Heroine
08-20-06, 06:46 PM
Name: Darcy Francis Day
Age: 17
Sex: Female
Race: Human
Height/weight: 5’3, 112 lbs.
Eyes/hair: Blonde, blue.
Alignment: Chaotic Good.
Character Class: Drive-in Diner Waitress.
Clothing and Appearance: Darcy has the stereotypical pink and white vintage waitress uniform, square hat and all. Wearing a form-fitting dress with a white collar, her name is self-embroidered on her uniform in red letters. The young girl is short. Very short. The kind of short you’d call “toots,” a rather blah term of endearment which, in fact, she heard quite frequently from the types who frequented the diner. A pack of filtered cigarettes peeks out of her white apron, along with an extra set of unpolished silverware wrapped in paper napkins. On her feet, she’s got her polished white roller-skates, her most prized possession, but also owns a pair of saddle-shoes. The only blemishes on her gymnast’s body are the puckered scabs at the bend of her left arm, which she keeps hidden with her sleeves. She usually has her wavy blonde hair kept in a neat ponytail. Nails are painted red.
Personality: She’s a girl with a heart of gold, but has a poor self-image. She has a tendency to be self-defeating, and rely on compliments to feel a shred of self-respect. Darcy certainly is beautiful, but growing up as a child and being praised for your looks your entire life, looks become too important. She’s like an easter-egg: painted and purty on the outside, a rotten mess on the inside.
Weapons: Hammer-style stainless steel meat-tenderizer. Stolen from the diner’s kitchen, she keeps it in her purse incase anybody wants to test whether “no” really means “no.” She is also in possession of a rusted iron mattock, which she took from her father’s shed upon fleeing her town.
Other Equipment: The clothes on her back, a large purse (containing: heroin kit with thirteen hits, pack of filtered cigarettes with lighter, 100 in gold, small makeup kit), Jimmy’s leather jacket, saddle-shoes, roller-skates, apron, three extra settings of silverware.
Skills:
Million-Dollar-Smile: All it’s taken in the past is a quick batting of her eyes and her girl-next-door smile, and even the angriest diner patron would accept a fly in his soup or too much mayo.
Roller-Combat: Momma was a Diesel City roller-derby queen, and it runs in the family. She’s can maneuver on wheels with stunning dexterity, and can recover from a fall in nearly record time. Tripping, hair-pulling, throwing elbows, and general foul play is almost second nature.
History: Nobody would remember the small town of Murestone. Not anymore, anyway. In a time when the fiction of “space aliens” would send the whole place into an uproar, and “ghoulie” was on the lips of every child too afraid to look in closet, the quiet folk there lived relatively normal lives. The only wars were foreign ones. The only problems were little Ricky sending a baseball through the neighbor’s window, and the local riffraff. The gem of the town, however, everyone’s shining star, was Darcy. Blonde little Darcy Frances Day, the waitress at the drive-in diner on 10th and Clay. She was every guy’s dreamgirl, and the envy of every saddle-shoe-wearing skirt at Murestone High. Head cheerleader, president of the student body, and by all rights, the most popular girl in the town, Darcy had a dark secret.
Scag. Dope. Diesel. Smack. Heroin. She was hooked on the stuff. When she wasn’t on it, she was an unmade bed, a real horror-show. She needed it to feel good, like there was a shred of hope in her life. See, Darcy was the talk of the town, but that didn’t do her any good. Her looks were her gateway to relating to others. She had a million-dollar-smile and a gleam in her eye, well-kept hair and a knack for just looking good. Thus, her looks became vital to her self-worth. People latched onto her for her looks, to help themselves feel better. Irony had it that Darcy had a tendency for defeatism. The more emphasis that was placed on her appearance, the more she relied on others’ compliments. When there wasn’t the high of someone complimenting her, she had nothing. What good were looks when there wasn’t anyone else to see them?
That day came too soon, when she was 17. She was walking home one night, and compliment-starved, when she met Jackboot Jimmy, the local scoundrel. He was a rooster haircut, jeans-and-a-tshirt type with a leather biker jacket. He offered to walk her home. Needing company, she accepted. They started hanging out more and more, when, one day, Jimmy threw his leather jacket around her shoulders – a quaint form of claiming someone as ‘your girl.’ She accepted. They were hanging out at his place after she got off work, when he introduced her to heroin. Thus began a spiral of self-defeat that lasted for months.
Then one night, nobody drove by the diner. Nobody was even in sight. She punched out and roller-skated down the street to see if any lights were on. What she saw was enough to shake any lonely soul to the core: death. Friends and neighbors staggered around, half-eaten monsters of their former selves. The highschool football team was huddling around the remains of Fat Nancy, eating her entrails while she lay dead, her eyes still open. Zombies. Her neighbors started to shamble after her, one of them reaching out for her with a raggedy stump for an arm. She shrieked. She was petrified. All she could do was scream. The living dead were surrounding her on three sides, when Jimmy drove down the street in his turbocharged hotrod, barreling into the limping horde with the pedal to the floor. He didn’t survive.
She skated. She skated hard. Back at the diner, she got all of her things and went home, sneaking through the back door to get up to her room. Her father was standing on the front porch, wheezing a moan through his gouged-out jugular. She didn’t have time to get much besides the essentials (including her stash), and ran out to the shed to grab the rusty old mattock her father used to split firewood before skating into the next town. Rumor has it that’s how she escaped. She just skated away, and skated for days. She was found in Alerar, and taken to the island of Scara Brae until the Alerian authorities could figure out all of the details. Having lost everything she ever loved, the sweet little Darcy Day has nothing to lose, and nothing to prove, and an addiction to feed.
Age: 17
Sex: Female
Race: Human
Height/weight: 5’3, 112 lbs.
Eyes/hair: Blonde, blue.
Alignment: Chaotic Good.
Character Class: Drive-in Diner Waitress.
Clothing and Appearance: Darcy has the stereotypical pink and white vintage waitress uniform, square hat and all. Wearing a form-fitting dress with a white collar, her name is self-embroidered on her uniform in red letters. The young girl is short. Very short. The kind of short you’d call “toots,” a rather blah term of endearment which, in fact, she heard quite frequently from the types who frequented the diner. A pack of filtered cigarettes peeks out of her white apron, along with an extra set of unpolished silverware wrapped in paper napkins. On her feet, she’s got her polished white roller-skates, her most prized possession, but also owns a pair of saddle-shoes. The only blemishes on her gymnast’s body are the puckered scabs at the bend of her left arm, which she keeps hidden with her sleeves. She usually has her wavy blonde hair kept in a neat ponytail. Nails are painted red.
Personality: She’s a girl with a heart of gold, but has a poor self-image. She has a tendency to be self-defeating, and rely on compliments to feel a shred of self-respect. Darcy certainly is beautiful, but growing up as a child and being praised for your looks your entire life, looks become too important. She’s like an easter-egg: painted and purty on the outside, a rotten mess on the inside.
Weapons: Hammer-style stainless steel meat-tenderizer. Stolen from the diner’s kitchen, she keeps it in her purse incase anybody wants to test whether “no” really means “no.” She is also in possession of a rusted iron mattock, which she took from her father’s shed upon fleeing her town.
Other Equipment: The clothes on her back, a large purse (containing: heroin kit with thirteen hits, pack of filtered cigarettes with lighter, 100 in gold, small makeup kit), Jimmy’s leather jacket, saddle-shoes, roller-skates, apron, three extra settings of silverware.
Skills:
Million-Dollar-Smile: All it’s taken in the past is a quick batting of her eyes and her girl-next-door smile, and even the angriest diner patron would accept a fly in his soup or too much mayo.
Roller-Combat: Momma was a Diesel City roller-derby queen, and it runs in the family. She’s can maneuver on wheels with stunning dexterity, and can recover from a fall in nearly record time. Tripping, hair-pulling, throwing elbows, and general foul play is almost second nature.
History: Nobody would remember the small town of Murestone. Not anymore, anyway. In a time when the fiction of “space aliens” would send the whole place into an uproar, and “ghoulie” was on the lips of every child too afraid to look in closet, the quiet folk there lived relatively normal lives. The only wars were foreign ones. The only problems were little Ricky sending a baseball through the neighbor’s window, and the local riffraff. The gem of the town, however, everyone’s shining star, was Darcy. Blonde little Darcy Frances Day, the waitress at the drive-in diner on 10th and Clay. She was every guy’s dreamgirl, and the envy of every saddle-shoe-wearing skirt at Murestone High. Head cheerleader, president of the student body, and by all rights, the most popular girl in the town, Darcy had a dark secret.
Scag. Dope. Diesel. Smack. Heroin. She was hooked on the stuff. When she wasn’t on it, she was an unmade bed, a real horror-show. She needed it to feel good, like there was a shred of hope in her life. See, Darcy was the talk of the town, but that didn’t do her any good. Her looks were her gateway to relating to others. She had a million-dollar-smile and a gleam in her eye, well-kept hair and a knack for just looking good. Thus, her looks became vital to her self-worth. People latched onto her for her looks, to help themselves feel better. Irony had it that Darcy had a tendency for defeatism. The more emphasis that was placed on her appearance, the more she relied on others’ compliments. When there wasn’t the high of someone complimenting her, she had nothing. What good were looks when there wasn’t anyone else to see them?
That day came too soon, when she was 17. She was walking home one night, and compliment-starved, when she met Jackboot Jimmy, the local scoundrel. He was a rooster haircut, jeans-and-a-tshirt type with a leather biker jacket. He offered to walk her home. Needing company, she accepted. They started hanging out more and more, when, one day, Jimmy threw his leather jacket around her shoulders – a quaint form of claiming someone as ‘your girl.’ She accepted. They were hanging out at his place after she got off work, when he introduced her to heroin. Thus began a spiral of self-defeat that lasted for months.
Then one night, nobody drove by the diner. Nobody was even in sight. She punched out and roller-skated down the street to see if any lights were on. What she saw was enough to shake any lonely soul to the core: death. Friends and neighbors staggered around, half-eaten monsters of their former selves. The highschool football team was huddling around the remains of Fat Nancy, eating her entrails while she lay dead, her eyes still open. Zombies. Her neighbors started to shamble after her, one of them reaching out for her with a raggedy stump for an arm. She shrieked. She was petrified. All she could do was scream. The living dead were surrounding her on three sides, when Jimmy drove down the street in his turbocharged hotrod, barreling into the limping horde with the pedal to the floor. He didn’t survive.
She skated. She skated hard. Back at the diner, she got all of her things and went home, sneaking through the back door to get up to her room. Her father was standing on the front porch, wheezing a moan through his gouged-out jugular. She didn’t have time to get much besides the essentials (including her stash), and ran out to the shed to grab the rusty old mattock her father used to split firewood before skating into the next town. Rumor has it that’s how she escaped. She just skated away, and skated for days. She was found in Alerar, and taken to the island of Scara Brae until the Alerian authorities could figure out all of the details. Having lost everything she ever loved, the sweet little Darcy Day has nothing to lose, and nothing to prove, and an addiction to feed.