some sort of cheeky grin - maybe this one would work best? idkidk * or looking like she's prone to violence (lol mist you choose between 'em idk) - has a scar on the left side of her face from jaw to cheek - has scar on left shoulder as well Hair: Long, navy hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Reaches a bit past her waist when pulled up into the ponytail. [x] Eye color: a bright gold, large Skin color: dusky brown (for reference, she is a shade or a few shades lighter than Shakuntala) Outfit: Civilian: • hand wraps, off-white in color, dirty-looking. they reach from palm to mid-forearm • a long tattered dark blue vest, torn, worn. It has many pockets. It was once richly patterned, but now the design had faded. • wrapped shirt, same off-white as hand wraps, same type of material. covers from under the pants' waistband to over her chest • leather sandals, brown, open toe. They are knee height. • dark red & blue striped poofy pants, gathered at knee. The stripes are subtle as both colors are fairly dark. the pants have a few rips here and there. - • outfit & skin ref ->[x] Uniform: • Mix 'n match • shirt made of wrapped strips of cloth. covers from under the pants' waistband to over her chest - tube top style • no jacket (mmm bare arms bby) • no waist wrap - so that should be.... custom shirt (tailor ticket), white pants, bondage straps/harness, thigh boots.
Personality: competitive | loyal | violent | cheeky | determined Preacher believes strongly in first impressions. A life lived in the slums taught her to say 'better safe than sorry', to trust her instincts and gut feelings. Unfortunately for some people, this means if her first impression is bad, she will think ill of that person unless they do something drastic to change her views. This same trust for her gut instinct extends into new situations as well; Preacher makes snap decisions and sticks to them.
This can lead to her being impulsive. Preacher is prone to thinking with either her fists or her flirt and has landed in many a fight because of it. But she's never regretted any of it - only certain repercussions. After all, no one likes losing a fight, especially her. If given a second chance, she will try to even the score with an almost fatalistic determination. When her fists fail her, she is gifted with a sharp tongue and loves prodding people into anger or convincing them to do things for her. One thing's certain: Preacher's no meek, biddable miss.
The things or people that Preacher believes in are absolute to her. Once won over, Preacher will follow someone without question, devoting herself to their success. Right now, that number one person is only her. Despite her current self-centered nature, she is very aware exactly of what she owes to whom. Preacher will pay every debt, even every score.
History: If someone had ever asked, Preacher would say her first memory is of shivering. It always seemed to be cold on the streets of the Eastern Alleyway. Even in summer, the lean-tos and the nearby wall cast cool shadows over this section of Shiganshina. She was born here, in this slum of the city. Of her parents, not even memories remained; they had either died or perhaps just left her there to fend for herself. It wasn't uncommon. No family in the district really needed another mouth to feed - especially not in the Eastern Alleyway. As an orphan of sorts, Preacher was granted the last name Maria by default: the same name shared by the walls encircling everything. Her first name, the moniker 'Preacher' instead came from Pastor Hoen, or rather, her association with him.
Luckily for Preacher, and most children within the walls, the Wallists provided compulsory education and free breakfasts to any child who came. Pastor Hoen was the educator for this near-forgotten section. Even after lessons had ended, Preacher found herself staying behind, listening to the old man drone one and on about how glorious the great walls were, how pure. She wasn't particularly interested in the walls, but his place was warm and dry. It was Pastor Hoen who had suggested Preacher dress as a boy. After all, life was simply a bit easier if you had less worry about being sold to a whorehouse. Of course, there were male whorehouses as well, but they were fewer and less of a threat. So Preacher continued to go to Pastor Hoen's lessons and sleep in the driest corner of a street that she could find. And when she was old enough to be recruited by Tinker's gang, they gave her the name 'Preacher', which was a bit better than 'you there'
Tinker ruled his gang with an iron fist. A twenty-something man heading a gang of children seemed extra unsavory, but Tinker limited their actions to thievery, mostly. Under his tutelage, children with no place to go had a roof over their heads and, most of the time, food. In return, he taught them how to become excellent thieves, pocketing the extra profits. It was a lucrative operation for the man, but failures were still punished viciously. Tinker did not hesitate to beat under-performers or deprive them of a sleeping place. Life under Tinker was harsh, but it was better than nothing. It was only through extreme luck that Preacher's gender was never exposed. But now, as she was getting older and older, the day was growing nearer that she would be expelled from the gang and forced out on the streets once more. After all, thieves were best when they were small, impressionable, and entirely under Tinker's control.
Hobbies: Right now, her life doesn't really allow her hobbies. She likes drawing on things when she can and sleeping. As she grows away from that life, she will develop an affinity for action-packed books and, oddly enough, math.
Posted: Sun May 11, 2014 4:44 am
Rambling rp that explains her history - wip
Preacher slid her palm along the rough wood; the whorls and dips felt dull, a result of her own thickened skin. At one time, she supposed, her hands had been soft, callous-free, and the splintery wood would've pierced deeply. But that was when her hands were a child's: small, soft things, only useful for twisting around handfuls of a mother's hair. That had been many years ago, if ever. Maybe such memories of mothers and warmth were really only the wishful dreams of a child alone from the start. Preacher blinked and looked around. Even though not long ago, she had called these streets home, it was odd, almost discomfiting to come back here now. She had grown beyond this place. Preacher's uniform suddenly felt strange, constricting, as if the memories of years past had grasped the leather straps 'round her chest and pulled. A gasp tumbled from her lips and the echoes of long-avoided memories pushed into her ears. The hard crack of a slap, the thud of a kick, a twisted knife and anguished groan from some unlucky b*****d's gut: this had been the music of her childhood. Her boot scuffed on the worn street, the stone's original grey long since marred by unidentifiable stains. Straightening, she forced herself to stand still, at attention, and fought the urge to laugh: not a humorous laugh, but one born from an almost fatalistic certainty that she would, somehow or other, always end up back here. This alleyway even smelled like the same dried-up piss and pig guts as before. Preacher shivered. Without a doubt, this was the Eastern Alleyway, her home.
Or it was. She had managed, mainly by a stroke of good luck and one strangely intuitive man, to run far enough away to join the recruits. But, and the inevitability of it was oppressive, here she was again. The buildings, even the wall loomed over her like an oily cloud. It would be so easy to slip back into her life here, into the thieving, the fighting, the filthy day-to-day existence. It made her feel dirty. She remembered when they issued uniforms at the beginning of training - she had almost cried because they were the first clothes that were truly hers alone. And her eyes had blurred again when her commanding officer ordered her to take a scalding bath because she 'stunk like a rotting dog in summer'. Those words had seemed oddly kind. Finally, Preacher felt as though she had somewhere to belong. But now she was back here, among the refuse and disgusting mulch that made up life in the Eastern Alleyway of Shiganshina. Captain Grant had ordered her accompaniment on some unknown errand. Preacher knew she was chosen only for her origins. She could navigate this area with her eyes closed and her arms bound. Here, she was useful. Feeling a headache brewing, Preacher allowed herself to lean discreetly on the house at her back. A sturdy affair, it was one of the few buildings that stood whole in this rundown area. Grant was currently inside, conducting what he had jokingly called "strategic maneuverings". Preacher just hoped he'd finish before it became dark. Idly, she blew a strand of navy colored hair out of her face.
"Ay, whatchet!" With that useless warning, a thin body collided with hers. Pallid brown eyes glanced up at her before the boy whipped away from her, jerking as though she carried an infectious disease. He seemed to freeze for a moment, as if caught by a ghost, then he was gone, streaking off into one of the many maze-like offshoots of the alley. The patter of his feet faded quickly. Something about him had been familiar, like a half-forgotten dream. Suddenly, she knew. Dollface. He had been one of the younger kids in the old gang, often delegated to begging or collecting the spoils from the lifting lay. His pretty face had made him utterly suited to begging: limpid soulful eyes wrung coins from even the harshest of old matrons. And the boy who had collided with Preacher was him, beauty still apparent as he had aged. His face would make even titans think before devouring him. Preacher cracked her neck, irritated. Unfortunately, Dollface's appearance only meant one thing. Tinker.
Tinker was a bully, an underhanded slum lord of a gang of kids. A gang that, until a short while ago, Preacher had also run with. She had never been an 'official' member of the gang hierarchy, though she had been held to the same standards. In reality, it was simply easier to go through Tinker rather than find a fence who wouldn't royally rip off a child. Not that Tinker didn't rip off the children, he most assuredly did. But he also provided shelter and the occasional bit of food to orphans who had no other recourse. Orphans like Preacher. She gritted her teeth. Sure enough, the thud of feet approached and she steeled herself. He had put on weight since last she saw him, she thought dispassionately. But even so, he seemed smaller, less threatening. A gaggle of pre-teens followed in his wake. They must be looking for Dollface and that meant one thing: Tinker had not stopped his dabbling in prostitution and Dollface was next. Her stomach roiled. Thievery was one thing, but selling actual people was unacceptable. Clearly, she was lucky she had gotten out when she did. She held a brief hope that they would simply move on, leaving her alone and unrecognized. Preacher's luck was never that good.
"Whaaatttt? Is thata Preacha? I'da seen that blue hair anywheres." Tinker stepped closed to her, leaned in. He smelled of piss and destitution. Lazy blue eyes scanned her closely, but Preacher held her stance, moving not one whit. Suddenly, those eyes widened and he danced back a few steps.
"Ehhhh, m'boys, take a look! She were a girl afta all! No fair tah be keepin such a seeecret." Tinker raked his eyes over her body and hitched his trews up, drawling out the last word lewdly. Preacher ignored him. This was precisely why she had gotten out. She had known, in the end, there were only three choices for her. To be a doxy, be a recruit, or be dead. Funnily enough, all three had about an equal chance of survival. Silently, she cursed Captain Grant for dragging her out here. Narrowing her eyes at Tinker, she shot him a fierce, yellow glare.
"Lemme be, Tinker. I'm here on business. Be on your way." Her voice carefully held no inflection - Preacher really didn't need to be involved in another fight, not with last week's fiasco hanging over her head. Tinker scowled at her, his face clouding like the sky overhead.
"Lookit you, you think you're too high 'n' mighty for ol' Tinkah, now? Witchur fancy uniform and yer boots and yer self-righteous face. Even tryna drop th'accent. Dun look so smug, b***h. You'll be backa here, sure as sunshine. Mebbe you'll even come back lickin' my boots. Or lickin' summat else." His thick tongue swept outward and over his lips in a disgusting leer. Once again, he leaned in close, his fetid breath ghosting on her cheek. She almost choked. Her stint in the trainees had reactivated her nose, so to speak. It was... unfortunate. Had he always been this disgusting? A finger inched towards Preacher's face and slowly, oh so slowly, he dragged it down her dusky jawline and traced her collarbone. Preacher grit her teeth. Enough. In an instant, she moved, pushing off the wall with one booted foot. In the next, Tinker was slammed up against that same wall, arm twisted behind his back.
"Ger off me, you c**t!" he screeched shrilly. Her hands moved precisely and his cursing was cut short by a near-deafening wail of pain as Preacher deftly broke his ring finger.
"I toldja to leave me be, Tinker," she whispered into his ear, malice coating each syllable. Her accent always came back out when her temper flared.
"I ain't a part of your gang anymore and I've got no business witcha, ye ken?" On the last word, she twisted his broken finger slowly, relishing in his whimpers. The boys who had followed him on the hunt for Dollface stared, wide-eyed, afraid to move. A visceral grin stretched across Preacher's face as she turned her head and winked at them.
"Tell ya gang to run along now, or it's gon be anutha finga you'll be amissing. Up ta you." With a squeak, Tinker dismissed his gang, perhaps in the hopes that Preacher would let go of him. She chewed her lip for a second, debating the merits of releasing him or breaking just one more finger. Even this internal debate surprised her. Before, she would've broken his fingers and more, but she was changed from two years ago - her anger was a well-controlled beast instead of a raging fire. Unfortunately, the squeaking of a door interrupted her thoughts.
"Well, well, Trainee Preacher. Having a spot of fun, I see. Better finish with that; we've got other places to be. You have," He looked at his pocket watch, a gaudy affair of filigreed gold. "...two minutes." Captain Grant's voice boomed over her head. He was a big man, with a big voice, and apparently an equally large sense of justice. Boots clicking against the pavement, Grant winked and turned smartly around. With a quiet thud, the door closed behind him. And, once again, it was just Tinker and Preacher. It would be a lie to say that Preacher took no pleasure form his pain. Instead, she found she enjoyed the small whimpers and wheezing breaths of the man who used to beat her black and blue. She could still remember the feeling of his boot connecting with her stomach, the retching bouts that followed after and the dizziness that didn't fade for days. But more than that, she remembered Dollface's eyes. Preacher couldn't help it, she slammed him against the wall one more time, ignoring his cries for mercy. Mercy? When he had shown none? When he had sold Kasper one night and they had found his body the next: violated, mutilated, dead? A thousand years in a titan's stomach would be too little for Tinker.
"How 'bout wes strika a deal, Tinker. I kin letcha go iffin you promise me summat."
"Ya ********' guttersnipe b***h! Jus' lemme go; I'll give ya all the pretty words ya need," he sneered. Preacher made a tsking sound with her tongue. This clearly wouldn't be as easy as she wished. Not that she cared; it only gave her an excuse for more violence. And Preacher was, at heart, a rather violent person. It was probably equal parts temperament and upbringing, she mused. And right now, her temperament was displeased - being here had set her on edge and seeing Tinker and Dollface had pushed her over. A beast lurked behind her golden eyes. She heard the slow, heavy footsteps of Captain Grant. Her two minutes were over.
"This is fer Dollface," she hissed, and abruptly bent back his index finger, snapping it neatly. She whirled as Captain Grant opened the door and saluted him smartly, not bothering to watch Tinker slump downwards. He wailed pitiably, clutching his hand. Slowly, haltingly, he stood, assessing both Preacher and Captain Grant. Although Preacher's back was turned towards him, he could see the fire in Grant's cobalt eyes. Victory for Tinker was impossible. He spat at Preacher's feet.
"Ya dirty whore! Jus' you wait, Preacha, you''ll be backa here 'n' I''ll be waitin'." With that last threat, he scampered off. As the sound of his footsteps faded, Grant sighed. Shaking his head, he put one heavily muscled arm around Preacher, leaning in as if to impart a great secret.
"Listen, kid.... Next time, don't have so much fun, okay?" He winked. With one final squeeze of her shoulders, he let go and sauntered off, whistling merrily. Shaking her head, Preacher followed.Time to head back to the barracks.
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