Post by roseneghana on May 15, 2011 19:03:51 GMT 1
Rose Thengral Neghana
[/color]of the B.P.R.D.. [/color]
[/center]CLASSIFIED INFORMATION[/color]
"And your name is... oh, dear." -Nuala. [/color]
»»FULL NAME:[/b] Rose Thengral Neghana
»»AGE:[/b] 30
»»OCCUPATION:[/b] Weapons/lockpick specialist.
»»FACTION:[/b] B.P.R.D.
»»SPECIES : [/b] Human
»»ALIGNMENT:[/b] Good
»»CLASSIFICATION: [/b] Sharp shooter.
THE DETAILS[/color]
"Give it up nasty, we can see you." -Hellboy. [/color]
»»EYE COLOR:[/b] Green
»»HAIR COLOR:[/b] Red
»»HEIGHT:[/b] 5' 2"
»»PLAY BY:[/b] Alyson Hannigan
»»APPEARANCE: [/b]
Rose appears much akin to a normal female grease monkey. Often with comfortable and durable clothing on, even when in the field or especially when in the field. Her normal clothing consists of coveralls, a comfy T shirt and rugged boots, though her work clothes consist of slightly stained set of slacks and a rolled up long sleeved shirt with the BPRD emblem on the sleeve. For formal wear, when she gets to wear it, she wears a brass toned dress, akin to the 'little black dress' that every woman, it is said, should own.
This being said, while in the field she is often seen wearing a tool belt of sorts, though it is more like those police officers wear, containing side arms, ammunition clips, flashlights and various other gizmos of her particular line of work.
»»PERSONALITY: [/b]
Her strengths would include a rather steady hand at the best of times, well honed aim at the best possible moments, and an unwillingness to give up. What this means is that she can shoot with the best of them, pick almost any lock depending on the size and materials used in it's construction, and a stubborn streak a mile wide, as the phrase goes.
Her weaknesses are; while under stress she tends to freeze up, afraid of making that one mistake that will get people killed, getting team mates killed, and getting caught while sneaking around.
This being said, when something spikes her interest, she usually researches about it until she finds the answer, or finds the answer herself, depending of course on precicely what that answer is.
THE BACKGROUND[/color]
"I'm not a baby, I'm a tumor." -Tumor. [/color]
»»FAMILY TREE:[/b]
[/ul]»»IDOLS:[/b] Rose looks up to one person in particular, her father. He taught her all she knows about her primary craft, and even tried teaching her about honor as a thief, a rather outdated term in today's day and age. That is, until he was shot by his partner for the loot of government taxes.
»»HISTORY: [/b]
From the age of birth to the age of 13, she was under her father's watchful eye. He told her the many tales of Robbin Hood, that man of old who had stolen from the rich to give to the poor, or so the story went. Her mother did not aprove of this 'non-sense' as she put it, but did not say anything else when he told her the stories night after night to get her to get to sleep. It was this time that of her life that her mother died, some sickness she was too young to understand until much later. Even then, her family was too poor to truely afford hospitals, so she died at home, holding her family's hands.
From then on, she began to mature, her innosence all but crushed by the death of her mother, and at the age of 15 she began to learn the trade her father had so willingly withheld from her. This time of her life is an almost complete mystery, save to those in charge for she keeps it very close to her chest. The only thing anyone has been able to get from her is that she says "I killed the man who killed him." This is the only thing she will say, and any further attempts to ferret information will result in only the cold shoulder or a withering glare that has made many the Macho-man cringe.
Her file is the only thing that states the whole truth. It was she and two others on a job around her 19th birthday. Her father was picking the lock when the other man pulled a sidearm on him and fired when her father reached for his. The only reason she knows it was him and the exact location of each man, was she was watching through a scope of a very high powered hunting rifle. Her father liked to have backup in case this sort of situation occured, and positioned her without the knowledge of the others in his gang for his personal backup, and the backup of others in case the job was blown.
The record of many law inforcement agencies become fuzzy at this point, and many of them have her record taken out of the files completly. Only the BPRD's file has the complete record. The man who had shot her father was in fact a corrupt under-cover agent, who had infiltrated their gang as an assassin, not as an agent of the law, despite what his lawful orders were. Some of the people he had been stealing from found him and ordered the crooked cop to perform a hit. Only problem was, this cop didn't know about her.
They say that what you don't know, won't hurt you? Well, she proved it wrong then. The police finally caught up with them then, arresting her for being at a crime scene, crying over her father's body, his hand in hers.
The reason she became an agent of the BPRD was not the fact that she had killed a dirty cop, but because of the near impossible angle it took to take him. Down an allyway between two buildings and through a window. This position had been selected because of it's perfect point of view to the hallway in which her father was performing his job.
THE PLAYER[/color]
"I can't smile without you...." -Abe & Hellboy. [/color]
»»YOUR NAME:[/b] Chris
»»GENDER:[/b] Male
»»AGE:[/b] 24
»»TITLE:[/b] Does it go Boom?!
»»POST SAMPLE:[/b]
It had been a while since one Kahndra Negahl had visited the markets themselves, and here she was, groaning slightly under her breath as she picked her way through the market grounds, occasionally allowing a flash of blade to clear the way of wanna-be muggers. Even so, she was wary to stay near the edible goods of the market stalls since her task of her journy through it was a supply run for the diner at which she worked.
Her tall, relativly lanky frame was hidden underneath a cloak that was tattered and worn through in spots at the lowest hem, though by no means was it completly old and worn. Even here in the troll markets, her kind's presense was not unknown, but still rather rare, and while she wanted to keep herself relativly hidden while out and about, it was not because of her slight fear the large crowds that had not yet made itself scarce, it was because of her relative wealth in body marking metals that she hid herself.
Either way, as her waddling gate led her through the throngs of people strolling through the market place, she noticed some others in cloaks moving the same way, and knew them to be those whom she had modeled her movements after, even though hers was not entirely false. Her gate was not due to physical deformity, but rather to oddly shaped leg structure, at least to other being's eyes.
Her legs were shaped with backwards knees and long flexable feet that ended in unusually dexterous toes. It was because of this that she was marked as a rarity in the markets, for as far as she knew, she was the first of her people to come across the ocean and into the Americas. So she walked hunched over, her hidden height coming to around 5 feet on average.
With a shiver as the toe of her right foot suddenly became wet with drainage runoff from the city above, she muffled a curse of her homeland, looked down and stepped over the foot wide stream with obvious aversion to the somewhat clear liquid. Making sure to occasionally stop and chat with the various venders selling their wares and goods, she made out her list of goods to purchase, and paid for them with the money the diner's owner had given to her for this errand.
With her shopping list almost filled in, and her basket full nearly to the brim of food, she turned from the vender with a somewhat hidden smile upon her lips and a wave of a softly fuzzy hand, she bumped into another cloaked figure. With a slightly muffled apology and a quick clutching at her basket of goods looked up into the starkly white face of a young woman, a line etched accross her face like paint and from the stories she had heard gossiped among the peoples of the markets, knew more or less without a doubt who this might be.
"My apologies miss, I did not see you there. Please forgive any flattened toes."
She spoke with an amused tone, knowing from personal experience that most people wearing cloaks were hiding either themselves or something on their person, and as the humans said, nine times out of ten they were either dangerous enough to keep their own, or important enough not to mess with save by the extremly moronic.
Her tall, relativly lanky frame was hidden underneath a cloak that was tattered and worn through in spots at the lowest hem, though by no means was it completly old and worn. Even here in the troll markets, her kind's presense was not unknown, but still rather rare, and while she wanted to keep herself relativly hidden while out and about, it was not because of her slight fear the large crowds that had not yet made itself scarce, it was because of her relative wealth in body marking metals that she hid herself.
Either way, as her waddling gate led her through the throngs of people strolling through the market place, she noticed some others in cloaks moving the same way, and knew them to be those whom she had modeled her movements after, even though hers was not entirely false. Her gate was not due to physical deformity, but rather to oddly shaped leg structure, at least to other being's eyes.
Her legs were shaped with backwards knees and long flexable feet that ended in unusually dexterous toes. It was because of this that she was marked as a rarity in the markets, for as far as she knew, she was the first of her people to come across the ocean and into the Americas. So she walked hunched over, her hidden height coming to around 5 feet on average.
With a shiver as the toe of her right foot suddenly became wet with drainage runoff from the city above, she muffled a curse of her homeland, looked down and stepped over the foot wide stream with obvious aversion to the somewhat clear liquid. Making sure to occasionally stop and chat with the various venders selling their wares and goods, she made out her list of goods to purchase, and paid for them with the money the diner's owner had given to her for this errand.
With her shopping list almost filled in, and her basket full nearly to the brim of food, she turned from the vender with a somewhat hidden smile upon her lips and a wave of a softly fuzzy hand, she bumped into another cloaked figure. With a slightly muffled apology and a quick clutching at her basket of goods looked up into the starkly white face of a young woman, a line etched accross her face like paint and from the stories she had heard gossiped among the peoples of the markets, knew more or less without a doubt who this might be.
"My apologies miss, I did not see you there. Please forgive any flattened toes."
She spoke with an amused tone, knowing from personal experience that most people wearing cloaks were hiding either themselves or something on their person, and as the humans said, nine times out of ten they were either dangerous enough to keep their own, or important enough not to mess with save by the extremly moronic.
