Post by traeve on Nov 11, 2009 18:09:17 GMT -8
Character's Name: Traeva Morie
Age: 37
Gender: Female
Race: Aldean
Physical Profile (height, build, weight, hair colour, eye colour, skin tone, etc.): Traeva stands at 5'10", her body long and lanky, somewhat flat in chest, but long in leg, with very full, blood-red hair. The color isn't natural, rather, it is the result of gene therapy at a young age, on her homeworld of Aldea. The icy blue of her eyes closely mimics a clear sky after a heavy snow, cold and crisp, with a keen, calculating intelligence beneath. Her skin is an unusually pale shade, made all the darker by the comparison with her hair, and sharply contrasting with her dark, form-fitting attire. One of a rather few Aldeans to join Starfleet, her sharp resemblance to humans lent her little attention, save those occasions when she used a term unfamiliar to her classmates. Emotionally immature, she has spent much of her life with her one immense passion - Technology. Weapons, drive cores, shielding - And especially with the technology of holography. She has an intuitive grasp of innovation and improvisation, though her blunt, and vaguely aloof personality tend to keep others at arm's reach. True to her race's heritage, however, her long-term exposure to Radiation has rendered her entirely sterile.
Birthplace: Aldea
Preferred rank: Lieutenant
Department: Chief Engineer / Assistant Chief Engineer
Personality: Cold, aloof, reclusive, and intensely intelligent, Traeve has long set herself aside from her fellow crewmates, being shuffled from one ship to another, with good marks in Engineering, but always accompanied by comments; "Does not work with others." "Not ingratiated with crew, despite talents." Secrecy, thoughtfulness, and reserve have always carried her well - Now, however, her reclusiveness is possibly bringing the end of her Starfleet career.
Background and History: An Aldean of no immense standing - A genius among a race of geniuses, with the crimson mark of her once-rebelliousness - her entry into the Starfleet Academy was taken with little shock or surprise. Little reaction at all, truly. The only other member of her family with any connection to her was her Uncle, who had joined Starfleet a few years previously, attaining the rank of Captain by her graduation. Though only a minor captain, he had long used what little influence he had to ensure her a place aboard a ship, hoping time and time again that she would open up, and become a full member of the crew. Her duration of service, and relatively unremarkable record ensured that soon, she would be passed up - No matter his efforts. He offered her an ultimatum: Open up, or leave Starfleet. Faced with the destruction of her one remaining dream, she turned her meager efforts to learning to be a part of a crew. Betting his own career on a change of heart, he convinced a Starfleet Commander to assign her to a new ship, as new as possible. One going somewhere new, where her skills could really shine. He believed in her, and he hoped he was right.
Sample Roleplay:
Traeve sat at her console, 3DHUD goggles interfacing with the machine. Her heart was the drum, her fingers typing out a staccato rhythm, the arc welder's steady hiss providing counterpoint to the seemingly random machine-gun fire of her fingertips, inputting line after line with immense precision, at nearly two hundred words per minute. Icy blue eyes followed a rotating model in her goggles, not even bothering to watch her fingers - She didn't make mistakes, she knew. Never missed a key. Ever. - as she spun the model, stretched it, changing variables, her breathing shallow and rapid, her skin cold, despite the relatively warm environs of her chambers, which mimicked the tropics of her childhood. She occasionally gave a near-silent voice command, lips barely parting, breath hardly passing her vocal chords, the highly sensitive microphone she had designed picking up every vibration.
Her heart thudded in her chest, the model shifting, spinning, shrinking and growing rapidly, taking on a new shape.
Heat surged through her body, flushing her cheeks nearly as dark as her hair, her eyes opening wide, as she gasped under her breath, "Impossible..." Her fingers typed a rapid-fire string of keys, and she sank back into her chair, sweating, whispering under her breath. She quietly removed her headset, and slumped down, closing her eyes, bringing her hands to her face, as she wept silently.
With the headset disconnected, the model began rotating above her console. The model was of her own womb, and her eggs - Sterile. Dead. She would never be a mother.
After a long few moments of sobbing silently, she reached out, and delicately tapped a sequence of keys, eradicating the expirements she had just modeled. She stood, drawing her back straight, and wiping away her tears, forcing the flush from her cheeks. Her eyes were a cold, lifeless blue, pain concealed behind icy calculation. It was time to go back to work. Enough hope. Enough disappointment. It was time to do her job.
Age: 37
Gender: Female
Race: Aldean
Physical Profile (height, build, weight, hair colour, eye colour, skin tone, etc.): Traeva stands at 5'10", her body long and lanky, somewhat flat in chest, but long in leg, with very full, blood-red hair. The color isn't natural, rather, it is the result of gene therapy at a young age, on her homeworld of Aldea. The icy blue of her eyes closely mimics a clear sky after a heavy snow, cold and crisp, with a keen, calculating intelligence beneath. Her skin is an unusually pale shade, made all the darker by the comparison with her hair, and sharply contrasting with her dark, form-fitting attire. One of a rather few Aldeans to join Starfleet, her sharp resemblance to humans lent her little attention, save those occasions when she used a term unfamiliar to her classmates. Emotionally immature, she has spent much of her life with her one immense passion - Technology. Weapons, drive cores, shielding - And especially with the technology of holography. She has an intuitive grasp of innovation and improvisation, though her blunt, and vaguely aloof personality tend to keep others at arm's reach. True to her race's heritage, however, her long-term exposure to Radiation has rendered her entirely sterile.
Birthplace: Aldea
Preferred rank: Lieutenant
Department: Chief Engineer / Assistant Chief Engineer
Personality: Cold, aloof, reclusive, and intensely intelligent, Traeve has long set herself aside from her fellow crewmates, being shuffled from one ship to another, with good marks in Engineering, but always accompanied by comments; "Does not work with others." "Not ingratiated with crew, despite talents." Secrecy, thoughtfulness, and reserve have always carried her well - Now, however, her reclusiveness is possibly bringing the end of her Starfleet career.
Background and History: An Aldean of no immense standing - A genius among a race of geniuses, with the crimson mark of her once-rebelliousness - her entry into the Starfleet Academy was taken with little shock or surprise. Little reaction at all, truly. The only other member of her family with any connection to her was her Uncle, who had joined Starfleet a few years previously, attaining the rank of Captain by her graduation. Though only a minor captain, he had long used what little influence he had to ensure her a place aboard a ship, hoping time and time again that she would open up, and become a full member of the crew. Her duration of service, and relatively unremarkable record ensured that soon, she would be passed up - No matter his efforts. He offered her an ultimatum: Open up, or leave Starfleet. Faced with the destruction of her one remaining dream, she turned her meager efforts to learning to be a part of a crew. Betting his own career on a change of heart, he convinced a Starfleet Commander to assign her to a new ship, as new as possible. One going somewhere new, where her skills could really shine. He believed in her, and he hoped he was right.
Sample Roleplay:
Traeve sat at her console, 3DHUD goggles interfacing with the machine. Her heart was the drum, her fingers typing out a staccato rhythm, the arc welder's steady hiss providing counterpoint to the seemingly random machine-gun fire of her fingertips, inputting line after line with immense precision, at nearly two hundred words per minute. Icy blue eyes followed a rotating model in her goggles, not even bothering to watch her fingers - She didn't make mistakes, she knew. Never missed a key. Ever. - as she spun the model, stretched it, changing variables, her breathing shallow and rapid, her skin cold, despite the relatively warm environs of her chambers, which mimicked the tropics of her childhood. She occasionally gave a near-silent voice command, lips barely parting, breath hardly passing her vocal chords, the highly sensitive microphone she had designed picking up every vibration.
Her heart thudded in her chest, the model shifting, spinning, shrinking and growing rapidly, taking on a new shape.
Heat surged through her body, flushing her cheeks nearly as dark as her hair, her eyes opening wide, as she gasped under her breath, "Impossible..." Her fingers typed a rapid-fire string of keys, and she sank back into her chair, sweating, whispering under her breath. She quietly removed her headset, and slumped down, closing her eyes, bringing her hands to her face, as she wept silently.
With the headset disconnected, the model began rotating above her console. The model was of her own womb, and her eggs - Sterile. Dead. She would never be a mother.
After a long few moments of sobbing silently, she reached out, and delicately tapped a sequence of keys, eradicating the expirements she had just modeled. She stood, drawing her back straight, and wiping away her tears, forcing the flush from her cheeks. Her eyes were a cold, lifeless blue, pain concealed behind icy calculation. It was time to go back to work. Enough hope. Enough disappointment. It was time to do her job.