Hey, I'm Ylanne, and I write crime fiction, particularly material dealing with terrorism. I tried to start up a similar roleplay several months ago, but it died after about a page or so of posts.
Name: Yaran Bakoyan
Race: Caucasian / Middle Eastern / Kurd
Birthplace: Suleymaniyah, Iraq
Detachment: Iraqi Police Force
Rank: Captain (oversees operations in a quadrant of Al-Karmah)
Weapons: A Glock .22
Languages Spoken: Kurdish, Arabic, Farsi (Persian), English
I'm not sure what you mean by biography, but here goes:
Once working in army intelligence, Yaran Bakoyan had left the army after witnessing seven comrades blown to pieces by a roadside bomb, leaving all but him dead. Yaran sometimes serves in an interpreting capacity because of his unique ability to speak fluent, accentless English. He has a series of ugly scars across his face and upper torso from the attack, which make him seem frightening.
I'm so sorry. . . I am suffering from writer's block right now. That was terrible. . . Mmm. . . you want a post, like yours? Let's see what this bombed-out brain can churn out:
* * *
The fruit seller stared, like everyone else, at the scars marring what had once been a fairly attractive face. Yaran Bakoyan counted out the coins and put them in the old man's hand, and the man handed him a bunch of grapes, full and round. "Shukran," said Yaran and he felt the fruit seller's eyes on him as he walked down the street. A distant explosion rocked the bazaar, but the people continued about their business, resigned to death, Yaran thought. Or maybe numbed out, worn down from the violence. One child began to cry openly, grabbing her mother, and Yaran turned away. Not today.
He chewed a grape thoughtfully, walking through the bazaar to head back to the heavily guarded police station -- there'd been another attack this week, an IED again -- the juice of the grape sweet and sour all at once in his mouth. Then the earth was on fire.
Yaran watched as a fiery inferno engulfed the bazaar, heat waves passing through him, and the screams and crackling tongues of flames were all too familiar. . . He ran back into the bazaar, one man fighting through the crowd of those who had lived, running to escape with their lives, to live again, longer, for another day. . . There, buried beneath the rubble of a vegetable seller's stand, a pair of legs, and a woman in a burqa tugging at them, screaming, tears falling from her face.
He pushed her aside and began to move the heavy wooden beam, grunting with the exertion. . . Finally, it was gone, and it crashed to the side, where tongues of fire licked at it greedily. The sun's heat was overpowered, Yaran thought, by the flames. . . He picked up the little girl, the frightened girl, the same one he had seen earlier, and he staggered away from the bazaar, her mother following, anxious to get the child away from the fire. . . She was unconscious, her face badly bruised, he saw, blood coming from somewhere. . .
When the emergency response team arrived, it was too late, and the girl died in her mother's arms, and she wailed, tearing her hair and beating her chest, walking in circles with her daughter's body in her arms. . . And Yaran walked away with the police inspector, his voice soft as he issued a series of orders. . . The Americans were already here. . . And the junior officer nodded, almost too eagerly, and he ran off to god knows where, to coordinate the rest of the scattered Iraqi policemen. . .
And Yaran weeped openly beneath the sunlit, dusty skies of Al-Karmah. . . Death would never stop moving him.