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Saira Zahariev

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression, of something beautiful, but annihilating.

0 · 201 views · located in Westcreek

a character in “Westcreek”, originally authored by Ξ•pΞΉmetheus, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description

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β™š sairazahariev β•―
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IN THE DESERT, YOU CAN'T REMEMBER YOUR NAME 'CAUSE THERE AIN'T NO ONE TO GIVE YOU NO NAME


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xxγ€ŒNAME」
Saira M. Zahariev
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x...γ€ŒALIAS」
x.x.......Sai
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xx..γ€ŒAGE」
x.xx.....23
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γ€ŒOCCUPATION」
.......Pub Owner
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x....γ€ŒEYES」
x........Green
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x..γ€ŒHEIGHT」
x.xx....5'6"
xxγ€ŒORIGIN」
........Pakistani
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x.γ€ŒGENDER」
..........Female
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.γ€ŒSEXUALITY」
.........Bisexual
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....γ€ŒSPECIES」
.........Valkyrie
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x.....γ€ŒHAIR」
...........Brown
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x..γ€ŒWEIGHT」
..........124 lbs





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                  ( QUIRKS *! )

                  Frequently bites her nails. They're often very sh-
                  ort, and it's only lately that she's started filing
                  them so that they're not really jagged too. β—˜ Wa-
                  tches reality TV at 2 A.M. when she can't sleep.
                  β—˜ Also plays board games at these early hours
                  if she can rope friends into it. Otherwise she pla-
                  ys good old-fashioned solitaire. β—˜ Shakes her
                  mixed juices in a cocktail shaker. Because she
                  can. And also it makes for good practice to keep
                  her arms from getting tired quickly. β—˜ Always lo-
                  oks vaguely angry. Which isn't really too alarming
                  though, since she is kinda always vaguely angry.
                  __( LIKES *! )

                  Liquor. Obviously. Wouldn't own a bar if she cou-
                  ldn't partake in the spoils, would she? β—˜ Karaoke
                  night at the bar. She doesn't sing or anything,
                  but she likes hearing other people, and it's good
                  to laugh at sometimes. Just generally good vibes.
                  β—˜ Inventing new cocktails. It's more fun than pe-
                  ople think. And even the failures aren't always
                  that bad. β—˜ Philosophy. Weird interest for her, she
                  know it. Still, she rather likes reading the musings
                  on life and death and all things in between in bey-
                  ond of some worldly and learned people. Maybe
                  she's just looking for an answer to her emptiness.β—˜
                  __( DISLIKES *! )

                  When people try to be smartasses with her. It's
                  okay when she does it obviously, but not when
                  it's done to her. Never claimed to not be a hypo-
                  crite. β—˜ Men who act like children. Why is it seen
                  as such an acceptable thing? No. Just another re-
                  ason girls are superior beings in her book. β—˜ Beer.
                  Nasty. Tastes like piss 98% of the time. β—˜ When
                  people tell her to cheer up. No. Her life sucks.
                  Why should she? She's happy being bitter as
                  fuck. β—˜ Trying to do things with her hair. It's a
                  mess, and it's fine like that. β—˜ Butter and very
                  fatty foods. Always gives her a stomache ache.

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β—’PERSONALITY Β°


β—’ She was born to a valkyrie of fulfilled purpose, a child of hope and filled with that same hope. When the crash came, the fall was greater. From a taller height, and all the more impactful. She emerged from her experience broken, jaded, and bitter. It wouldn't have been so bad (probably) if she hadn't been so happy before. But she was, and her heart has since broken. So she wears it on her sleeve, cutting the careless with its jagged edges, shards of glass. She is angry. She is angry because she was sad once, and that was too much to bear, so she boiled her tears and turned them into bubbling rage, simmering and seething fury. Anger is easier to handle. Easier to squash down into the pit of her stomach, easier to save for early mornings, for the wee hours of dawn when the grey under her eyes seems to stretch for miles and she hasn't slept in over two days, for these times when she can scream. Low and guttural and wordlessly, punching holes into the wall. It is a polka dot pattern in one room. A spiral in another. Decor. Talking points. Not that she ever really invites people into her home. She's not the entertaining sort. Well, she is. But for that she slips on an easy grin and coats her tongue in sharp jokes, witty banter. Shakes a gin martini in one hand and claws out whatever last granule of hope and charm she has left in her with the other.

When the customers leave, she'll sling an arm around the shoulder of a friend in the bar, keep them after hours with a faucet of vodka, laughing. Gaily sometimes, bitterly most of the time. She doesn't bitch about her problems. Not aloud. Most of the time, anyway. But it feels good to bitch in general. To be mad. It's just so easy to handle.

( β™š )

β—’ She's not tired per say, but she's exhausted. It is exhausting. Dealing with the emptiness that's nestled comfortably alongside her anger in the pit of her stomach. It has become a black ugly tar-filled void; takes and takes and takes, and is never satisfiedβ€” she doesn't know how to satisfy it. She's just sick of carrying it around, a two ton bomb strapped across her back.

( β™š )

β—’ Not gonna write tl;dr because this wasn't long LOL (its 4 am im so tired this isn't professional sorry), but anyways that's what it is. Sarcastic bitter bitch so filled with salt she's a brand new kind of cocktail: an angostura bitters margarita. Haha, good joke. The kinda girl that walks backwards with both middle fingers raised. Really petty too. Kinda fun to be around if you like that sorta thing.


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                    ( STRENGTHS *! )

                    Headstrong ; If there's one thing that can be said for her personality wit-
                    hout even knowing much about her it's that she's not keen on taking any
                    bullshit from anyone. She doesn't worry much about business. It's not like
                    there's another bar in town to offer competition. β—˜ Tenacious ; When she
                    puts her mind to something, she's likely to do anything to accomplish it,
                    even if her plan for it ended up being pretty stupid in retrospect. But at
                    least she doesn't give in easily. β—˜ Honorable ; For all her faults, Saira has
                    a pretty well-attuned moral compass and will always do what she perceives
                    to be right. She chalks it up to being a valkyrie; it's just part of her system.
                    β—˜ Doubt and Confusion Inducement ; When used properly, a valkyrie's ab-
                    ilities are incredibly powerful. Doubt can make even the best warrior turn
                    on their men or even take a blade to their own throat. β—˜ Massive wings.
                    They're huge and unwiedly and, overall, not really the most convenient of
                    things. With a wingspan of 35 feet, they can only keep her afloat for a few
                    minutes before flapping them is too much exertion. But they're very intimi-
                    dating. β—˜
                    __( FLAWS *! )

                    Negative pessimist ; She is inclined to assume the worst of the worldβ€” that
                    new people she meets are generally going to be asses, that the worst pos-
                    sible outcome will inevitably happen, that she will never fill the emptiness
                    inside of her. She presumes unhappiness, and it's a sort of self-fulfilling
                    prophecy. β—˜ No one quite holds a grudge like she doesβ€” for ages and ag-
                    es without forgetting. The worst part of it is that she's very passive aggr-
                    essive about it all, which gets very infuriating very fast. β—˜ Superiority ;
                    Particularly gender superiority. She looks down ever so slightly on every
                    new person she meets, but men get the worst of it. Even amongst friends
                    she's particularly critical of her male friends. Can't help it, she says, just a
                    part of being a valkyrie, a part of the genetic coding. She could try a little
                    harder to overcome it though. β—˜ While it's certainly not easy to overcome
                    her powers, it's also not impossible. And normal humans may have a part-
                    icularly hard run of it, but she finds the ability is a lot harder to exert over
                    other supernaturals. And extended use of it is taxing and often results in
                    crippling migraines. β—˜


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Imageβ–ˆ β–Œ
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β—’BIOGRAPHY Β°


β—’ She can't say in earnest that she remembers much of her childhood. Heat and sun and the earth, shimmering moments of happiness and hope. Brief moments collected in an agglomeration of memories all wrapped in cotton batting. There but fleeting. Inaccessible and torturous. More memory of feeling and emotion than events.

She was taken at a young age, pulled from her mother when she was only seven, ripped from her world and planted again in a new unfamiliar climate. The only real education she had about her kind was from a valkyrie in the first town she stayed. The woman was tired and bitter about her curse, the emptiness floating around inside her. No doubt it rubbed off on Saira. She's never accomplished her life's purpose; she didn't believe she would, or even that she could. She'd go on long rants to Saira, telling her that the hope of fulfilling a valkyrie's purpose was myths for fools, that valkyries didn't even have a purpose. Their only purpose was to be empty. To be born empty and continue empty. But Saira knew different. She didn't remember much, but she remembered satisfaction. A fulfilled mother. A purpose that had been accomplished. She had a purpose, and she would fulfill it. But she couldn't do it locked up.

( β™š )

β—’ She tried to run at seventeen, made it a mile out before they caught up with her. She was close, so close, so close her heart burned a hole in her chest and her lungs were alight. But not close enough. They wouldn't risk her running from her same town again, so they moved her. Sent her away. Tore her from her environment one more time because the first wasn't enough.

She only lasted two years in Westcreek before she tried running again. Got further this time, but still not far enough. But they didn't send her away this time. Instead, they sentenced her to house arrest, locked away inside her house for a year, no company, no escape. Hell within hell. She bought a pub the second they let her out. Good escape, the only "escape" that might taste like freedom. She's resigned but not, determined but empty. She has a purpose to fulfill. She's not sure she can.


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                  ( OOC *! )

                  FACE CLAIM: Zhenya Katava
                  HEX CODE: #894a7d
                  PORTRAYED BY: Epimetheus
                  CS CREATED BY: Epimetheus
                  TIME ZONE: EST
                  jk i actually love memes more
                  lmao u thought
                  _______( ASSOCIATED *! )
                  ..words and phrases

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                  just use this space for like word spam, short ph-
                  rases or links to pictures or quotes that remind
                  you of your character. Have fun with it, they can
                  be silly.
                  _________( MISC *! )

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                  Use this section for miscellaneous information abt
                  your character that doesn't quite fit anywhere else
                  these sections don't have to be a full eleven lines,
                  make them as short as you need.

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So begins...

Saira Zahariev's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Raleigh Lanster Character Portrait: YΕ« Maeda Character Portrait: Belle Tarkani Character Portrait: Olivia Summers Character Portrait: Valerius Cinna Character Portrait: Tallulah Lum Character Portrait: Maxwell Kelly Character Portrait: Lucas Silva Character Portrait: Helena Grimm Character Portrait: Quirinus Avery Character Portrait: Valerius Chevalier Character Portrait: Willa Haywood Character Portrait: Saira Zahariev Character Portrait: Nico Matsumoto Character Portrait: Hinata Shimizu Character Portrait: Daniel Driscoll Character Portrait: CΓ©cile Valovoi
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

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#, as written by Verix
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anImage
. Thanks Epi for writing the starting post!
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ACT ONE : PART ONE : INTRODUCTION
LOCATION: MAINSTREET
TIME: 6:30PM


Summers in Westcreek were nothing short of exceptional. In general, the city's climate was all around lovely, cool winters and warm summers, a generally moderate climate. But it was the summers, really, that were something else. And it was because of evenings.

When the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, it transformed the sky into a canvas, bold streaks of color staining it, creating a view that could only be called art. It was generally acknowledged that this was the best time of day to be out and about, the best of hours to be caught walking the city streets.Today was something of a unique occasion, though, and on this particular evening, you'd be hard pressed to find a citizen of Westcreek not out in the streets. There was a reason for this, and it was called the Festival of Life, an annual occurrence that called for the celebration of the original founding of the city of Westcreek. And the event was something to behold. It had all the ambiance and staples of any small town suburban fairs-- portable rides that no one felt quite safe riding but always did anyway, game stalls everyone knew was rigged but still coughed up money to play, stands for local shop owners to try and sell some wares, even the exact sort of festival food that inevitably led to an upset stomach the next day but was still widely eaten-- but was somehow grander. Almost larger than life. By all accounts, it should have been a spectacularly fun event. However, there was always, unfailingly, a vague sense of discomfort and tension hanging heavy in the air the night of.

The event wasn't mandatory, for heaven's sake, no the mayor would never want to force anybody to do anything they didn't want to do. But everyone knew it might as well have been. They'd all heard stories of the people who decided to chance it, who decided to spit on the foundation of the institution, and the stories never ended well. It was almost insulting, in a sense. Forced to celebrate what began their imprisonment? Sat down and force fed pleasantries and lies, a false history shoved down their throats that they'd have to regurgitate later on? And yet, they all attended. And it was fun. It was hard to take that away from it. The city council never went anything but all out on the annual affair. Children shrieked as they ran through the fairgrounds, holding their cotton candies high and begging their parents for another go on the vomit inducing spinning machine. The neon glow of the rides and games lent a cool and breathable atmosphere to the place Westcreek only saw a few times a year. It was fun. That's exactly what people would respond with the next day when they were asked about how their night went. With a heavy heart, a tense smile, "It was fun."