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Raja the Iron Mistress

Oyabun of Kyubei-kai: "I don't want your money, I don't want your crown. I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out.

0 · 650 views · located in Ingloriously Normal Japan, 20XX

a character in “Bad Hands”, as played by Yonbibuns


Third Kyubei Chairwoman Raja, The Iron Mistress


Tunes, tunes, tunes:
Now, Look in My Face: Dust Bowl Dance by Mumford and Sons
You'll Never Forget: Eight Easy Steps by Alanis Morrisette
Let Me Drink My Fill: Hate by Cat Power


Name: “Don't test me, you lazy piece of shit. Anta kalbee! You and I; unlikely allies. If you dare call me any cutesy names, I'll rip that useless, flapping thing from your mouth with a rusty fork. It won't be pleasant. I am Raja Maia Mahasti—mispronounce it. Now, that, would be brazen! Oh-ho-ho.” You might be wondering why her birth name differs from the clansman’s Kyubei. Though she doesn't find it necessary to explain her birthright, she'll hoarsely reminisce that she'd been born in a different place, in a different time, where she suffered beneath the heavy weight of her fathers' name; no longer. She doesn't particularly care what you call her, as long as you say it with respect.
Age: “Ah, seems to me that you don't value your life. But, since I'm not a petty woman bothered with her age, I might as well tell you. I'm 345 years old; aged like a shot of whiskey.” It's true, Raja has no reason to lie about her age. She's not shy. She's not going to flap her arms around like an offended hen, so don't worry. Just don't make the mistake of calling her an old lady.
Race: A leftover of another age, of another country; two parts that don't quite mesh: Bake-neko with scattered human puzzle pieces.
Faction: “God better have mercy on you, because you'll have none from us.” Kyubei-kai, bitches.
Role: “Mother, mistress, boss. Nightmare, threat, bitch. Whichever side you see it from, it's best you don't forget.” Kyubei-kai's Oyabun.


Have you ever paused to examine the flowers peeking out of the foliage? Well, unless you're a worldly traveller, you haven't seen the Fringed Amaranth's clawing up from dusty washes and uninhabitable slopes. You haven't seen the Desert Sand Verbena scaling sandy walls, spreading trumpeted-pink petals against sandy flats; determined to live in harsh conditions. Or the Yellow Panamint Daisies: yellow ray florets spanning across the stony hillsides, braving the canyons. Anyway, that's not my point. Raja's an exotic woman. If she were any desert-faring plant, she'd most certainly be the Argentine Giant Cactus with it's beautiful flowers and deadly spines, contrasting beauty with impending pain if you cross her. She is the epitome of Eastern grace and poise, all wrapped up in a certain unmistakable edginess. A dangerous representation of fine bones, aesthetic elegance and one-hundred-percent woman. She depicts a sort of wild physicality; and if eyes are the window to your soul, Raja's are lancets. The colour of her irises are a stark shade of honeyed-yellow, accented with amber if you manage to get close enough for the distinction.

Complexion: “Thick skin isn't a gift from God, it's a gift to yourself, from yourself. I give credit to no one else. Your body is not ruined. You're a goddamn tiger whose earned her stripes.” Essentially, Raja's bronzed skin is the product of her Saudi Arabic bloodline. It's golden, sun kissed, as though she secretly lived in the Bahamas on the weekends; only, she's lived in environments that would make the most worldly travellers weep for water. She's a desert-faring child with no need to dip her toes into any tanning salons, but that doesn't mean she doesn't openly sunbathe. Thankfully, she owns several bathhouses with outdoor facilities, where she traipses nude, when she pleases, where she pleases, and offers blushing women coquettish smiles. There's no telltale crags wrinkling the contours of her face, but if you're close enough, then you'll notice the frequent crinkles of her eyebrows; the subtle laugh lines creasing her slanted eyes, and the dimples ridged into her cheeks.

Body Type: “I didn't discover curves; I only uncovered them.” She has a fighter's build; ropy muscle corded around her arms and legs, fingers blunt and knobbly from thousands of jabs, hooks and hours wrapped in ragged, falling apart bandages. She's all legs and voluptuous, womanly curves. She knows it and she flaunts it at every available opportunity; not for sex, not for admiration, not for attention. It's for herself. Her body, that'd been hidden away for so long, is now hers to do as she wishes. Similarly to all warriors, her skin is a canvas of visible scars and tribal tattoos that only those of her homeland would know much of anything about. Though not built like your typical slender, Oriental woman; she's curved and her extremities are sinuous. She's proud.

Height and Weight: 5'5” | 145lbs

Distinguishing marks: Have you ever seen those patterns spanning across Middle Eastern tapestry? It's the best example when considering her cultural tattoos. Those are the kinds of patterns encircling her curvaceous waist, her biceps and lower forearms. They aren't an assortment of tropical colours, either. They're swathed in earthy tones; probably only a few shades darker than her actual complexion. Small dots of the same variety fringe below her eyes, across her forehead and along her chin. And her hands. Her hands are scarred and calloused.

Apparent Temperament: Ostensibly, Bakeneko in its natural form appears to be a perfectly normal human aligned towards water: small, slender, and fluidly graceful. You probably wouldn't notice anything different if you'd thrown her any hasty glances. With a bit of study, however, the trained eye can pick out the cosmetic differences. Bakeneko have slightly pointed ears, vertically slitted pupils, and very sharp canines. The particularly sharp observer may also note the strangeness of a Bakeneko's gait, caused by double-jointed knees. To most, however, a Bakeneko can easily pass for human, and they often do, preferring it to identifying as a separate society, most of the time. Her temperament is all fluid grace; a dancer's movements with fingertips gliding through water. Her voracious strides' are seemingly planned. Each stalking step reminds me of a familiar creature; an animal you've seen before. An animal that's dangerous, promising and misleading. She will not bend for you.

Hair and eyes: What colour is her hair, anyway? It's a dark lavender-purple. An exotic colour that's presumably artificial, or a clear indication that she isn't whom she seems to be. Her hair is thick and long, falling clear down her back even when she decides to braid it. It is often seen decorated with a variety of things like shells, bones, feathers, and beads. On a normal day it is usually kept in a mass of wavy lengths, sometimes pulled into a bun-styled arrangement if it obscures her vision. Her eyes are coloured a light yellow spun with golden accents. They're expressive, and sometimes a bit frightening. Perpetually narrowed into calculating slants. There's an obvious glint in her eyes; she's seen and heard more than she ever should in her youth: it reflects in her movements, in the way she carries herself.

Facial features: Her face is a myriad of angles. She has hawkish features that only seem highlight the unfriendly perception people have of her. She doesn’t smile a lot, mainly because she smiles for a reason if she smiles at all, and thus far Raja hasn’t exactly made her grin, at least not genuinely or out of happiness. If anything at all: she offers the world quickfire, unsettling half-smiles that gives you the impression of a predator watching a small animal trying to escape a bear trap. She gives out quick smiles to acquaintances who make the effort to be polite or smile to her first but these are just courtesy smiles which people are often painfully aware of. You would never describe her face as soft, gentile, or smooth; it's sharp, intimidating and somewhat marauding. Carnivorous, vulturous—hungry.

Wardrobe: Raja, on a typical night, can be found wearing a mass assortment of golden beads, bones, bells, and shells in her hair and hanging from her wrists and ankles. Her outfit is a mash up of tribal colours, Egyptian tassells and ornate tapestry mixed with Middle Eastern clothing creating a perfect blend for tribal fusion dancing. Several of the pieces in her hair and along her skin have travelled with her over the world, their origins old and from as far away as Egypt. Whatever she wears across her bosoms are usually dauntingly risqué. Pleasingly tattered leather half-vests, decorated with severe patterns and exotic feathers. Boots or footwear in general are rare, as she prefers to be barefoot, though should it prove a necessity she has an assortment to choose from: wooden sandals would suffice. She often accessorizes with jewelry that is hand-made by herself using hemp, horse hair, bones, sea shells, stones, feathers, and carved wooden amulets.

Now, there's so many brazen adjectives when it comes to Raja's temperament. She's hearty, brash, and unafraid when it comes to speaking her mind. She’s got a very strong head on a pair of solid shoulders, and an iron will to match. That isn't to say she's unfriendly, however; Raja enjoys being around people, and though she may come off as unnecessarily brusque and overly blunt at times, she's a very fierce and loyal companion (and an excellent drinking buddy if you've got the stomach). She's a man with a rack of breasts. She likes to think she's the toughest cookie around, from head to toe, which doesn't seem like much in her small stature, but don't tell her you think so. You won't like it when she stomps you down a few pegs. She likes to play at being one of the guys but still prefers the company of women to men when it comes to friendships, but only because of what she's been exposed to her whole life. She can drink, curse, and smoke with the best of them, even going beyond them, on more than one occasion.

She's slow to anger unless you've injured her pride. And she's equally slow to forgive and forget; grudges are second-nature and she's got a damned good memory. She's confident and thick skinned; definitely not worried about other people's opinions. Although she doesn't really care what you think of her, she won't tolerate you yapping behind her back. Snottiness is disdained. As things go, Raja doesn't feel as though she needs the company of others, so it can be very difficult for people to form any kind of relationship with her, let alone gaining her trust; she's just as happy alone, as she tends to find that other people are disruptive to her life and habits. She hates crowded and busy places. Her hotblooded nature hides a developing devious side, and as her ambitions evolve, she is growing slowly more manipulative and deliberate. It is only when she is in exclusively female company that she feels truly at ease, and it's only then that she ever seems really calm and open.

An intelligent and improper creature, Raja can be somewhat off-putting at first impressions. There is a perceptiveness about her that catches many people off guard, and a sharpness to her gaze that can be unnerving to some. She's isn't outwardly respectful. She won't bend over backwards trying to make you feel comfortable. If you were expecting her to bat her thick eyelashes, offer pretty smiles with pretty words: you'll be more than disappointed. You'll be disgusted, appalled, offended. Passionate, strong-willed, stubborn as an ox. Raja puts her heart and soul into everything she does. If it isn’t worth doing right, she doesn’t feel it's worth doing at all. She has embraced this in all aspects of her life and when she sets her mind to something it 's nearly impossible to sway it. While for the most part this can be a good and admirable trait it also leaves her prone to misbehaving when people disagree with her which includes but is not limited to: tantrums, defiance, glares, and both physical and verbal abuse. If you've accidentally fanned her flames: her anger is fearsome. Like most uncontrolled fires: it burns hot and intense but will burn itself out with enough time, if you leave her be. She holds grudges and doesn’t seem to ever forgive, bringing up past offences to fling in people’s faces, readily. It's not beneath her throw objects with intent to harm, or to physically attack. She can utterly ruthless. While Raja can act like a moody bitch, it's usually for a good reason—using the word, usually, lightly.

Despite her title, Raja really isn't all that stuck up. I won't take back the fact that she can be truly, utterly, and completely, a bitch. She knows that, too. It's been cultivated and groomed. She recognizes societal ranks but doesn't put any more value than necessary in them. She is far from selfless, but she can prove to be very fair and just with her people. She's confident in everything she does; she's a woman who knows what she wants and how to obtain them. She doesn't often make mistakes, and when she does, she tries to rectify them immediately. She's a bold and unflinching leader; willing to bulldoze her way, personally, through obstacles instead of kicking her feet across her desk. She's always quick to use dry humour, crude remarks and sarcasm. She doesn't really like dealing with idiots, and if she's having a bad day, her icy remarks will let everyone know it. She doesn't like to be pampered, but she does like to be served. It is a very thin line, but she still gets bitter when it's crossed. And she's pretty damn violent. If you manage to swagger your way across her lines, then you'll be thrown. Thrown from the rooftop, thrown out the window, thrown across the room—you'll be thrown, bodily, into a tangle of arms and legs. You'll pinwheel out of the room, unscathed or a whole mess of crispy bacon. She's bossy, hot-tempered, demanding and a teensy bit possessive.

Speech: Think: sultry, exotic, foreign. If you're not savvy in accents or languages, Raja's voice sounds peculiarly Latino. While similar in sounds, there's a clipped edge. A resounding hollow. She's got a pretty adorable laugh. But, along with the long list of warnings, you probably shouldn't make any flattering comments. That laugh'll transform into something terrifying in seconds. And it'll echo through your thick skull like a pair of haunting maracas. Might even be the last thing you'll hear.

Pet Peeves: She refuses to back down from her beliefs or thoughts, tends to butt heads with others due to her stubbornness; so, she really, really doesn't like people who butt heads with her. Oh man, and if she catches you wearing sunglasses when it's not even sunny outside, she'll slap them off your face so fast that your head will spin. She doesn't care who you are. She doesn't care if you're blind, missing your eyeballs, or disfigured. Sunglasses are for sunny days—that's that. She hates people barging into her office space, bedroom, training area, bathhouse unannounced. She's paranoid, so she'll probably accidentally fling a heavy object in your direction before realizing who you are.

Favourite colour: Beige with chocolate brown patterns.


Specialty: If you think she has any honour when fighting for her own life, or for her comrades lives', then you're sorely mistaken. It's a do-or-die world out there. So, if it's necessary to grab a handful of dirt and throw it in your face, Raja won't hesitate. It'll be the first thing she'll look for, because you're gonna be the one huffing your last breath's in the streets. And while you curse her for being unjust, she'll be standing over you—whole and alive, breathing and justified. Jamming her fingers into your eyes won't turn her stomach any, neither will slamming her feet into her groin—so don't think, not even for a moment, that she'll settle for a good duel. Who cares if it's not fair? She'll use her surroundings if she's not totting her beloved blades; by grabbing anything and everything in a controlled attempt to maim and disfigure. Chairs, bats, televisions, or anything else that's handy. But, honestly, Raja loves, adores, and respects using bladed weaponry. If remaining alive wasn't her specialty, swordsmanship would take the cake.

Fighting Style: Graceful, meticulous, controlled; often grisly and ponderously thoughtful.

Preferred Weaponry: Two Persian scimitars; single-edged, curved blades, ultra sexy.

  • She would put her own life on the line for someone she cares about, no questions asked. Her intentions are clear. While this can be a strength, for her it's a weakness. She doesn't think about the possible outcomes; doesn't think of her own life.
  • Raja's a shortfused firecracker with a temper that would make the surliest of characters abashed by her behaviour or a little scared. She's one momma bear that you don't wanna' fuck with. She makes it clear when you've overstepped your boundaries and if you don't step off, she'll make you wish that you did.
  • Her ambitions are blinding. It's hard to get out of her own way. There's so many things she wants to change in the world, specifically when it comes to women, that she has difficulty focusing on anything but her goals. Her outbursts are passionate, but often misguided and focused in the wrongs directions. If anyone questions these dreams, these ambitions, Raja will fly off the handle.
  • She's territorial. If someone invades into a part of her life that is private, and meaningful to her, she's likely to lash out and tell them to back off. Cutting people out of her life won't hurt her any. It might not even make a lasting mark. You're a small indent that can be easily brushed away with a glass of sake. She's also the sort of person who will be careful in meeting new people, and testing what their boundaries are, often unnecessarily. Her boundaries. Her personal space. Those are her weaknesses; if you threaten these things, she'll transform into a hissing mess of claws and venom.
  • Although not downright selfish, it's in Raja's nature to be greedy. She wants power and land expansion, but not for malicious reasons (not always, anyway). She simply wants control over more terrain so she can protect everyone within her realm. Even still, it can transform itself into an obsessive goal. She wants to be a military enemy, not a figure head or poster woman. Her attitude, in itself, roars her injustices.

Inventory: By Golly, if you thought that weird peddler wandering the streets had more daggers hidden on him than a freaking Hashish assassin—you'll be terrified by Raja's arsenal. She's learned to be careful and prepared. She's got daggers strapped to her ankles; throwing daggers strapped into slots around her intricate leather belts and small, unnoticeable pins tucked behind her ears. If you try to stick her while her backs' turned, she'll fight tooth and nail to maim you before she falls. Now, as for the less fatal items, Raja carries a ceremonial satchel with spare cash, a small gemstone, her brother's glass eye and an ebony feather encased with clear sealant. She has six earrings in each ear, five studs and one that dangles almost to her shoulders, all belonging to her deceased mother. Her arms are always covered with bracelets and bangles, so there's spares held in her satchel; for whichever occasion. “Never bring a knife to a gunfight, you say?” She carries two Winchester Magnum, concealed somewhere on her person unless she suspects she'll be safe without them.

Minor Ability: It is said that the bakeneko will haunt any household it's kept in, creating ghostly fireballs, menacing sleepers, walking on its hind legs, changing its shape into that of a human, and even devouring its own mistress in order to shapeshift and take her place. It's believed that it poses a danger if allowed into a room with a fresh corpse; capable of reanimating a body by jumping over it. While she can't reanimate the dead, the rest isn't far from the truth. Her lavish behaviour may have roots to her species. Culturally, Raja's a chameleon whose undefined abilities stem from fitting in virtually anywhere. It's in her nature to beguile, bewitch and mesmerize.

She has a number of racial abilities that places her on fairly even ground with elementally talented Yokai. She possesses a feline's heightened senses and reflexes to place her on par with high calibre air elemental's, including discriminatory senses of smell and hearing. Unsurprisingly, her balance is superior to even the most talented humans, and she's perfectly double-jointed in every joint, including the individual vertebrae. She can shift between the form of a humanoid and a large cat at will, though not without the excruciating pain of sloughing off her disguise. Her fire-breathing abilities are breathtaking, but more or less just for show. It's pretty damn painful spurting fire from your lips.

Additional Guise: Why would she display herself as anyone other than Raja the Iron Mistress? So, no. She has none.



Hobbies: What? You don't think sifting through lollygagger's with a jackhammer is hobby enough? Well, if you must know, Raja's cultivated a skill in metalwork. They're all end up particularly sharp, pointy, and jagged; end results can be used if weapons, if need be. If you're looking for metal figures of flowers, Raja's work is splendid. If you're looking for elephants, or dangerous figurines to hold, then you'll probably ask Raja to wrap it with cardboard and handle it with thick leather gloves. Seriously, it's dangerous. She doesn't smooth her edges because she says it gives them an unrefined look. She makes her own jewelry, as well. And from her homeland, she's taken back an unusual art form: egg art. And no, she doesn't paint them for Easter. She cuts them into intricate spirals, designs and pictures; slathers on a thin layer of adhesive and it becomes an encased decoration.

  • Y'know what really stirs her inner passion? The weather. She adores snow. She frolics in the rain. She stretches her arms up over her head—clothed or not—when it's sunny. Even if it's hailing ice pellets, Raja can be found admiring nature's handiwork with the expression of childish delight. She's the exotic woman dancing in the streets with her tongue out, catching snowflakes and blinking them from her eyelashes. There's certain things she's never seen before and now that she's in Japan, she's exposed to everything.
  • Challenges; games, battles, arenas, childish games, bets. She's a woman who enjoys betting with the big boys' and it isn't often that you'll see her sitting out on anything. Born in a country where women weren't allowed to do much of anything, there's no wonder she likes a good challenge. She delights in riddles and tests of intellect or skill, and often challenge complete strangers to contests of skills they don't possess.
  • Although she feels attracted to both sexes, it had always been women she had felt more drawn to. Most of her relationships have been with women, as she feels like she can open up to them and trust them more easily. Still, it's not wise to presume too much.

  • Vengeance; one of the few personality traits she has that she's both aware of and unhappy about. But truth be told, if you seriously wrong Raja or anyone close to her, then she's not going to be able to drop it. She will look for you, she will find you and she will kill you, and she will not stop. Not until you've felt the same pain; feel the same wrongs. She's been known to take it a little too far, too.
  • Putting someone in a position of danger, being responsible for someone’s suffering. Someone close. She couldn't care less if you—outside of her family—is suffering.
  • History repeating itself; never learning anything.
  • She doesn't like being blamed, or loosely thrown accusations.
  • She doesn't like children: they stink, they cry, and they're generally too fuckin' loud.
  • She hates being ordered around, commanded, or spoken to in a tone that insinuates you're superior. Especially if you're a man. Especially if you think that, because you have male genitals, you're somehow stronger, more intelligent, or superior to her. Oh, she'll knock you down a few pegs. With a baseball bat.
  • Men; there's just something about them that ticks her off, and Raja has had trouble bonding truly with men: as friends, as comrades, as unlikely allies. Whether it's because most of them don’t have enough blood to fuel both their upstairs and downstairs brain, or because they tend to be fuller of themselves, she isn’t sure. And it's not all men. She's not a crazy feminist bitch—well, not completely anyway. She understands that some men can operate without transforming into disgusting, egoistic pigs. And so, she tests them. Constantly.

Fears: “Fears? Fears? I fear nothing!” So she says. She wouldn't outright admit being afraid of anything. They're weaknesses that can be exploited. She'll keep tight-lipped, but as long as were bandying down this section, I might as well tell you that she's afraid of spiders. That's right. She suffers from an acute case of Arachnophobia. They're disgusting critters with hairy, multiple legs, spewing sticky webs from their asses. What kind of fucking demon is that? So, if you're some kind of Yokai whose got an assload of hairy appendages and spideresque qualities, she'll probably hate your guts. And she'll squash you. Or send someone else to do it because she can't stand the sight of them. Of you. Of those goddamn crawlies.

Agenda: Promised I would find a little solace and some peace of mind. Whatever just as long as I don't feel so desperate and ravenous. So weak and powerless. There's nothing simple in wanting what she'd always been cheated of: freedom. She wants to keep it. And in doing so, she's forced to hound after power to keep her foothold. It's a sickness; a disease that spurns her behaviour. Nothing dampens her desire for vengeance against those who've wronged her, but as the years pass, Raja's been slowly developing a mutual camaraderie for her fellow clansmen. It's not just about her anymore. It's about them. It's for them. She won't stop until they've paved themselves a road—straight through the Dogs, straight through Terajima.

Where they hail from: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Hassim (Father, Estranged):
Eimiko (Mother, Deceased):
Hoshu (Older brother, Deceased):
Gammy Tsubame (Grandmother):

Notable Experiences:

And the Earth spins 'round while the people fall down.
And the world stands still: not a sound, not a sound.
There is love, there is love, to be found.
In the worst way, in the worst way, in the worst way.

Every woman has the right to chose who she wishes to become. Every woman should have those simple, justified rights. In Saudi Arabia, the women stood. The women bent, backwards, until they felt pieces of themselves loosen. Like earthly plates, they moved slowly, inch by inch, until new, forbidden lands and regulations were created from them by their demanding fathers and postulating husbands. All women, regardless of age, are required to have a male guardian. Women cannot vote or be elected to high political positions; women can't even drive without being accused of lewd behaviour or invoking sensual feelings from their counterparts. The responsibility has long been shirked from their shoulders, and tied to their mothers, sisters, and daughters. Circumstances would have if that Raja Maia Mahasti was born within a family that followed strict Islamic customs.

She had never considered herself weak. Weak was refusing to acknowledge your feelings simply because they were inconvenient. Because they were too difficult to accept. Weak was leaving because things became too hard. Weak was blaming others for your problems, for your difficulties. No, Raja was anything but weak. The Islamic codes were used as tools to control the women; to destroy their dreams, destroy their ambitions, and completely bury any Western ideas filtering through their country. She was taught from a very young age that she was inferior; that she must obey her male guardians and that she must keep her beauties hidden behind her veils, her heavy garments, her masks until a man buys the license to use them. Hindering her movements and stunting her wild appetites, Raja's bitterness festered like a foul-smelling wound. She wanted to run. She wanted to learn how to ride horses. She wanted to attend school with men, with women, with whomever she pleased. She wanted so badly to find her mother. She knew nothing about her, and yet she was her mother. Something unattainable and beautiful; something that promised another life. She was sure of it.

Sex segregation was expected in the public. You weren't allowed to enter certain places if you were born with the wrong parts. This included gyms, special shops, special businesses and the majority of pubs, taverns, and clubs. If you thought if was funny spotting that wooden sign reading, “No girls” across your tree-house door—it wouldn't be too far from reality in Raja's busy city. “No women” was as frequent as, “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” And Raja's mother. It always came back to her. She was sure she didn't want to leave her, but she had no other choice. She had to in order to survive. Her father's backhanded way of handling the family drove her away, unwillingly, shamefully, back to Japan. She wanted to know her favourite colour, what she liked to eat, what her favourite flower was, what she wished for the most. Simple things. Things that Raja could whisper at night, naming them off like dreams leaping from her fingertips. There were no pictures of her. No portraits hanging like heavy afflictions over her bed frame. Her tattered Hijab's were folded away in sealed boxes, hidden in an attic to collect dust. Her mirror and combs had been removed. She did not leave behind any calligraphy or art, any poems or paintings, any embroidery, any sort of physical remembrance; just the darkening look within her father's barren eyes, emptied of all light and replaced with a sour, sick, bitter scrutiny. Years later, Raja would remember his eyes and realize that it wasn't a lack of emotion—it was guilt. It was remorse. It was recognition for what he'd done.

So now I say goodbye and this is to you, I pledge ;
Take your final step and plummet over the edge
You listened to the snake! I won't take any blame
Now here's my breath in your face,
I leave you up in flames

He'd done it. He'd sold her out like cattle. She did not have a gentle heart. It thrived on feelings she couldn't even voice—feelings that would cast her into the streets, pelted to death by rocks. And still, Raja was being forced into an arranged marriage. Her father's words were golden; an unspoken pact forged in blood and familial honour. He was a human. Stubborn, weak, unswayable. Her mother was much more. Thus, Raja's blood thumped loudly, strongly, and ran hotly. And still, her father would dare sell her out to another demon: a Tengu lordling with expansive estates and exotic tastes. In her own little huddle of thunder, Raja subjected herself to silent rages behind closed doors. Trying not to acknowledge either pain or any emotion outside her carefully cultivated range of Islamic codes. It stills pounded between her ears, pressing against her temples until it transforms into a resounding roar she can't dismiss. One misstep, one misunderstood word and Raja's head would metaphorically roll across her husband's feet. Which couldn't be much worse than having her head actually lopped off. There was nothing for him to gain; she'd become a pretty penny for his amusements. His harem included mistresses and wives of all flavours; and they were many. More than anything: she hoped for poison, she hoped for deadly falls, assassinations, car accidents, infertility.

Even cattle has it's chance to kick up dirt in it's sellers' face. Raja refused to roll over and expose her belly—she was more than that. She was strong. She refused to bend. It wasn't a spoken refusal. It didn't need to be mouthed, just verified within herself. Whispered against her pillow while the days ticked off towards her wedding day. She was stronger than that. She would not allow herself to become a spineless, weak-kneed, useless woman. She would not be a coward. She would not be incompetent. She would not be ashamed of herself. She would not allow fear to rule her life. Not anymore.

Wear the grudge like a crown of negativity
Calculate what you will will not tolerate
Desperate to control; all and everything
Unable to forgive your scarlet letterman

It was easy because it was unexpected. A woman knelt. A woman bent. A woman would not sink her claws into her husbands heart to still his lewd tongue. She would not behave with intolerance. She would not comb her grisly fingers through her hair, now free of it's veils, streaking her exposed cheek. But, Raja did. And she did not regret it. Earthquakes trembled through her fingers; elation. More than that: freedom. She was splitting open like a sunrise; opening anagrams and storybooks that'd been long forgotten—thought impossible, because women bent, women stood, women knelt. She stumbled with a distinct numbness and lack of control, stepping past the rumpled remains of her husband and through the corridors. She saw her hands for the first times. They weren't ineffectual, pounding things. She was proud because she wasn't crying. It was like stubbing out a cigarette with the heels of her sandals, discarding what was disappointing. Her skin was unravelling like streamers. She was strong. No desert coffin would contain her. She found her mother's letters in her father's chest, dogeared from years of flipping through them. Bookmarked, and real. These weren't flaws. They were addresses.

  • She found her mother, grandmother and older brother in Osaka, Japan and joined the Kyubei-kai clan in hopes of salvaging what she had left of her family. Her brother was the 2nd Chairman of the Kyubei-kai clan: rightfully coined “the Flame Bringer.” Her mother served as a dedicated councilwoman. Rumours of human blood flowing through the late Kyubei bloodline remained a curiosity; nothing more.
  • Her older brother and mother died in a firefight while being escorted during the Three Shrine Festival by Terajima clansmen. She did not know who drew the first gun, but she doesn't particularly care. It's festered into the same hatred she's harboured for her father; perhaps, even more. They ripped away the last ribbons away from her, tore them from her fingers. Bending to gather her brothers' crumpled body—he drew her head forward and whispered something in her ear. She hasn't ever spoken his words.
  • An internal war inflamed and she knew, without a doubt, what she must do. Raja's brusqueness, leadership and sick fascination with vengeance was the product of her family; what they'd made of her. She took the reigns from her brother and became the 3rd Chairwoman of the Kyubei-kai clan, naming herself, “The Iron Mistress.” A woman as chairman. Seemed funny at the time. She would make them pay.


Basic Summary: Young and undisciplined, she nevertheless possesses a fierce ambition and a growing conviction that women have a higher place in the world. She believes this with every fibre of her being. She was once promised to a wealthy Tengu, as Middle Eastern traditions persist, who had several women already in his harem. She would've been a lowly concubine hadn't she escaped; a spineless woman with no voice. She killed him. She has Amazonian principles and a massive chip on her shoulder. Among many things, Raja wants equality. She wants answers. She wants a home. Morals are restrictive, and often, disregarded. She's a firm believer of “tough love.” Does it hurt? Well, she loves you. Sort've.

So begins...

Raja the Iron Mistress's Story

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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It wasn't the fingertip that got his attention. Solo had felt the eyes on him several moments before she touched him. Like the tiger, that gingerly stalked her prey this woman's golden eyes were fixated on him--hard.

Preying on children, now, Solo?” That foreign voice cooed.

When he turned around to properly address The Iron Mistress, the glint in those burgundy eyes of his suggested he would have loved for her to pounce on him. Raja Maia Mahasti was the type of woman that drove Solo The Mad...insane. She was the type of woman that could make you cry on the battlefield and in the bedroom. Not to mention she had a set of curves that embarrassed even the most dangerous race track. He didn't have much to to admire her...assets though, for the Oyabun of Kyubei-Kai had, judging by the look in her eye, come to do business with him.

"Fun would be,” Asking for the aid of an outsider was something Solo knew Raja hated. He gained some pleasure out of watching the powerful woman dig for her words, “helping me find Sawada Nobuyuki. We know he's around here somewhere. Hiding in the dark like a child.” Solo picked at the back of his ear, smiling. Everyone and everything made waves throughout Japan's underworld. The Families were no different, in fact, the waves they made were perhaps even larger than normal. Like throwing a boulder into a lake. Still subtle, transient, but if you looked closely, you might have caught something. There were rumors of the hunt for Nobuyuki. Solo paid the developments a passing glance. Nobuyuki's case was a subject of interest if only for that snake he kept around his neck. He didn't have an interest in interfering though. Thing like this unfolded better when you sat back and watched.

However...the Oyabun was here at his feet. Maybe he could use this situation to his advantage?

"Sawada Nobuyuki..." He rolled the name around on his tongue a few times as he checked the file cabinets of his dome for info. “Pasty bastard with the snake right? Hipster glasses, kind of sweaty? Must owe you all money, huh? I heard he was standing up to the gangs, only reason he hasn’t been snuffed out yet is because of know.” Solo pointed at Raja’s jewel adorned neck, “O’ poisonous constrictor thou hast inflicted me with thy venom!” The business man waved one hand before him, like a maestro conducting an orchestra, “That snake. Word is, its no ordinary reptile. I’ve had some contacts try and get near him, and each one hasn’t made it back. I wouldn’t mind seeing him laid out...” Until now, the broker had maintained a suitable amount of distance between him and the Mistress. Now though, he inched ever closer towards the bronze skinned woman.

“So I’ll tell you what. I know him, I can take you and your boys to the last place my informants made contact with him. And I’ll even do it for a discounted price...” Solo’s words slithered from his mouth, to her ear. The snake on Nobuyuki’s neck couldn’t have done a better job of it itself. There was only hair’s distance between them now. He stood over her, admiring her body, peering into her eyes. Unlike many, The Iron Mistress fit his ideals of beauty to a T. Power, fear inducing power. The ability to change others and the world around oneself. And looks that captivated the eye. This was beauty. “I want to accompany you and your men on the hunt for him, and...” Solo’s hand was ready to reach out and brush against her neck--but he stopped himself, realizing what this woman might do to him if he made such a move, “You accompany me to my home after that is done.” The grin he had on showed all his teeth, he looked like a monster ready to bite into his meal, the way his canines gleamed in the lantern’s light.

“Do we have a deal...Miss Mahasti?

There were several things he did not know about this woman. Her family life, where she resided before coming to Japan, history before succeeded the chairman hat, and most importantly...what lied beneath those cloths. Oh! How he relished the thought! The desire of the physical was not the only goal he had in getting this woman alone. Having an Oyabun in your personal quarters would have many advantages for a man such as himself. A powerful brain, ripe for picking.

And pick was what he intended to do.

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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#, as written by Cypher
Osaka, a dirty little pisspot filled with opportunity

"Way I see it, Solo-kun, 'less you plan on cookin' the oyabun a five-star dinner, showin' her a movie an' then maaaaybe offerin' up your immortal soul an' sweet candy ass as part of the deal, there ain't a way in hell she's gonna let you get yer nasty member in her skirts."

Kaito stepped out of an alley nearby, slouched as always, hands in pockets, looking nonplussed. If it weren't for the bloodstains on the cuffs of his shirt and pants he could have passed for any scruffy barfly on the street at the moment, but with those added into the equation, he looked just scruffy and angry enough to present a threat. If you knew his face and paired that with aforementioned stains, it wouldn't be unreasonable for the casual observer to shit their pants, or at least find a chill creeping down their spine. Without breaking stride, one hand went to his mid-back and wrapped around the grip of his Mauser, the other one hung at his side as he shoulder-checked Solo on the way to the side of the oyabun. Personally, Kaito wasn't above the thought of leveraging his boss into his bed either - that rack had been fuel enough for many a pleasant dream on a lonely night - but he knew his place at the moment was at his mistress's side, and it wasn't worth making enemies with an oyabun over a one-night stand.

He pulled the Mauser from the waist of his pants and held it loosely at his side, barely concealed from passers but visible enough to Solo and Raja, just in case the info broker needed some extra persuasion. He didn't bother with the hammer at the moment; mostly because he didn't need to apply any psychological force to the strange man (yet) but also because he had acknowledged that yes, the Mauser was, in fact, a semi-automatic, and therefore no, it was not required to pull the hammer every time.

"Well, boss," Kaito grunted, using his free hand to pull and light a cigarette from one of his pockets, "seeing as you gotta go to this ass-burglar here, I'm gonna go ahead and assume your search for information on this Noboyuki d-bag was about as fruitful as mine." He took a long drag from the cancer stick, then exhaled it through his nose. "Though I doubt even half as exciting and bloody." He looked pleadingly at Raja from behind his mirrored shades. "So," he said evenly, "do you wanna talk this out or should I start takin' fingers until he squeals?"

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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"Way I see it, Solo-kun, 'less you plan on cookin' the oyabun a five-star dinner, showin' her a movie an' then maaaaybe offerin' up your immortal soul an' sweet candy ass as part of the deal, there ain't a way in hell she's gonna let you get yer nasty member in her skirts."

Solo didn't turn to address him. But the mere presence of the man made the hairs on the broker's back stand on end--he knew that voice. He knew this man.

"Hojo Kaito." He said it in a voice that was as excited as it was frustrated. Something about the 'Dog Cather's appearance made Solo's blood boil--hot. Hot like the beakers in chem class. Maybe it was because the file he had on Hojo and his exploits was chock full o' the brutal, bloody shit he gushed at. Maybe it was the gleam of the man's Mauser that excited him, probably placed into the open to divert Solo's advances on his superior.

"Well, boss, seeing as you gotta go to this ass-burglar here, I'm gonna go ahead and assume your search for information on this Noboyuki d-bag was about as fruitful as mine." The Dog Catcher was taking a long puff from a cigarette, "So," he said evenly, "do you wanna talk this out or should I start takin' fingers until he squeals?" Young Kuzunoha had to laugh at that one. It was one of those laughs that came from the belly. Oddly enough, Solo's laughed lacked any outward malice. Every time the punk would laugh, it sounded like a big kid. Maybe that was why his laughter was so creepy. The fit of laughter lasted for several long seconds before he abruptly stopped. More like froze. He was still hunched with the laughing ceased, as if there was one last giggle working its way up through his torso.

"Ah, I guess it can't be helped~" Just like that, calm and cool, he backed away from the Mistress. "You are a good gangster aren't you?" Solo said with mocking glee. "Fine then, I'll back off. For now. How dare I stand against the man with the Mauser?" He playfully grinned at Mr. Kaito, "However, the fact still remains that you need the information I am holding.” He had a habit of talking with his hands. Pacing between both Kyubei folk he was calm, collected. “Allow me to accompany you to catch Sawada...and...” Solo paused, “A simple meeting with the Oyabun. Believe it or not, I have actual business to discuss." He winked at Hojo.

At that moment, music filled the air. A surge ran through the crowd, everyone knew what was up.

The Parade.

"So. Do we have a deal?" Solo looked at the both of them, burgundy glimmering with desire both hidden, and visible.

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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#, as written by Cypher
Osaka, where the sky just got a little brighter (despite the rain)

Kaito's grip on the Mauser was tight enough to turn his knuckles white and pop up every vein on his skeletal hand. He didn't like Solo very much; frankly the guy creeped him out half the time and almost threatened him the other half. Sometimes he considered kicking that kappa friend of his down the stairs just to piss him off or send him spiraling into depression so he wouldn't have to deal with the fuck every time he couldn't extort and/or torture the info he needed out of someone. The pleasure of shooting him here would be tantamount to sex with a willing virgin minus the unseemly stains afterwards, but regardless there was a job at hand, and Raja was better at putting up with these kinds of jerkoffs than Kaito could ever be. Besides, his mistress had already accepted the deal, and although they had a working agreement, Kaito honestly believed the psycho-bitch of an oyabun, beautiful and dedicated though she was, would nail his intestines to a lamp-post and make him start walking the instant he stepped out of line.

Kaito hated his intestines, but he liked living, and so he'd compromised and told himself not to fuck with Raja for now. Especially considering she was the one who signed his proverbial checks and kept him up in booze and other such vices.

"Alright, alright," Kaito said, shrugging, his face impassive. One hand descended to his other pocket, gripping his hidden Glock-22 as he moved the Mauser back to the waist of his pants. "If Raja says you have a deal, I've got no choice but to not kill your rat ass." The shatei lowered his sunglasses and scowled, his face going from neutral to imposingly terrifying in a split second. He took a few strides towards the info broker. "But if I catch you goin' outta line around the oyabun, this -" His hand was a blur; the Glock was at Solo's chin in a split second - "is going to be the last thing you ever feel in your miserable fuckin' life." He pulled the Glock away and stepped back. "'course," he added, "I'm sure that'd be a tender mercy compared t' whatever the Mistress'd cook up for ya."

He looked at his oyabun and then back at Solo. "Well, what're we waitin' for? Every second we stand here gawkin' like fools is another second that slippery fangfucker's puckered asshole is considering his next move; and if we keep waitin' who knows if he'll be where he's at once we start movin'?"

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo The Mad
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The deal had been made, and despite being held at gunpoint by 'The Dog Catcher' (which Solo half enjoyed, especially that threatening tone in his voice), it all went rather smoothly. Much better than he had anticipated. Somehow, Solo expected to have to force his hand, but it really had appeared that the Iron Mistress and her soldiers were in one hell of a bind.

That's why people came to him. That's why they all came to him. One way or another, anyone who wishes to get ahead in this country seeks him out. It was for this very reason that Solo The Mad simply adored his job. It was a position of power completely independent of those other spots. See, people like Raja before him, or Terajima's Isamu...they were only powerful so long as their gangs retain control. It was shaky, risky. Too...what was the word? It wasn't...stable. Now, the role of an information broker, a very good information broker, means that you stay relevant. Your power, your mark never fades. People will run to you when they seek an edge. The 'war' in Osaka is a perfect example of the permanence of the Broker. The gangs want to win? They come to him. One gang comes for help on an attack on one gang, then, he uses that same information on the coming attack as leverage with the next gang. It's a cycle that continues the bloodshed, and lines his pockets.

It was a damn beautiful thing.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men," Solo recited coldly. He pulled from his coat pocket his phone, with a few swipes of his finger along the screen a map of the city appeared. A blinking green blip marked an area just a few blocks away, "Your man is hiding out just down the way from here," He tapped the screen again, words appeared along the blip, "The Butterfly. Ah, i've been there. It's a love hotel. Ironic that he's hiding out there. That snake is the only action the worm's probably gotten." There was a wicked look on the broker's face. "I suggest we take a small team. The Butterfly isn't that large of a building, too big of a squad will alert him--and we'll have to get the jump on Noboyuki if we hope to avoid that thing." Solo wiggled his hat. There was a fire burning in his belly, and it wasn't all of that eel he downed earlier into the festival. He was excited.

"Shall we?"

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Character Portrait: Raja the Iron Mistress Character Portrait: Hojo Kaito Character Portrait: Solo
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The Butterfly - The Coal In The Rough

The sketchy little love shack loomed before the trio. The rose colored lights flickered through the ratty looking curtains. A neon sign on the front depicting the building's name had just seen its final pink letter flicker out of existence. They stepped closer to the lair. Solo's ears twitched at the sound of passionate moans from within. He smirked wide.

"The primrose path indeed..." Slowly, he pushed open the door. As rosy light poured out, he turned to his 'comrades'. "Well, let's not keep the little shit waiting, yeah?"
The inside was even more disgusting than he anticipated. The air was laden with different odors. Smells of food, pleasure, and other less appealing bodily functions lingered in the halls. Solo guarded his nose by pinching it with his thumb and index. The trio approached the lobby. Behind a tattered desk, a wrinkled woman donned in a bright pink wig flipped the page in her book. Pop, pop, pop! The information broker cringed. He hated when people popped their gum.

"Excuse me..." The woman paused. Taking a corner of her page, she creased it to save her spot in the book. Solo watched her while she nudged it to the side, wanting to see the cover. He cringed; it was one of those trashy romance novels you could find in the grocery store. The ones with the live action picture on the front with the long haired man with the rippling chest. The cover was the only enjoyable part of those books for him. The woman lowered her glasses. With a pop of her gum, and a roll of the eyes, she reached under the counter, and pulled out a rusty bronze key.

"One bed right? It's the top floor, to yer left. Watch the second floor steps, they move."

Solo grimaced. He turned to the Iron Mistress.

"Why don't you take point?"