Post by ingridbirch on May 13, 2012 20:40:18 GMT -5
INGRID BIRCH
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Play by: Iselin Steiro
Race/Species: Gargoyle
Species Info: All of Ingrid’s teeth are sharp; sure, the canines are longer and more feral than the others, but her mouth is a bit of a nightmare. Her fingernails are also thicker and more talon-like than the average human’s. There is something to her eyes that, while not distinctly Gargoyle, is wild and slightly unnerving.
D.O.B.: August 12th, 1938
Age they appear: Early 20’s
Actual age: 74
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Features: If a person were to see Ingrid from behind, they might assume she was a tall, skinny young man. Her build is androgynously slender, with no hips or chest to speak of. While her face is distinctly feminine, with high cheekbones and full lips, the expressions she is usually be found to be making often negate any sort of attractiveness to be found there. For a normal human, her build and sleight weight would mean frailty, no matter how loud her bark. For Ingrid, she doesn’t just let her Gargoyle blood do all the work for her: she actively works out and runs to stay fit, toned, and strong. Anyone who picks a fight with her expecting it to be easy is in for a distinctly unpleasant surprise. Her sense of style is what might be called ‘grunge chic’, or simply ‘you look like a transient who stole something from a fashion boutique.’ Her dirty blonde hair is often unwashed and held out of her face with a head scarf.
Sexual Preference [Optional]: Heterosexual, though not many people try their luck
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Marks/Tattoos/Visible Scars: Ingrid’s body is clean of tattoos, but like most any Gargoyle she has her share of scars. Some simply from living for so many years, others from her Training, and still others from stupid fights she got herself into.
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Flaws/Weaknesses:
Ingrid’s main issue, aside from her willingness to get into fights, is that she holds herself away from people. She has drinking buddies, smoking buddies, people she can get into an amicable fight with, people she can screw without a second thought, but very few people she feels comfortable having a personal conversation with. In essence, she is a deeply lonely person whose response to this is to run around like a wild-child and not even try to fix her problems.
Skills/Strengths:
Literally, her strength. Ingrid looks like she eats nails for breakfast and broken glass as a snack between fights. People with clipboards flee from her. She’s gotten herself out of more than one situation by just looking meaner and crazier than the other person, even if she was secretly quaking in her boots. While unwilling to back down from a perceived insult or sleight, she isn’t cruel. She doesn’t go around kicking puppies or mugging old ladies. If she finds someone injured or lost she’ll try to help, as long as no one is watching. She does have a sense of humor, it’s just a little difficult to pin down.
Likes:
- loud, dissonant music; you do not want to mosh with this girl
- liquor of pretty much any variety
- winning; fights, card games, drinking games, bingo, you name it
- being alive
- people she can laugh and drink with without being expected to listen to people crying about how their fathers didn’t love them
Dislikes:
- being disrespected, in any way
- pushy men, catty women; whiny children more than anything
- pity; it makes her want to break skulls
- being chided by people she respects
- summer; the nights are too short, though she does appreciate the warmth
Other Information: She really does wear shirts, promise.
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History:
When she thinks about it now, Ingrid wonders is it’s hard for Gargoyle mother’s to see their babies turn to stone. While she knows that, logically, she turned to stone her entire life, her first conscious memory of turning to stone at night was at the age of four, standing barefoot on the roof of their downtown apartment just before dawn. She knew it was a dream because her feet felt heavy and there was something wrong with her lungs. Closing her eyes, she waited to wake up, trying to ignore the panic that was beginning to bubble in her chest and creep its way up her throat. Pressing her eyes as tightly shut as possible, when she opened them it was night and her nightgown was soaked; the ground beneath her was dry. Part of her was confused, but another part intuitively understood that this was no dream, and at the same time, nothing unnatural. Stepping back into the apartment, she climbed onto her mother’s knee and very clearly told her about the experience, but that everyone was alright. With a wry smile, her mother said how glad she was that everything was alright, and would she like to change her clothes? Ingrid nodded, the picture of a dignified child, and did so.
There is only so much you can do outside at night, as a child. In the beginning it felt like a fairytale, Sleeping Beauty waking up each night to explore the empty alleyways before the sun came up and she had to crawl back into her briar palace. Not completely understanding the danger they might be putting themselves in, Ingrid and her sisters roamed the city at night in a pack, three pale girls with long tangled hair and mouths full of sharp teeth. They spied on neighbors, read other people’s mail, stole sweets, told each other stories and didn’t even try to imagine what the world was like for everyone else. They were inseparable, one never far from the others.
As they got older, they grew even closer. They hardly knew anyone else, there were no other children for them to play with and they had been taught to trust no one but each other. When they hit their teens, they spent more time with other Gargoyles than roaming the streets, but every once in awhile they would sneak away to watch normal people, living their lives. It was during one such adventure that Ingrid learned something that stuck with her for the rest of her life: hit back. Hit back with all you’ve got, even if you break your hands. If you break your hands? Start kicking. Witnessing a man beaten to death shocked them thoroughly; they sat frozen on their rooftop perch, unable to do anything but also unable to look away. Ingrid and the second sister recovered first, knowing that the sun was going to rise soon, but the third and youngest was still leaning over the edge, her eyes transfixed on the corpse. Unsure of what to do and frightened, the two girls took off and left the third. When they came back that night, they found only broken stone on the alley floor below where she had sat.
It didn’t feel like a fairytale anymore. The magic of the number three had left them, leaving only two to grow up thin and fierce, teaching themselves to fight by tearing at each other. Despite how much they blamed themselves and each other, they were still the one person the other trusted the most. When they came of age, they both went toward the path of the Adventurists. When the times changed enough for it to be possible, they started taking night classes together at a local college. They shared a tiny dorm room and slept on the same bed, using each other’s feet as pillows. They studied philosophy and why the world was the way it was, according to different schools of thought. Her sister liked humanist psychology and the idea everyone is inherently good; Ingrid preferred the nihilists.
They got caught up in the scene of the 60’s and 70’s, but during the 80’s it felt like every other person they knew was dying. While her sister fell into deep empathetic sorrow, Ingrid withdrew. She knew they were going to outlive most everyone they knew, regardless of the diseases and disasters they encountered. If she wanted to live without being completely heartbroken, she needed to accept that. Her withdrawal was what ended up breaking her relationship with her sister; they went their separate ways at the beginning of the 90’s.
Alone for the first time, it took Ingrid a few years to figure out where she fit into the current community of Scriptor Bay. Currently, she spends a lot of her time around the club and bar scenes, taking jobs as a bouncer when she can. Other than that, she supports herself as best she can; not hard, since she stores her things on a rooftop and doesn’t have to pay rent. Food and secondhand clothes are her biggest expenses, right up there with alcohol.
RP Sample:
It had been a rushed morning for Ezra. The soft pre-summer sun through his curtains had lulled him into a lazy doze, sprawled on his bed with one leg hanging off the side, but a glance at the clock had shattered his calm. Flinging himself out of bed, he made his way hastily to the bathroom and went through his morning ritual at top speed, pulling on a pair of black jeans and a light weight button up shirt without even looking at them. Lacing up his Oxfords, he looked to the clock again and relaxed a little. As long as he walked quickly, he’d still get there on time. And honestly, there weren’t going to be people lined up outside the door to get into his shop. It was more a matter of principal than practicality. He patted down his pockets to make sure he had everything before leaving, locking the door behind himself.
He set off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, the morning breeze reminding him that his hair was still damp. As he walked he unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves, each one folding neatly up to just below his elbows. If it was too warm for this shirt now, he was concerned about what the rest of the way would feel like. He wasn’t the sort of wear short sleeves to work: he wasn’t hiding anything, the idea of it just made him uncomfortable. It felt unprofessional, but that was a funny idea since he wasn’t exactly the most traditional of men. Still, something about the buttons and the collar made him feel more at home in the book shop; maybe he just felt more sophisticated wearing them. He grinned sheepishly to himself, waving at a car that let him cross the street in front of them, and half-jogged to the other side of the street.
Twenty minutes later he found himself in front of Liminality Books, just as he had left it. No broken windows, no one waiting to go in, just a rolled up newspaper on the doorstep. Tucking it under his arm, he fumbled with his keys and unlocked the wood, taking note of the fact that the paint was starting to curl. He should probably take care of that, but not right now. Right now, it was time for breakfast. Propping the front door open with a rock to get some air flowing, he left the lights off and relied on the morning sun to light the rows and stacks of books. Heading into the back room, he filled the electric kettle and turned it on, rooting around in the cupboard for a mug and the tin of teabags he had filled with his own mixes of herbs. Locating the ones he wanted, he set them on the counter and snagged the container of Greek yogurt from the minifridge. Eating it out of the container with a spoon, he leaned against the counter and waited for the kettle to go off.
It had been slow here lately, not many people in or out. There were a few regulars, people who came by more to chat and simply be there than to actually buy anything, but other than that most of his walk-ins were people who didn’t actually understand what kind of bookstore it was. They came in, picked up a few things, flipped through them, came to something with WITCHCRAFT in curling letters, set it back down, and left as quickly as they could. Sometimes laughing, sometimes extremely uncomfortable. He didn’t mind, as long as they weren’t stealing anything. Some of the books here were funny, either by design or because it was ridiculously clear that the author didn’t know anything about anything. When he found those books he usually pulled them from the shelves and didn’t order them, or buy them from people who wanted to sell their old books. There was the occasional stinker, but for the most part he prided himself on stocking a reasonably qualified set of books.
After licking both sides of the spoon and setting it to the side, he put the yogurt away and poured the steaming water into the mug. Realizing as he was doing it the issue with drinking hot tea on a day that was already shaping up to be hot, he sighed and kept pouring; no point in wasting it. He carried it gingerly to the register, set it down to cool and picked up an armful of books that needed to be reshelved. Stepping into the shade of the shelves, out of sight of the front door, he began setting the books back where they belonged.
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ABOUT YOU:
Name you go by: Arx
Other Characters you play: Ezra Gislin
How long have you been RPing: At least 10 years, on and off
How did you find us? RPG-D
