iBrevity wrote:Number: #1.
Birth Name: Unknown [assumed to be Ren].
Alias: Ren.
Job Description: Discreet assassin/mercenary.
Details: Throwing Weapons Specialist.
Species: Red Panda/Wolf, Anthro.
Gender: Female.
Personality: Surprisingly, Ren doesn't at first glance, or even under focused scope, seem like any sort of women who would at one point of time entertain the career of an assassin.
She is fairly exotic and well-raised, and due to this she is generally quiet and reserved. She was raised with believing that manners are something more important and in fact this facade gets her in much further then something more complicated would serve.
Without a loud mouth, or being verbally aggressive in the slightest, Ren is easy to be around and easy to make friends with; although inwardly, she is always suspicious and faintly worried that this friendship, this negotiation, will in the end stab her in the back. This makes it much more difficult to earn her trust, but once she makes somebody her friends, it becomes something for life.
In the group itself, Ren only handles the throwing objects as this is all she feels comfortable with. If she is forced to, she will submit to a gun; but a flare of gunfire and the flickering lights of bullets makes her fall back into the vortex of memories that sometimes swirl her back into remembering the death of her parents.
Likes: Tea, flight, ninja stars, antiques.
Dislikes: Handguns, liars, ships, the rich.
Reason for Adoption: I really, really love her design, first off. <3 But secondly, she would make a perfect assassin character; I'm creating a group of beautiful anthro wolves/dogs/foxes to form a mercenary group, and I only have Rouge, one lonely girl. xD She would get art, love, and stories, and would go straight to my character website [which is currently heavily under construction]. I can imagine that I would be the best owner I possibly could for her; and I am often inspired to write, and even with the small amount I have wrote for her now, I would love to continue with a story involving Rouge. <333
Background:
Even as a child, I had dreams of flying.
I would wake up from my nursery nap with the roar of wind in my ears and a tattered pulse from adrenaline. My grin would reach from ear to ear. Sometimes, when my babysitter was distracted, I would zoom around the house and make noises like an airplane. My father was so proud. He thought his darling little girl was going to be a pilot.
But when I was sixteen years old, I discovered a certain item called a ninja star. I had seen the prop used in movies before, of course, and had always thought the glittering idea was appealing; but I had never looked into it. The present arrived the evening before my birthday and I had scampered up to my room, hiding the box beneath my jacket. I just assumed that it was from a friend; and it was only when I looked at it in private, and realized that it was marked with a mere single note, that I recognized that it wasn't.
The note said something entirely too simple. It read: "If you can't fly, make other things."
I had taken it as a joke. I had a particularly clever friend at the time and blamed it on her; but when I had wiggled the top of the box off and peered inside, those smirking throwing stars grinned back at me. They were not fake; the numerous sides glistened with polish. They were sharp enough to slice my fingertip when I casually picked one up.
It was only then that my fascination started. In the beginning, I tried to hide it from my mother. She was such a sensible women that she wouldn't appreciate the tomboyish behaviour in me, I was sure. So I tucked those prized possessions into a corner of my bedroom that I knew would never be touched and began practicing, and in a year, I was good enough to hit a mark feet away.
Within two years, I was good enough to be considered the best. But those who are the best are known only to themselves, for there is a danger in being better then anyone else; namely that all your competition wants you dead. I didn't think anybody would take it seriously. I bragged to a few friends and the reputation spread.
I guess the rumors reached the wrong ears. I guess some rival assassin figured I was somebody's apprentice, somebody's upcoming weapon, and they snuck into my house one night and slaughtered my family. I was left alive with a tattered scar across my lower stomach that should had gutted me. I woke up in the hospital days later with only a memory of revenge to keep me alive.
----
I glared at him.
"No, not rem." Folding my lips into a pout, my eyes grew sharper. "Ren. Like the bird, a wren?"
He frowned back at me, obviously tasting my sass. Although I softened my expressions a little, I could tell the damage was already done. He handed my resume back to me with a pompous gleam to his beady little eyes. "Well sorry, Ren, but we don't need your kind working here."
I growled and ripped it out of his hand, careful not to upset the meticulous order of the papers. "My kind?" I repeated, on the verge of a temper tantrum. My stomach scar was hurting. The nurses had warned me again and again not to do any activity with it, but I had figured it was okay; it had been three months since the accident. I could feel the skin tearing at the seams there and winced, but hid it.
He politely stood and shook his head. "I mean with disabilities." His gaze went straight to my stomach, where a small spot of blood was beginning to soak through my shirt. I took a deep breath and steadied my shaking hands.
"Thank you for the interview."
The office door rattled in its hinges when I stalked out of there.
-----
When my family had been slaughtered, for some reason the first thought to come to my head did not involve surviving. In fact, I comfortably lived off the welfare of my neighbors for months while I helped the policemen and the funeral home, and it was only then, only when the last cop car pulled out of my driveway, that I realized what a mess I was in.
The house didn't technically belong to me. My father had never wrote a will; or if he did, it had not been uncovered by his lawyers. None of my items were even mine now. And the carpet in the front foyer, the shag carpet I used to bury plastic horses in and pretend they were lost at sea, was soaked so thick with blood that even the heavy carpet cleaners couldn't save the pristine white color. An ugly stain washed blood red waves onto its banks.
So I took all my clothes, my personal belongings, a ring to remind me of my mother, and left. I hitch-hiked my way across the country, looking for any place I might belong, and finally settled in a small town in Maine. That was where I began looking for work I was never granted, because according to all the local employers, my lack of healthcare and the festering wound that required daily medical treatment was too much of a downfall.
I got creative, and for a few months, it actually worked. I avoided people looking too closely. I survived for three months; and on the cusp of talking a soft-hearted man into a job, a young woman woke me up from my warm spot on a bench. I was quick to correct my position, jerking myself awake, and gave her room. A ninja star that was tucked as a reminder into my waistband uncomfortably prodded my side and a slight gap in the rise of my shirt made it glitter in the morning sunlight. I blushed when she saw it and carefully pulled the shirt back down.
She remained silent for a while, waiting for something I suspected, and finally quirked a grin. "What are you doing out here?"
I squared my shoulders, used to people being inconsiderate to me. I could tell she was quite a few years older; although it didn't show in her psychical form, her age made my teeth ache. "I'm waiting."
She turned half her body towards me and her grin widened. "Hun, what you're waiting for is me."
I drew back in half a second, both wary and faintly blushing again. Crap. I didn't think a woman would ever hit on me. "Um, I'm sorry, but I think you mis-"
"No, you misunderstand." Abruptly her voice was all business and a focused serious note of irritation in it made me flinch. "I'm here to collect you. My boss requested we get a throwing star specialist, and you're the best of the best." Her words were carefully chosen. She seemed almost earnest. "I found you through the newspapers. We need the best one there is; and thats you."
Suddenly, she lifted her head with a frown. "Dammit. Boss is calling." Rising to her feet surprisingly elegantly, she grinned at me, and after a moment I caught a glimpse of a gorgeous blooming tattoo that detailed the shoulder of one of her arms. I blinked at the exquisite artwork.
"I sent you those ninja stars you know." She remarked casually, running a hand through her short-cropped hair. I stared up at her. I had never even thought about that mysterious gift again; it had been one of the least of my worries, my mysterious benefactor. "You did?" I asked, disconcerted and just totally stunned. I wasn't expecting that.
The young woman laughed and offered me her gloved hand. "The name's Rouge." She introduced lazily, and her dark eyes danced. "I'll come back to pick you up in a few hours." She turned on a delicate heel and sprinted into the falling shadows, disappearing within seconds. I leaned forwad and buried my face into my hands. For a second, all I could see, as though someone had in turn tattooed it to the back of my eyelids, was that leering beauty of a painting that had marred her pure white fur.
Rouge. What an unusual name...
[WIP]
[I have Tripp's permission to post a form for her. Do I need to take a screenshot of it? c:]
[Rouge is on my character site {the link is in my sig}, and she's the woman at the end mentioned.]
I, iBrevity, agree to all terms and conditions for adopting this character.