- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Magical realism, horror, modern fantasy, war, soft and hard espionage, sci-fi, drama, modern, dark (okay, Vantablack) comedy.
NAME: Amira Muharib (currently)
AGE: 34
PRONOUNS: She/her
CURRENT GENDER: Cis female (variable as per Libitine traits)
SEXUALITY: Demisexual lesbian
BIRTHPLACE: Damascus, ash-Sham Province, West Empire
CURRENT CITY: Oria, Southern Cervia
CLASS: Upper class by military resources, middle class by career, lower class by nature.
OCCUPATION: West Imperial Mukhabarat (Military Intelligence, Section G) non-official cover agent/reconnaissance operator.
SPECIES: Werewolf/Libitine Hybrid
POWER: Malleable Anatomy. A Libitine's daughter, it was probably inevitable the Mukhabarat would find special use for the ability to change; and especially the depth at which Amira can. Paired with her werewolf parentage's incredible strength, pain tolerance, and healing ability, she can change herself at remarkable depth.
WEAKNESS: Problem is, she's probably a little too good, too fast, and too apt with it. After twenty years of routine changes, she can't even remember her own face, and has no meaningful attachment to her body, floating half-in and half-out. It's an arguable psychosis and it also means sometimes without a reliable reference or heavy pre-operation condition to keep herself true to the identity she might change overnight or believe she has.
APPEARANCE: You don't want to stare. At least you shouldn't. But the sun is hot and sweat creeps in little ant-lines down your forehead and the girl is beautiful. You do not know her name.
You feel as if you would die if you did.
There's something off about her. It isn't the body; isn't the lean athletic planes, the trim belly, the smooth-muscled shoulders, the tight curves and long legs. Isn't even the hair looking almost girlish, long black wavelets spilling down her shoulders and cradling wide hips. It's the sense she's a beast at rest, the way a tiger only looks soft because it isn't standing on your neck.
It's the face. She's not Latin; doesn't even give off the immigrant whispers of the Lebanese girls at the cafe where she sits, nurses a cup of iced coffee, gazelle's eyes looking bright and wreathed with thick lashes like quills teased out with ink
and lying.
It's like hot metal down the nape of your neck.
The wrong angle and you catch it. The way there's a look that belongs to fairy tales tucked in and shivering with fever, too real, too close, my, what big eyes you have.
Like the smile, lips a little too full looking cruel in peach. The big canines pretty clearly aren't there for show. The skin is dark and tells you stories of sand and sun like an acetylene torch in the yellow sky but there's a hunger
an appetite
it's shaggy fur and loping steps and eyes like mirrored opals in the green dark of the imagination. Except she's here. Muscle flexes a little in her forearm when she scoops up the tall glass clinking with ice and sweating cold.
Suddenly she looks too hard.
Suddenly you're alone in a crowd of thousands and there's nowhere to run.
PERSONALITY/HISTORY: Depends on the woman you're talking to right now. She could be anyone. Charming. Glib. Sincere. Passionate. There are as many lies as there are needs.
The truth is a little harder to know.
Some people say she's about as nice as an anglerfish and half as charming.
Some people would rather fuck a cactus than spend a day with her.
Some people never have forgotten just how much love she's brought to their lives, too.
But in one word? Animal. Exes and colleagues and especially anyone in her gunsights or clutches probably would call her cruel, but that's a little reductive. Wolves don't know cruelty. Well, don't ask the deer that, but it's hard to talk with your throat torn out, anyway.
Problem is, that ain't the truth, either. There's a predatory drive, a lust for the bitter red dripping down the throat like strong drink; a need for a stain of fear in the air. She would will Rotkäppchen to run panting and gulping breath and shedding a bright shock of sweat in the cold dark because there's nothing more delicious than flesh you bring down weeping and tasting the full force of their surrender, the way there's a snap of epiphany when fangs pierce the shoulder, when claws sharpen on the bone. A maiden's scream.
Empathy mostly happens to other people after twenty years of intensive military training and a lousy family besides. She's the product of an Army clan, selective breeding between a Combat Applications Team operator and an accomplished spy; just by serendipity two people dysfunctional enough to find love in each other's scars.
She comes from the union of two mothers, one a cruel werewolf chasing the spoor of blood and battle in memories at the bottom of a bottle and the other a thoroughgoing demisexual perversion of a Libitine, a succubus who can't feed without falling in love or at least a deep passion.
Maybe there's something there keeps her from outright sociopathy. Maybe it's will. Maybe it's Allah. Maybe it's a Christian faith she still tends without a sense of contradiction for all the hypocrisy. She knows she's a beast wallowing in the dark. But Yeshua saves even the most fallen. Maybe.
She's not the type for church. Her worship is spent on her knees with eyes closed, an Odeon scrawling red and black between her ears, jaws tightened to breaking, claws drawing blood, pleading and hoping for something. Anything that will tell her there might be more to life than This. And then she's back on her feet with a knife twisted in some poor motherfucker's neck.
She may not be the fastest, the strongest, even the cleverest, but there's something that sets Amira apart from even her fellow travelers in her deadly work: There is no hesitation.
Maybe the Duke never lived in this time, but the old cliche from The Shootist would've known her truth: It ain't about being the best; it's about being willing.
Training was not an assembly line for compassionate souls. If the average boot can get slapped a little or kicked around or screamed at with the reasoning a non-hacker will lose it on the battlefield when someone really wants to kill you, Military Intel training is premised on the idea- the ideal- that gentleness is weakness and weakness is death and death means the worst betrayal of all: Failure.
Already the product of induction and a selection process slightly less humane than the Spartan agoge, she learned fast what it really means when your daily bread puts other people on an express trip to the Big Guy. The first lesson is the (wo)man is expendable. Only Allah is immortal; even the world will die. Life is a dream between eternities of waking for the soul and if it gets cut short, means about as much as a too-early alarm.
Her first crush, first lust, even first love, first Change, first epiphany about how much she'd inherited from her Libitine mother, that was Drill Instructor Assada, who sure as hell lived up to her name: Werelioness, giant, beautiful, mean as a bullet through the gut and with about half the compassion.
And Amira is in love with women. And women fall in love with her. Maybe not easy but it happens to their misfortune, all the stars cross'd, all the smiles bad-lucky, all the destinies turning up fate instead. It's given her an ambivalence about intimacy; a need and a dread, too. Except her body's a pile of ice chiseled out of a freezer without it.
Life has been a blur of blood and upheaval since then. Truth is, when you start your life damned, absolution doesn't have much magnetism. But there is something heavier than a mountain, more powerful than any fungible politician's cloying words: Duty.
Now she's a stranger in a strange land in a strange time. The hybrid serial slayings in Black City have taken some big men and women from the Western Empire and that means tension; tension after a war means the missiles never quite asleep in their silos are getting twitchy and the politicians want to know the whys and wherefores before a new massacre.
So she's pounding after blood trails that never lead to salvation but might bring someone answers. Who knows. Maybe even her.
EXTRA: An accomplished spy and soldier, Amira's professional talents are substantial and honed over more than two decades. She's an able photojournalist (a standard cover), demolitions hand, masterful athlete, linguist, expert in subterfuge and theater, and knows how to keep a man alive for the kind of interrogation that makes him wish he could will himself dead.
Tactically, she merits the distinction of operator many times over, and is especially skilled in close-quarters battle when the blood mists hot on her face and death grins around every corner.
She's walked out alone from the deep desert and faraway jungles and killing fields with a parliament of ravens as her only friends. Amira has seen- and caused- more death than most people ever will be able to fathom.
AGE: 34
PRONOUNS: She/her
CURRENT GENDER: Cis female (variable as per Libitine traits)
SEXUALITY: Demisexual lesbian
BIRTHPLACE: Damascus, ash-Sham Province, West Empire
CURRENT CITY: Oria, Southern Cervia
CLASS: Upper class by military resources, middle class by career, lower class by nature.
OCCUPATION: West Imperial Mukhabarat (Military Intelligence, Section G) non-official cover agent/reconnaissance operator.
SPECIES: Werewolf/Libitine Hybrid
POWER: Malleable Anatomy. A Libitine's daughter, it was probably inevitable the Mukhabarat would find special use for the ability to change; and especially the depth at which Amira can. Paired with her werewolf parentage's incredible strength, pain tolerance, and healing ability, she can change herself at remarkable depth.
WEAKNESS: Problem is, she's probably a little too good, too fast, and too apt with it. After twenty years of routine changes, she can't even remember her own face, and has no meaningful attachment to her body, floating half-in and half-out. It's an arguable psychosis and it also means sometimes without a reliable reference or heavy pre-operation condition to keep herself true to the identity she might change overnight or believe she has.
APPEARANCE: You don't want to stare. At least you shouldn't. But the sun is hot and sweat creeps in little ant-lines down your forehead and the girl is beautiful. You do not know her name.
You feel as if you would die if you did.
There's something off about her. It isn't the body; isn't the lean athletic planes, the trim belly, the smooth-muscled shoulders, the tight curves and long legs. Isn't even the hair looking almost girlish, long black wavelets spilling down her shoulders and cradling wide hips. It's the sense she's a beast at rest, the way a tiger only looks soft because it isn't standing on your neck.
It's the face. She's not Latin; doesn't even give off the immigrant whispers of the Lebanese girls at the cafe where she sits, nurses a cup of iced coffee, gazelle's eyes looking bright and wreathed with thick lashes like quills teased out with ink
and lying.
It's like hot metal down the nape of your neck.
The wrong angle and you catch it. The way there's a look that belongs to fairy tales tucked in and shivering with fever, too real, too close, my, what big eyes you have.
Like the smile, lips a little too full looking cruel in peach. The big canines pretty clearly aren't there for show. The skin is dark and tells you stories of sand and sun like an acetylene torch in the yellow sky but there's a hunger
an appetite
it's shaggy fur and loping steps and eyes like mirrored opals in the green dark of the imagination. Except she's here. Muscle flexes a little in her forearm when she scoops up the tall glass clinking with ice and sweating cold.
Suddenly she looks too hard.
Suddenly you're alone in a crowd of thousands and there's nowhere to run.
PERSONALITY/HISTORY: Depends on the woman you're talking to right now. She could be anyone. Charming. Glib. Sincere. Passionate. There are as many lies as there are needs.
The truth is a little harder to know.
Some people say she's about as nice as an anglerfish and half as charming.
Some people would rather fuck a cactus than spend a day with her.
Some people never have forgotten just how much love she's brought to their lives, too.
But in one word? Animal. Exes and colleagues and especially anyone in her gunsights or clutches probably would call her cruel, but that's a little reductive. Wolves don't know cruelty. Well, don't ask the deer that, but it's hard to talk with your throat torn out, anyway.
Problem is, that ain't the truth, either. There's a predatory drive, a lust for the bitter red dripping down the throat like strong drink; a need for a stain of fear in the air. She would will Rotkäppchen to run panting and gulping breath and shedding a bright shock of sweat in the cold dark because there's nothing more delicious than flesh you bring down weeping and tasting the full force of their surrender, the way there's a snap of epiphany when fangs pierce the shoulder, when claws sharpen on the bone. A maiden's scream.
Empathy mostly happens to other people after twenty years of intensive military training and a lousy family besides. She's the product of an Army clan, selective breeding between a Combat Applications Team operator and an accomplished spy; just by serendipity two people dysfunctional enough to find love in each other's scars.
She comes from the union of two mothers, one a cruel werewolf chasing the spoor of blood and battle in memories at the bottom of a bottle and the other a thoroughgoing demisexual perversion of a Libitine, a succubus who can't feed without falling in love or at least a deep passion.
Maybe there's something there keeps her from outright sociopathy. Maybe it's will. Maybe it's Allah. Maybe it's a Christian faith she still tends without a sense of contradiction for all the hypocrisy. She knows she's a beast wallowing in the dark. But Yeshua saves even the most fallen. Maybe.
She's not the type for church. Her worship is spent on her knees with eyes closed, an Odeon scrawling red and black between her ears, jaws tightened to breaking, claws drawing blood, pleading and hoping for something. Anything that will tell her there might be more to life than This. And then she's back on her feet with a knife twisted in some poor motherfucker's neck.
She may not be the fastest, the strongest, even the cleverest, but there's something that sets Amira apart from even her fellow travelers in her deadly work: There is no hesitation.
Maybe the Duke never lived in this time, but the old cliche from The Shootist would've known her truth: It ain't about being the best; it's about being willing.
Training was not an assembly line for compassionate souls. If the average boot can get slapped a little or kicked around or screamed at with the reasoning a non-hacker will lose it on the battlefield when someone really wants to kill you, Military Intel training is premised on the idea- the ideal- that gentleness is weakness and weakness is death and death means the worst betrayal of all: Failure.
Already the product of induction and a selection process slightly less humane than the Spartan agoge, she learned fast what it really means when your daily bread puts other people on an express trip to the Big Guy. The first lesson is the (wo)man is expendable. Only Allah is immortal; even the world will die. Life is a dream between eternities of waking for the soul and if it gets cut short, means about as much as a too-early alarm.
Her first crush, first lust, even first love, first Change, first epiphany about how much she'd inherited from her Libitine mother, that was Drill Instructor Assada, who sure as hell lived up to her name: Werelioness, giant, beautiful, mean as a bullet through the gut and with about half the compassion.
And Amira is in love with women. And women fall in love with her. Maybe not easy but it happens to their misfortune, all the stars cross'd, all the smiles bad-lucky, all the destinies turning up fate instead. It's given her an ambivalence about intimacy; a need and a dread, too. Except her body's a pile of ice chiseled out of a freezer without it.
Life has been a blur of blood and upheaval since then. Truth is, when you start your life damned, absolution doesn't have much magnetism. But there is something heavier than a mountain, more powerful than any fungible politician's cloying words: Duty.
Now she's a stranger in a strange land in a strange time. The hybrid serial slayings in Black City have taken some big men and women from the Western Empire and that means tension; tension after a war means the missiles never quite asleep in their silos are getting twitchy and the politicians want to know the whys and wherefores before a new massacre.
So she's pounding after blood trails that never lead to salvation but might bring someone answers. Who knows. Maybe even her.
EXTRA: An accomplished spy and soldier, Amira's professional talents are substantial and honed over more than two decades. She's an able photojournalist (a standard cover), demolitions hand, masterful athlete, linguist, expert in subterfuge and theater, and knows how to keep a man alive for the kind of interrogation that makes him wish he could will himself dead.
Tactically, she merits the distinction of operator many times over, and is especially skilled in close-quarters battle when the blood mists hot on her face and death grins around every corner.
She's walked out alone from the deep desert and faraway jungles and killing fields with a parliament of ravens as her only friends. Amira has seen- and caused- more death than most people ever will be able to fathom.
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