Post by foresight on Oct 24, 2010 14:26:08 GMT -5
OOC:
Name: Felix
Age: Sixteen
Basics:
Name: Emily Crowe
Nick name: Foresight
Age: Seventeen
Race: Mutant
Powers:
Empathy - can ' see ' and ' feel ' emotions and intentions in others, which means she can detect lies or fakeness in a person by merely looking at them. It's more an intuitive power than anything else; different colors, different 'auras' ripple around an individual's form, changing color and tangibility depending on what's going through their head, and Emily's own body is hardwired to recognise and react to these instinctively. For instance, the ' sight ' of anger or homicidal intent in another - dark, violent aura, almost black - even if not directed at her, will send a flood of fear-based adrenaline through her body along with the activated ' fight or flight ' mode. The ' sight ' of serenity or nonaggressive intent - light, still aura, almost white - acts as a soother and a sedative. Emily's body unconsciously relaxes. These basic emotions and intentions, the two extremes on either end of the spectrum, can be ' felt ' simply by being in the vicinity. For more complex emotions and intentions, however, like playfulness, jealousy or attraction, Emily usually has to be looking at the person in order to correctly interperet it.
Overall, a rather cool power, right?
Wrong.
There are no surprises for Emily, good or bad. Regardless of whether you're a friend or foe, there's no hiding how you feel about her - or other people. Furthermore, emotions and intentions are not set in stone; they can change in the blink of an eye, particularly with the less stable individuals, so her ability is not usually accurate in the long-term. While Emily can get a feel for a person's personality and range of emotions after a few minutes of observation, it's not a fully reliable technique. Judging someone purely on what she ' sees ' rarely bodes well for potential friendships; it's hard to trust or feel comfortable around people when you can detect every lie, every potential agenda, every attempt at manipulation. In this world, everybody lies. Emily would just prefer that she was not so hyper-aware of such a fact.
It can be rather repulsive, witnessing a boy's casual flirting with a girl you know when you can ' see ' that he's only really interested in getting into her pants; just as it can be very, very awkward when you're instantly able to notice the exact moment when the person you sit next to in class decides they like you so much they want to ask you out - ignoring the fact that they already have a girlfriend. It's enough to drive someone insane; or at least, make them very, very pessimistic and justificably suspicious. So far, Emily is the latter.
Actor/Actress: Monica Bellucci
Male/Female: female
Sexuality: Straight ( assumedly )
In-depth:
Appearance: Emily's personal style is practical, somewhat formal, and flattering enough to emphasis her natural beauty. Jeans and blouses, trousers and shirts; no footwear that she couldn't run in, so high heels are out. Denim jackets, leather jackets, and fitted coats are often seen when it's cold or when she's going out. Black, red, blue, green and brown are preferred. Her black hair is straight, just past shoulder-length and usually kept down; in fact, when it comes to jewellery or accessories of any kind, Emily has virtually none. A couple of clips in her hair ( also useful for picking locks ), a modest black-leather strapped watch, and that's usually it. Little makeup is used, either; her skin is blessedly clear and unblemished, so apart from the occasional use of mascara and lipstick, nothing is used on her face. Her eyes are a reddish-brown that is frequently described as auburn.
It's not known exactly what Emily Crowe weighs but from her relatively lean, petite build it can be easily inferred that she is quite light. She's about five foot four inches in height.
Other Abilities: Observant; physically and metaphorically, she's got eyes like a hawk when it comes to body language and unspoken signals.
Weakness/es:
- Paranoid
- Pessimistic
- Trust issues
- Solitary
- Sarcastic/ sharp-tongued
- Lashes out/ distances herself when feeling vulnerable
- Low tolerance for physical contact/ intimacy
- Feral; strong ' fight or flight ' reflex
Family: None
Affiliation: Xavier Student
History:
Background:
There is a significantly small amount of known, recorded history on Emily Crowe. She went into foster care when she was nine years old; her mother was a drunk declared unfit to be a legitimate guardian, and she never knew her father. Her power activated when she was about thirteen years old, due to a traumatic attempted-rape by one of her older foster-siblings that drove her to running away to live on the streets. During the period in which she slept on park benches, she was gradually befriended and taken in by an unusual nineteen year old boy with a crooked grin and hawk-yellow eyes.
He turned out to be a gang leader and ' pathological liar ' who went by the name of Shinigami ( ' God of death ' in Japanese ); though his lies and shameless manipulation of others around him drove her mad, Shinigami was oddly acceptant of Emily's ' ability ' and was amiably honest with her. His real name was Luca Wolfraine; he had a mother who was blissfully unaware of his rarely-legal operations, and he was special. Like her, yet not like her. He politely refused to elaborate further. Shinigami urged her to educate herself by attending a local free school, and she did so; until he died for the first time.
It was four days after her sixteenth birthday. Surviving members told her it had happened in a skirmish with another gang. They lied. To this day, Emily doesn't know exactly what happened, but she knows it was far more serious than a skirmish with another gang. Another human gang, anyway.
She watched, and waited. Sure enough, Shinigami turned up again. In an alleyway outside her place of part-time employment - a rather rundown restaurant in dire need of waitresses - about to be assaulted with a crazed man with a knife, to be precise.
Emily heard the commotion, and stuck her head out of the backdoor. She heard the knifeman's rantings; he called Shinigamia ' freak ', ' monster ', ' leech ', and accused him of ' draining the whole city ' as he backed the gang leader down the alley. Then, the knifeman stopped speaking and collapsed mid-rant mere feet away from Shinigami. His homicidal aura evaporated; the tangle of angry, violent emotions vanished.
When Emily tentatively checked for a pulse, she found none.
For years, she'd been curious as to why Wolfraine had been given the title ' God of death ' by the street gangs. That day, she learned why; the power he'd never talked about was a frightening one.
The power of seeing others' lifespans, and altering them in order to lengthen his own. The affected person wouldn't even feel their lifespan decreasing, like sand trickling down from an egg-timer, until they dropped dead.
The biggest deception of all. The knifeman had been less ignorant and more paranoid than she.
She would have liked to believe him when he insisted that he had not touched her own lifespan, but his unspoken guilt tainted his cause. When she fled back to the hideout to collect her things, fully intending on running away again - somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far away from the place she'd considered home and the person she'd been tricked into trusting, through honesty rather than lies - there was a piece of paper on her mattress with an address scrawled on it. Beneath the address were the words:
For when you want to stop running. No more lies. I promise.
It was not signed. It didn't need to be. After several months, when Emily did indeed get tired of running and her Empathy was slowly draining her ability to think straight - too many people, too many emotions and intentions inflicted upon her every hour of the day - she sought out the address Shinigami had given her.
It led her to a school of people like herself; a kind of sanctuary for mutants, where she was accepted. Where she was understood - if only to an extent - and told the truth.
When they asked what she wanted her codename to be, she reflexively gave them Shinigami's casual nickname for her; Foresight.
She never found the one truth she so subconsciously feared, yet craved to know. Whether her lifespan had been sapped, she would never really know for certain; but a distant, quietly optimistic fragment of her soul prefers to think that Shinigami kept his word and did not lie to her that night.
Sample RP:
( Recent post from another site; to indicate average post length and writing style, nothing more. )
She hated travelling.
Now, over the years the shackinjira had integrated herself into human society with surprising smoothness, keeping an average routine and a shockingly clean record; the only deaths she'd been responsible for in the past decade or so had been out of pure self defense. Yet still, as far as she was concerned, being on the road for any period of time was slow, boring, and stuffed with too many discomforts to even begin listing off for fear of her temporary meatsuit exploding. The sheer inconvenience of it actually made her seriously consider ditching her car and simply 'fading' to her destination. That, at least, was a faster and infinitely cooler form of transport.
But, she couldn't afford to do that. What with the end well on its way to being nigh and all that crap, Stabinae had a worryingly high price on her head. Wanted, dead or alive, by demons, hunters and angels alike.
Okay, maybe she was just being a tad paranoid. It was quite possible that the angels still couldn't be bothered to deal with her and her fellow three surviving abominations, and the vast majority of humankind didn't even have a speck of knowledge that she existed. It was really only the demons who were definitely out to get her.
Once they found her, that was; Stabinae was very good at staying lost when she didn't wish to be found. So using her awesome supernatural abilities on a whim was out of the question, because it could attract the attention of other supernatural beings and/or hunters. Thus, making her found and no longer lost.
What? Better safe and sorry than sorry and dead.
Speaking of dead... Damn, she was hungry. Normally the shackinjira didn't experience hunger - bloodlust is a completely different concept - but that was in her true form, where she was gloriously untouchable and untrappable. Literally. And while that was all good and fun, being incorporal didn't mean she was invulnerable. If someone shot her with rock salt or something equally pure/holy, she would be stuck dealing with the stinging pain for the next half-decade, courtousy of her unbelievably slow healing rate. So Stabinae went for option B - shameless possession of a young brunette, who only had a few more years to live before her heridatory disease kicked in and snuffed out her life like the fragile candle-flame it was - with the solidness, overwhelming emotional and physical sensations, and of course the bonus insurance of 'I get shot, I don't get hurt' as her human host took all the damage for her.
Except the damage of her stomach slowly digesting itself due to lack of sustainance, but that didn't take long to counteract. The shackinjira's meatsuit had money in her purse, so Stabinae was able to purchase herself a bagel and a cup of black coffee. Rather than sit in the stifling confines of the shop she chose to enter the local park instead, where it was significantly quieter.
Tiny rocks and soil crunching underfoot. Water dripping. Leaves rustling. The distant sound of traffic from the area of town she'd just left - the shackinjira could hear cars and people travelling down the street, the frustrated bark of a dog as it pulled its owner down the sidewalk, a baby crying - and closer sounds, like the sound of someone else's breathing. The click of a shoe on the pavement. All sounds were noticed, noted and mentally catologued for future reference in the space of less than a couple of seconds as she walked. The park was relatively empty apart from a pair of squirrels bickering on the opposite side, and the occasional call of a bird.
Movement off to her right.
Instinctually, Stabinae's head snapped in the direction of the latter; her sharp burgundy eyes scanned past the line of trees, pinpointing the source by the path on the far side. A person - no, wait.
Not just a person. A child. Stabinae's 'all-seeing' burgundy eyes narrowed, watching the young human sit down on the bench. It was no ordinary human; the protectionary aura of archangels hung over it like a vile cloud, and its very body language was significantly different from other children the shackinjira had observed at about that age. Now, Stabinae had never actually come across a prophet before, but demonic intuition informed her that this was exactly what she was looking at.
Overall, it left only one decision. Confront or avoid; and Stabinae tended to avoid things if she could. Avoidance of all things angelic really went without saying, seeing as she was a monster from the Pit herself.
The 'child' seemed to have noticed her presence, which meant that avoidance was unlikely now. Stabinae stood on the path, arms folded, her gaze clinical and assessing.
The shackinjira wasn't stupid enough to consider approaching what was potentially a prophet with a weapon. If the child wanted to see her, it would have to come to her side of the foliage. The young trees weren't exactly ideal for cover or camoflage, but they were enough to be a hindrance if someone tried to shoot at her.
