name: Ophelia White :|: mun: Angie [night palsy] :|: org: The Penumbra Club :|: job: Florist, Bomb Specialist, Political Activist :|: age: 24



A P P E A R A N C E:


Trained ears the better to reveal you with

Full pair of lips the better to taste you with

Mocha-tinted eyes the better to stalk you with

Impressively toned body the better to outrun you with


Looks as every bit the sultry little kitten she is, smells as every bit like the fire and brimstone of hell she parades herself through, sounds as every bit poseur Aussie.


Unattractive smile (but a heart-warming laugh), flatter than a racetrack (but has an ass to make up for it), stud looped through her navel, model-skinny (and hating it), and weighs all but 130lbs at her five foot eight frame. Can’t keep a consistent hair length, which is at present, dark chocolate. Wears anything she can move in.


Looks sweet enough, but given the opportunity,



she would rip your fingers from their sockets.

H I S T O R Y

To paint a picture of the white dahlia, you have to know the basics, need the base to construct the masterpiece. She is fragments of dillusion; she is composed of mismatched, jagged shards of supressed anger.

The first coat on the canvas, the ones who brought darling Ophelia into the world: Vivian and Lucas White. Mother was a writer, a poet; both her and Father dearest were members of terrorist organizations, but he was the man behind all the arson. She'd never touched a gun in her life. Where did it all leave her? In a hospital bed, tube pumping shit into her stomach because being in a coma (two four six eight ten years) meant you couldn't eat, couldn't live, couldn't be. All because government dogs shot holes into her. Filthy mutts.

Sweet Ophelia was never meant to witness the horrors her parents witnessed day to day. Blood was never meant to taint her hands. Screams were never meant to reach her ears.

Born into madness, the white dahlia was shipped off to Sector 17 (it used to be called Melbourne) to live with her grandparents at the age of ten. The world was morphing into everything catastrophic, and the parental unit couldn't bear to have Ophelia raised in such chaos.

but early one morning, on her seventeenth birthday

she purchased a plane ticket, and without

anyone's knowledge or consent,

flew back to Sector 07.


and what

a bloody mess

it'd become.

On her arrival, she discovered the following: (1) mother, in a coma; (2) father, harder to track down than a needle in a haystack; (3) house, obliterated; (4) Sector 07 (formerly New York City), deteriorating; (5) her hate for the government

(here is where you'd find the infuriated striations of paint across the canvas; crimson-colored, bruise-shaded.)

And so she went underground in search of some answers. From fifteen to twenty-two, she trained, trained, trained her pretty little derriere off. Growing up into political disarray, her father had made it clear for her: if she was here, she would have to fight.

Her first mission? Dismantle a live bomb.

She did it in under thirty seconds.

Everything else that followed included weapon-handling, first aid, car theft, conartistry – the like. Soon she found herself able to dismantle a wide variety of electronic devices – but none could compete with her practiced art of constructing bombs.

And then the unexpected happened.

Her father, only weeks after finally tracking him down, was caught in the midst of a terrible freak accident - one of his bomb specialists had cut the wrong wire

and daddy turned
into a veil of pink mist

Ophelia suddenly found herself a member of the Penumbra Club. The proclamation of her as the heir to his position had come years prior, but she hadn't expected to be part of it all so abruptly. Nevertheless, she hasn't regretted a moment since. She has a reputation to live up to. A role to play.

Being the only female in a terrorist group of nine males has had its toll on her.

but she's loving

every

single

minute.





S T R E N G T H S    A N D    W E A K N E S S E S:

[+] Fluent is as many languages you can count on your fingertips

[+] Has a knack for showing up at the right (or wrong) time

[+] Can see through the lies, lies, lies

[+] Even-tempered (to an extent)

[+] Professional (.. mostly)


[+ / - ] Anti-government

[+ / - ] Imaginative


[-] Saucy minx

[-] More addictive than nicotine

[-] Occasionally too emotionally detached

[-] The only family member she acknowledges






G O A L S    A N D    M O T I V A T I O N S:

To blow you out of this world.