[fieldbox="Izarra Aritza, #DC143C , solid"]
"Let's see you talk shit with your teeth in your stomach!"
N A M E
I z a r r a _ A r i t z a
G E N D E R
C O L O R
A G E
R A C E
AP P E A R A N C E
Izarra's face is thin, all prominent cheekbones and angular cheeks and narrow, mischievous eyes. A faint, barely-distinguishable smattering of freckles spans a pert, slightly upturned nose. Small lips born to twist into a crooked, devil-may-care grin host pristine white teeth. Significantly detracting from an otherwise imposing aura, Izarra clocks in at approximately 5'1", meaning one could conceivably hoist her over one's shoulder and carry her off mid-argument.
Straight, side-swept blonde hair tumbles to her waist in sleek, choppy layers. She's adamant in her refusal to shear it short, and so, for pragmatism's sake, she binds the majority of it back in a long, high ponytail. Choppy bangs feather delicately across her forehead, softening otherwise sour, ire-scrunched features.
She's lean and narrow, alabaster skin stretching taut over a trim, reasonably toned physique. Power is written into every movement, every challenging stare or cocky smirk, brimming deceptively beneath her skin. Years of acting on the 'fight' portion of her instincts has imbued within her a certain sense of confidence – her posture is aggressive on the battlefield and assertive everywhere else, and she typically stands with her feet spread, hands planted firmly – defiantly – on her hips.
Her Faunus heritage manifests via a long, slender furry tail she makes no effort to conceal. She's not ashamed of her lineage--in fact, she embraces it.
Despite her preference for comfortable clothing - hoodies, tank tops, shorts, and loose, baggy pants - she can be wrangled into somewhat professional garb, on rare occasion. Said attire typically consists of a bright zip-up hoodie paired with a button-down dress shirt left untucked over slim-fitting dark pants.
Thanks to her tendency to instigate fist fights, she's learned how to accessorize the common bandage, and is usually found boasting no fewer than three at any given time.
S E M B L A N C E
J U G G E R N A U T :
- Izarra can charge herself or objects with kinetic energy to increase their destructive power. Affected areas emanate a faint, saturated-salmon pink aura.
- Upon collision, the impact generates a forceful pulse powerful enough to shatter solid steel.
- Useful in combat, but impractical elsewhere.
- Can only manipulate and redirect the energy stored within the object in question (or, in the event of self-enhancement, the equivalent of all the 'energy' lying dormant in her body).
- Expends massive amounts of energy; if she's not careful, she could collapse mid-swing.
- In tandem with the above, utilizing this ability too frequently or recklessly (i.e. exceeding the natural limits imposed by her frail constitution) puts strain on both her body and her aura, causing recoil damage commensurate to the energy exerted. (i.e. pulverizing bones, mangling joints, snapping tendons, etc.)
W E A P O N
A pair of bulky, robotic claw-gauntlets that serve as both an amplifier for Izarra's natural strength and a medium through which she can channel her Semblance. They're the product of the better part of a decade of iteration, of perfection, of destruction and rebuilding, malfunction and repair. They're cobbled together from the best parts of the worst technology, made from anything she's been able to steal from the lowlifes and the scumbags of the city--and they're amazing. They're over-sized, entirely impractical, and work perfectly despite all available evidence suggesting otherwise. Izarra's conceptual designs often turn out that way.
The compartment in the palms contain concentrated amounts of nitroglycerin, meaning when she invokes her Semblance's power, her punches become significantly more explosive. She can also use the resulting force to propel herself for short distances, meaning her combat style is as erratic and energetic as its wielder.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Prancing through life with an infuriatingly cocky grin and enough cheerful arrogance to power a small regiment, it's little wonder this kid makes enemies nearly everywhere she goes. She is quick to judge and even quicker to dismiss; it's this flippant sort of insouciance, especially regarding serious situations, that makes those enemies turn to nemeses. (She's been keeping a running tally of how many people have publicly declared her their eternal archenemy. It's about as big as her ego.) She's brash, she's brazen, and she's six kinds of reckless. She'd grind every bone in her body to dust if it meant inflicting even a single bruise on her adversary, and she doesn't care if achieving her goals means tearing down the structure of society brick by dusty brick. Insurmountable odds are viewed as a fun challenge; even the biggest threat can be broken down into smaller, more manageable chunks if you pummel it hard enough.
Wreathed in a contagious aura of vitality and armed to the teeth with an abundance of smarmy grins and a veritable battalion of bawdy jokes, Izarra is generally always worth a good laugh. She's confidence incarnate – she doesn't walk, she swaggers. A lonely childhood bestowed upon her an impressive imagination, and she's always conjuring up some sort of wild scheme. This, coupled with poor impulse control and a predilection toward improvisation, means she can orchestrate some truly nefarious plans.
Governed almost completely by her bellicose nature, Izarra absolutely loves to fight - loves the dizzying, intoxicating rush she gets whenever the adrenaline starts coursing through her veins, loves the flutter she gets in her heart when she think she's about to die, loves the thrill of the danger - of the possibility she might lose. Nothing gets that unsettling battle grin of hers going more than a proper brawl. Izarra's an adrenaline junkie born and bred, and she's yet to realize that just because no one's died doesn't mean it can be considered a victory. She's as hot-headed as they come, prone to irate outbursts, and generally possessing exceptionally poor impulse control.
Her brash attitude, abrasive humor, blatant refusal to follow the rules can often infuriate any by-the-books squadmates to whom she's been assigned. She treats orders – and occasionally boundaries – like broad suggestions. Continuing along a similar vein, she's a notably physical person; she'll sling an arm around a comrade's shoulders for support, playfully tousle their hair after emerging victorious from combat, or plop down beside them and drape herself across their lap. She's like an affectionate stray dog that'll turn up on your doorstep routinely if you offer it food or a scratch behind the ears even once.
As her background might lead one to surmise, Izarra is vehemently opposed to materialism, and harbors a certain degree of resentment toward the affluent and influential. She'd destroy the financially elite in a heartbeat, provided someone could equip her with a sufficient alibi. When holiday gift exchanges or birthday celebrations roll around, she doesn't like asking for physical possessions for presents. A lifetime of poverty has conditioned her not to want or request such things from other people. Besides, she figures if they're giving something to her, it means they're going without, and the subsequent guilt is enough to send her teetering over the edge.
Izarra is also hopelessly naive, interpreting everything at face value, be it her surroundings or what she perceives as a factual statement, leaving her fairly oblivious to the nuances of human nature. She's a tinkerer, not a thinkerer - weapons provide far better company than people. (Where she grew up, disputes were settled with quick-and-dirty scuffles.) Because she's new to this particular line of work (read: unabashed heroics), she's yet to learn the importance of verifying testimonies; she equates emotional intensity with honesty. This has made many love confessions awkward and kind of unbearable; poor kid's denser than a slab of granite. She's shockingly good at detecting potential romantic or concupiscent partners, yet consistently comes up short insofar as long-term commitment is concerned.
Extremely self-reliant and obstinate to a fault, Izarra is as stubborn as a scorned mule, especially when it comes to injury management. She'll bristle and bare her fangs and skulk in corners, preferring to suffer in dignified silence than allow someone else to nurse her wounds – that is, if she'll even admit they're present. She doesn't like admitting she's not capable of handling herself – it makes her feel weak, vulnerable, and useless.
And when kids like her lose their purpose, when they stop fending for themselves, they die.
Because of her rambunctious, rowdy nature, she's antsy and prone to restless fidgeting when forced to sit still, making her not at all suited to reconnaissance, infiltration, or gathering intel through ass-kissing or elbow-brushing. Cart her to some sort of formal, extravagant gala, and she'll have you both ejected from the premises in half an hour's time. (In her defense, there's something absolutely hysterical about how god-awful those ludicrous, faux-posh rich-person accents sound. Especially when they know she knows they're faking.) She's got issues with impulse control, particularly when asked to follow orders. Her plans derail as quickly as her attention span. Her ability to read the flow of battle (and the wherewithal to almost unconsciously discern weak points, such as a faulty prosthetic, atrophied muscles, or old injuries that never properly healed) is the closest she'll ever come to devising combat tactics.
Her manner of speech is gruff, impetuous, and hopelessly irreverent, and her sentences consist primarily of short, choppy words - her brain moves faster than her mouth, so she prefers terse fragments to get her point across. Though her favorite method of communication is fists on flesh, she's also quite fond of employing a vast array of gesticulations to further illustrate whatever point she's trying to make.
The only part of her vocabulary one could consider even remotely extensive is her repertoire of creative vulgarities. It's rare to see her compose any sort of oration, formal or otherwise, that isn't peppered liberally with profanities.
Izarra is aggressively bisexual. Her gaydar is notoriously accurate - it's the stuff of legends. Every girlfriend she's ever had pinged it immediately, and plenty of people besides who turned out to be from her 'side of the street'. It's a great guide for when to flirt, when to crush her developing crushes, and when to pay very, very close attention to the undercurrent of a conversation. She puts a lot of confidence in her ability to pick out the people who swing 'that way'.
Has a hyperactive imagination and an affinity for all things histrionic; as such, she has a rather irrational fear of the dark and the things that might lurk within its midst. She's been known to stay up the entire night, stumble blearily into class the next morning, dark circles ringing her eyes like war paint, and offer, "The windowsill--it fuckin' creaked," as her sole explanation.
B R I E F _ H I S T O R Y
[BCOLOR=transparent]As a child growing up in the wild outskirts of a lawless city, Izarra learned to rob and cheat to get by. Growing up on the streets with little more than a gang of juvenile vagrants for company left Izarra with an intimate familiarity with the delicate arts of delinquency. She was a covetous scavenger that rifled through the garbage, dug through its ilk in the vain hopes it'd earn the right to live another day.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Stealing and stripping hardware gave her the skills of a master mechanic, while life on the streets taught her self-reliance. When she was ten, a ragtag group of Faunus criminals took a shine to the young delinquent and brought her into their fold. By the time Izarra was thirteen, she had become a seasoned accomplice, and she relished the thrill of every heist--particularly those targeting the human business moguls, kingpins, and generals operating in her area. [/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Eventually, after an escapade gone horribly awry, she severed ties with her former 'family' and tried her best to reintegrate into society, malnourished social skills be damned. [/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]She's unusually skittish around Dust and its mining facilities, suggesting they've got a history as rotten as her attitude. Perhaps somewhere along the line, during the years before she renounced her old gang, something truly unspeakable transpired?[/BCOLOR]
[/fieldbox]
