- Joined
- Dec 27, 2015
- Messages
- 4
- Reaction score
- 0
Kwasi Ori
[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/CicNNmB.png"]FULL NAME: Kwasi OriAGE: 25
SPECIES: Human
HEIGHT: 5’6"
WEIGHT: 120
EYE COLOR: Green (green to brown central heterochromia).
HAIR COLOR: Black, blonde tips.
SKIN COLOR: Bronze.
MARKINGS: Flat pale scar on her chin and over the bridge of her nose, scarring on palms, freckles on face and body.
FACTION: Indie - The Accord
RANK: N/A
FORCE SENSITIVE: Nah
[/fancybox4]
Personality
[fancybox2]
[/fancybox2]
Biography
[fancybox2]WIP!
She deconstructed it as soon as she was old enough to speak Basic, and to know that this heavy, sharp-at-the-edges thing defined her in ways that other words did not. Like father, like daughter. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. She would never be her father.
✵
And she was born so far from her homeland that she never learned the taste of the air, or the feeling of being and belonging in her skin and nestled in her bones and rendering her alive. In the quiet moments of wandering, the sky myriad and strange above her and belonging to no one and nothing—safe in this at least, the same sky threatened them all, to crash down at any moment, they’d all slink back to the outer dark, to join their animal cousins, purged of their language and silly affluence. She never asked in these moments, the words a whisper, hanging off the jaded lips of her consciousness, just out of reach, in the forest of her mind rather than the plains, she can’t see it through the trees, but it is there all the same, always there.
How can I atone for the sins of my father?
Because her father was monster and machine. Her father was saint and abomination. Her father was a painter of modern destruction the tools of his trade, hands and metal, bones and fire. And her father was the god at whose ankles she begged redemption and forgiveness and hoped for the olive leaf to pass before her lips and settle on her tongue and name her daughter. She belongs to no one but this man; half mad and half monster, who wrought only carnage from the tips of his fingers. Who created only destruction. Crafted a daughter
✵
She’s walked into streets of cities and known nothing but loneliness. Delicate, gleaming and silver spines, the backbones to civility, the framework of the empire on which her father dismantles with every gesture, rise before her, going on in every direction. She’s got her own personal altus mundi and it is not here, no, not among those who take and feed on the souls of the living.
And her father goes before her, an alchemist. A shadow. A wraith. A redeemer. A sinner. When he says, a smile that could kill, ‘We’re going to paint the town red.’ He means it.
And the new word for natural disaster, that should rightly be her father’s name, blooms between lips and sours on tongues. Terrorist.
This is what I am, she thinks staring at her hands, tracing the ring of Solomon with her eyes and finding it broken. Damned from the start.
✵
Her father says to her, ‘upon this rock I will build my church.’ And by rock he means daughter and by church he means future. And he hands her the tools of his trade. And abject and broken and with no other choice but to take them, she does. Because they’ve never been good at saying what they mean and they’re better at saying what other people want them to mean. From father to daughter.
And she learns how to build and how to destroy because it is the only thing that suits her. Because under her skin she is a whir of vessels and nerves, of bone and meat, of life and dying things and this is mechanical and this is different and this is who she was born to be. And an explosion works away her thoughts, runs her consciousness down the gutters until there is nothing left but the after-taste of gasoline on a tongue speaking archaic and lost invocations. Animal sounds.
✵
And the possibility of it makes her sick with wonder. And when she looks at her hands, sees the life line, sharp and crooked and thinks, the hands of the father.
And thinks, my hands and not my hands.
daughter of a terrorist, semi-terrorist herself, and lover of all things mechanical
- born without a home for the crimes her father committed
- originally her father was some sort of corporate goon who forswore his ties to explode some stuff and kill a few people
- kwasi grew up disenfranchised and alone and that has never really left her
- she's extremely bitter about the whole thing
- she has a really bad relationship with her dad, like it's really toxic and emotionally unstable
- definite 100% asshole
- 'saved' from her life of destruction by someone
[/fancybox2]
Misc.
[fancybox4=http://i.imgur.com/UDDT8J4.jpg"] GEAR: Describe the items that your characters carries with them.DROIDS:
SKILLS: Describe the skills that your character possesses.
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES: Describe in moderate detail the strengths and weaknesses of your character.
ROLE-PLAYS: Post the links and the titles to all of your characters Role-Plays. To make things easier, post the link and name here as soon as you enter the Role-Play thread.
[/fancybox4]
Last edited: