Like Sweet-Tarts Without The Sweet Part
Elusive || Determined || Resilient
"Two choices. Tell me what I wanna know, or eat my fist. Simple."
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::Official Name::
Eryn Malora-Connors
::Alias::
Make ‘em up on the spot when I need ‘em. If I had friends, they’d call me Rin, maybe.
::Age::
Twenty five.
::Sex::
Woah, woah. At least buy me dinner first...- oh, THAT kind of sex? I’m female. No, you can’t check.
::Sexual Orientation::
Hold the boobs, heavy on the D. Unless you’re paying me or something. Then it’s whatever.
::Species::
Enhanced Human / Sorrusian hybrid. Yep. Epic freak.
::Faction::
I don’t do clubs. What’s with all the questions?
::Rank::
…in what? Life? That’d be rank ‘Move It Or Lose It, Kriffer’.
::Force Sensitive::
No space wizards here.
::Home Planet::
Don’t have one. Was born in hyperspace …are we done?
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Equipmet: Ship
Yours. Or his. Or theirs. Or wherever I manage to sneak aboard and park my rear.
Equipment: Weapons
Anything can be a weapon, if you wield it right. I pick things up on the go, use it when I need it. Or, I ‘relieve’ people of their weapons. I do have some constants, though. Couple blades. There’s one stuffed down each of my boots, one in a sheath on my right forearm under my jacket, and I’ve got twin spikes in the heels and toes of both my boots on a pressure trigger.
Equipment: Clothing
I live on the run, so whatever I’m wearing, you can bet it’s functional over stylish and pretty damn dirty. I make a point to try and blend in, so telling me apart from the other grimy gutter-punk dregs of society would probably be difficult. Stuff gets ratty and torn easily when you’re ducking down trash chutes or squeezing through small spaces, so I repair what I can on the go and replace what I can’t by stealing. Layers is the way to go. Space gets cold, some planets get hot, I like to have my options open.
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Seriously? Like I have the time to psychoanalyze myself in black ‘nd white terms. No. Let’s do this my way...
::Crap I’m Good At::
I don’t excel in anything. I like to know how to do a little bit of everything, just enough to get me by in whatever situation I end up in. Fighting? Sure, who doesn’t know their way around a blaster or a vibroblade these days? Scrappy and dirty is my style, and I can hold my own in a brawl…for a little while, at least. But I wouldn’t bet on me. I’ll run if I think I’ll lose, which is most of the time. I’m pretty good at taking a beating, though. Get knocked down, get back up.
Piloting and slicing? Again, who doesn’t know the basics there? I can map a hyperspace route or open a locked door, but if you wanna fly through an asteroid field or open a massive safe? Call a professional. Until now, I’ve been damn good at dodging my bounty, blending in, but it’s getting harder every day. I can squeeze through really tight spaces, literally. Sorrusian blood, baby. I heal a little faster than the average Joe, thanks to whatever other type of alien DNA my dad passed along. Not, like, superhero fast, but a stab wound takes a week as opposed to a month.
I can climb things pretty good and my balance is decent. I’m quick on my feet mentally (only sometimes physically), creative in tight spots, and always seem to be underestimated, which sounds like a bad thing but I use it to my advantage. I’m a survivor, like a cockroach. Grind me into the dirt and just when you think I’m a goner, I’ll crawl away with my middle finger in the air. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I’m not ready for death just yet.
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::Crap I Suck At::
I trust the galaxy and everyone in it about as far as I can throw it. I’m stubborn, unreliable, and I’ve got no patience for asshats. Been told I have an aggressive personality, whatever that means. Is that fancy words for ‘you’re a queen?’ Probably. I’m territorial, I don’t smile enough, I’m a smartass, blah blah blah. What else? I have a massive bone to pick with the Falleen and the Zeltron species. Don’t like those colored alien bastards, never have, never will.
I’m kind of a danger magnet, and I kind of love it. Maybe I’m an adrenaline junkie, but there’s nothing quite like the thrill of peril. I don’t play well with others, although I used to. Not my fault it’s changed. Probably traces back to the ‘trust’ issues thing. Been taken advantage of one too many times, I guess. So now, I’m out for Number One. Me. My interests, my angles, MY life. I look out for myself only, because no one else seems to do it right. I have no problem stealing cookies from children if it means I get to eat that night, I’ll do what I need to do to stay under the radar and away from the law, and I’ll burn down a church if it means I get to walk away free. No one is totally innocent, anyway.
…and saying that, I guess I don’t have much of a conscience anymore, either. I don’t have time to feel guilty. I don’t LIKE killing people, but it’s Kill Or Be Killed in this ‘verse, and making snap decisions under pressure half your life tends to make that choice a little easier.
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::Crap That Doesn’t Apply But I’m Gonna Tell It To You Anyway::
I like salty food, spicy food, anything that lights up your mouth with flavor. Not a fan of sweet. Love leather jackets. I hate weak ales, gimme Dodbri whiskey straight. I like droids better than people and favors better than credits (most of the time).
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Lost || Guarded || Stubborn
"Compelling argument, if only I had the karks to give."
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::The Story So Far::
Yeah, yeah. Why is everyone so concerned with the past? Does it really matter how I got where I am today? Not to me it doesn’t. ‘sides, I don’t like sharing details with people. Gives them easy-load ammo when they finally stab me in the back. But you wanna know what I’m about? I’ll tell you everything the galaxy already knows.
I was born in hyperspace, my home was an old YG-4210 called the ‘Unfair Advantage’, my parents were infamous smugglers and my crew was my family. I had an Astromech for a brother, I slept in the co-pilots chair, and I learned how to shoot, fly, dodge a bolt and take a hit before I learned how to spell. We were the good guys in a bad business, did what we could to help out the lost and broken on the road to our next payday, never dealt in anything too unsavory, although most of our jobs weren’t ‘legit’. Made a lotta enemies, got into a lotta trouble, burned a lotta sky runnin’ from the bounties piled on our heads, but life was never dull.
…Alright, I’m feeling generous. Here’s what everyone doesn’t know.
My eighteenth birthday rolled around. We were parked on Nar Shaddaa, resupplying. I’d been promised some kind of epic party later, so I settled into the co-pilots chair for a nap. Woke up in a pine box, six feet under on some backwater planet with no clothes and a massive headache a month later, on the other side of the galaxy, no memory of the lost time. Dug my way out. It wasn’t fun. Everything I knew before then? Gone. Parents, crew, ship, gone. All our contacts, all our friends were either dead or missing. The only thing still there were all the bounties on us, except now they were all on MY head in one neat little pile. Our enemies were still around, too, but they didn’t seem to recall who the crew of the Unfair Advantage was or what had happened no matter how much I paid or how hard I beat on them. There were no threads to follow, no leads, no rhyme or reason, and believe me, I looked. I looked hard. Things don’t just disappear like that. There’s always a trail, somewhere.
But I couldn’t find it.
I was careful. Really careful. Once I figured out running around all panicked in the open asking questions was getting me attention I didn’t want, I dialed it back. Didn’t trust anyone, kept under the radar for the most part, used whatever and whoever I needed to stay out of the limelight. I started using my brain again, left my hyphenated notorious last names behind and kept to myself. I investigated when I could, had others ask questions for me, worked the network using aliases and false identities. But I’ve never been good at staying quiet for long, and subtlety is not my strong suit. Neither was acting. I wasn’t anywhere near as good as I had to be to shake the hunters and really disappear.
I gave up the search about a year ago. Too hard to look for clues when you can’t stay in one place for more than a few cycles. Whoever was trying to get at me, whoever had marked me with my family’s combined bounties, they’d laid out an awfully appealing buffet of credits for my capture, and I’d added plenty to the feast myself after years of trying to strong-arm half the criminal underworld. Totally thought about letting one of them take me so I can follow this back to the source and finally get some answers, but you don’t wipe someone’s memory and bury them in a cemetery unless you didn’t want them to be found, and my guess was you didn’t put a price like eighty mil on someone you just wanted to chat with. That, and I really hate just giving up and letting some nerf herder bounty hunter add my name to their list of ‘People I Nabbed’.
Now I’m here, still running, still in the dark, still unwilling to go quietly. Hunters are closing in, and I’m fresh outta places to hide. Credits are gone, haven’t had a decent meal in weeks, and I don’t even remember what sleep is. I’m getting tired. Real tired. Maybe I’ll take a stand, finally. Maybe I’ll fight. I’ll lose, but I’ll go down swingin’. Or maybe I’ll find a bar, drink myself to death and leave all this poodoo behind.
…Eh. Who am I kidding? I’m too stubborn to die. Too stubborn to give up, too. Don’t need credits to keep moving. What’s food? Don’t need that, either, ‘nd I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Running it is.
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"I can slay my own dragons. I can dream my own dreams.
My knight in shining armor is me."
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::Roleplays::
-Public-
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-Private-
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I'm not sure yet! I left it open so I had plenty of wiggle room depending on who I was writing with.
