Sicario

[mudbug]

THE BASIC
Name: Sicario Innamorata
Species: Siberian Tiger
Age: 9 years
Gender: Male
Weight: 500lbs
Eye Color: Silver
Fur Color: Jet black, with dark grey stripes: see here

THE INTERESTING

Distinguishing Features:

Sicario's appearence is unlike any other big cat of his kind. His coat is covered in the usual jet black stripes that characterize tiger pelts. That, and it's thickness, are the only things you'll find similar to any other you've seen. While the stripes on his pelt should be covering a golden honey color, they're not. His pelt is an incredibly dark grey, all over. It appears that his entire form is black, in fact. However, if you get close enough to look, you can see the stripes. It's not a good idea to inspect, however. There is only one clear place on his pelt, a long stretch of pure dull grey from his chin to the tip of his tail, covering his entire underside.
The colors of his coat are not the only anomaly, however. Sicario's coat is much, much shorter than his kind is known for. What should be a lushly grown coat, is in fact quite the opposite. Sicario's coat is slim and sleek, so much so that you can sometimes see the form of his muscles ripple beneath his pelt. Imagine a cheetah, just ever so slightly longer haired, with the colors of this strange tiger.

Lastly are Sicario's eyes. His eyes are what you will most remember, and most want to forget. Though no-one knows why, or even how, he was born with eyes of the brightest silvery white, he doesn't like to argue with it. They're almost another tool of his trade, in a sense. In reality, he eyes would have been a light ice blue, had it not been for the same mutation that gave him his diluted pelt. But, he was born with his dark pelt, along with eyes of the lightest grey. The hints of clue in his eyes aren't even visible.

Strengths: Intelligent, follows orders well, fast learner, lean build, strong sense of honor.
Weaknesses: Moodswings, doesn't handle being alone well, short temper, bad judge of character, extremist sometimes.

Likes: Having a motive other than money, killing cleanly, being understood, being respected, earning his way.
Dislikes: Unjustness, being lazy, any general lack of respect, belligerence.

Personality:

& predicatable;
Those that know Sicario well, could likely tell you what he's thinking, what he's about to think, and what he was thinking an hour before. Spontaneity is not his style, by a long shot. When he finds something he likes, he sticks to it. Likewise, when he forms an opinion, it's not easy to change. He doesn't form his opinions very quickly, however.

& fixated on honor and respect;
Sicario views basic honor and respect as a rule of life. If you can't respect those that deserve it, or fight for your own honor, you're a waste of a perfectly good pelt. It's harsh, but it's how he feels about the thing. Basic decency and respect for those in power, or elders are his biggest rules. Rudeness will make him shut you out almost completely. If you're his superior, however, you could likely do whatever you would like, so long as it doesn't impeach on his beliefs in fairness and honor. It all seems very complicated, which it is in his mind, but it plays out to a simple cat that just seems to have a rod for a spine.

& not actually cold blooded;
You'd assume that anyone with a profession such as assassin, willingly, would be a soulless beast, but that's not the truth. Sicario does not have a problem with killing, but he does have emotions. He is not a robot, especially not while choking the life out of another feline. This is his main drive for a quick and easy kill with all of his jobs. He likes to get it over with, even mercifully, if possible. Seeing the distorted face of horror, pain, and fear on his victims is not how he gets his kicks.

& believes in self responsibility;
He is not one to easily forgive the faults of others, if they can't at least take responsibility for their actions. He doesn't like to hear excuses, from anyone. If you can own up to what you did wrong, that might ease the tension, but not completely. He believes that everyone always has a choice.

& believes in 'strong' males;
Sicario was raised to believe that males are to be strong, fighters, and defend what they stand for and care about at all costs. If you can't do that, you might as well go tend to the cubs as far as he is concerned. This is partly to blame for his distasteful job. A regular job could be too easy, in a luxurious city such as Dolce. He can't stand the thought that one day he'll wake up, with a mate and family, and not have it in him to kill or destroy what he needs to care for his own.

& kills for purpose, or so he hopes;
His strong sense of justice means that he likes to know just why who he's killing is being killed. He has been known to reject a job if it was simply a petty squabble gone too far, or a rash decision, or perhaps just a loonatic wanted someone dead for no real reason. But, this does not mean he's just a noble knight doing back door deals.

& strong sense of justice, however warped;
Sicario isn't a religious cat, and he doesn't hold with luck or karma either. He does, however, strongly believe that we make our own luck and karma, one way or another. To put it simply, if you steal someone's mate, and they hire him to slit your throat in your slumber, that is justice. It's not the happiest idea of being fair, but that's how he sees it. An eye for an eye, quite literally.

& thinks life is, in fact, fair;
He does believe that what comes around goes around, but this isn't always a good thing. Most just like to think of fairness when it should be to their benefit, but nobody wants to admit when their own suffering is for the fairness of another. Sicario, however, sees the truth of this.

& doesn't like to be alone;
Unlike most that take up killing in the night as a profession, Sicario is not socially incoherent. He rather likes the company of others. He's not talkative, but he doesn't mind listening. Too much quiet makes him nervous, so another's chatter in the background usually eases his mind.

& doesn't want to stop being a normal cat;
It seems like a foolish daydream to him at times, but Sicario is quite afraid of becoming a 'creature of the night' or some other exaggerated embodiment of his shady profession. He likes to do the usual, day to day, things of everyone else, when he's not working a job. Shooting the breeze at the market, listening to the musicians play in the bazaar, etc. all appeal to him in their simplicity and normality. He doesn't want to truly 'become an assassin'. He'd rather just be your average citizen of Dolce, who happens to kill people for money.

& is afraid of love, but would fall hard;
Sicario knows himself fairly well, and he's certain that if he were to find that certain female, it would be too strong of a bond for him to handle. He's not a fickle cat, so once he cares for you, it's likely for life, unless you do something horrible enough to sever the ties. Even then, he may just blame it on himself somehow, or something he did once that made the present suffering some kind of retribution.

& loyal, to a fault;
It is hard to earn Sicario's trust, and nearly impossible to gain his loyalty. However, once you have either, good luck getting rid of it. Sicario's opinions are never easy to change, especially when it comes to his judge of character. If he's loyal to you, he'll likely do anything for you. Even if you're dead wrong, he'll find a way to rationalize it in his mind. He has a hard time realizing he may have misjudged someone.

& prone to 'spacing out';
Sicario gets carried away with his thoughts on a regular basis. It could be thoughts on just about anything, but you'll know when he's lost in his own mind by the placid blank stare on his face. It's not a look of boredom, more like the face of a cub who's calmly studying something with their eyes.

& unsure of his life's purpose;
He's not certain what he's here for, but he plans to either find out or, at least, make the best of what he has. He does think that everyone has some sort of purpose, however big or small, and that it's their own duty to find it for themself and accept it.

& doesn't like death, but respects it's place in life;
No, the assassin does not enjoy death. He actually hates it. He doesn't like to think about what happens after death, or anything of the sort. He respects it's natural place in the world, but nothing more, nothing less.

& hate's the proud;
Sicario will have a downright visceral reaction to anyone that shows excessive pride in themselves. He can't stand pride, at all. It has only ever bred hatred and destruction in his eyes, and he won't tolerate it. There's a fine line between pride and self respect in Sicario's eyes, and you best not cross it.

History:

Sicario's history is what bred his conflicting personality. It's the secret box of everything that makes him who he is, and he doesn't open it... ever.

Sicario was the first born to a lovely tiger couple. A strong male, by the name of Cantankerous, and a striking female, Sireen. He was raised as the apple of his mother's eye. Her onyx gem, is what she called him. His father was always very cold, seeming detached, but Sicario couldn't let himself believe that his father wasn't at least proud of his eldest child and only son, despite his distaste for his unnatural black pelt. Three years into his young life, his sister was born. Purl, a runt, and to everyone's shock-and their father's chagrin-she was born snow white, with black stripes. She was now her brother's entire world. They did, literally, everything together. White and black, light and dark, opposites and the same. When they were apart, they never said goodbye. It was too final, and insinuated someone wouldn't return. It was their own little rule, that was never broken.

Flash forward three more years, and things took a horrible turn for the worse. Sicario's father was never proud of him. He thought his son was soft, breakable, unable to defend himself, his beliefs, or his family. Nothing was ever enough to please his father, and Sicario had bitterly accepted it. His sister, well his father never bothered to even form an opinion of her. It was like she didn't exist. So, in short, they had to be each others' replacement for the love their father never showed. It all worked out fine, but their father was no content. He wanted to have another cub, a son. He refused to let their mother stop bearing until he was pleased with a strong male cub to raise as his own pet child.

The downward spiral was set in motion one dark day, when their mother dared to refuse their father alone time. The birth of Purl had nearly killed her, and she did not want to risk leaving her children without a mother for the sake of her mate's pride. He didn't care about her, or their children. All he cared about was having another cub to raise as his miniature self, and he would have it. In a shocking act, he raped their mother. It was brutal, full of rage and hate. All Sicario and Purl knew was that the argument had ended in their mother's screams, and when she returned in her father's wake, her eyes were dead.

Their mother was never the same. She was a shell of who she had been, a hollow share that was holding the child of pain. Pure pain. Everyone's pain, save for their fathers. He was on cloud nine. It was actually quite disturbing, how happy he was with himself and what he'd done. Neither Sicario nor Purl could look him in the eye again. They could hardly stand to be in his presence. Seeing him only sent the sound of their mother's screams through his mind. The pregnancy taxed their mother for all she had. It was like the beat was trying to suck the life right out of her, as if their father hadn't done that enough already.

It was nearly time for the new cub to arrive, and their father was around more often than ever. He wanted to make sure that his treasure was delivered properly. Just having him nearby so much, gleaming with smiles no less, as it felt like a shadow was constricting the hearts of those he claimed to have loved, was enough to push Purl over the edge. In the dark of night, she woke Sicario from his slumber for a conversation that they would never speak of again. It had been raining, of course, and he can still feel the drops on his pelt, washing his pride away.

"Sicario... Father is a problem, and I believe it is your job to take care of it," she had said. Sicario couldn't fathom what she was getting at, but it seemed like some sort of absolution. He could almost feel the tension in the air. Her fear and anger had a physical presence of it's own. "Purl... what are you saying to me? What do you want me to do about father?" He waited with an anxious look on his features, while she sighed and stepped closer to really speak to him with as much pressure as she could apply. "I want you to kill him, Sicario. Kill him in his sleep." Her eyes were like pieces of ice cold stone as she spoke. Sicario had never seen this side of his younger kin, and he wasn't sure he liked it. She would have killed their father herself, he was certain, if it hadn't been for sheer size difference.

Sicario could hardly believe what his ears were telling him. He shook his head, as if it would get the mental images of his father's lifeless body out, as he back stepped away from Purl. "Sister, how could you speak of such a thing? He is our father!" He meant for the words to mean something, but the emptiness in the last word startled even Sicario. Purl's ire was rising, and something about his sister's burning hatred and passion made him feel... shameful. Shameful of himself, his unwillingness to see how right she truly was. Their father, he wasn't anything of the sort. He'd rejected his own children, raped his mate, and now waited on bated breath for a prize of his own while those he was supposed to care about withered away into the dust. Sicario had gotten lost in his own thoughts, and before he knew it, Purl was snarling at him. She... she was snarling. He could hardly believe it. "Sicario, he is going to kill out mother! The only one that has ever loved us. You'll sit back and let that happen? Can you not find it in yourself to fight for your real family? That... male gave up his right to be called family years ago." Tears glistened on her cheeks as she ranted. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, broken even. The tone alone was enough to have made Sicario shake with dread, but her words were like someone had hit him with a club right on the side of his head. "If you can't stop this. If you're too weak to end this now... then I suppose he's been right about you."

She didn't even look at him as she spoke. Her beautiful face hung low with pain, she turned back to walk into the shadows. Sicario was speechless, dumbfounded. He could only stand there like a dumbstruck cub, staring after his sister. His younger sister, who was more of a man than he was, he just didn't know it yet. As he returned home late that night. He heard his mother's cries of pain. The contractions were starting, it wouldn't be long before the fateful day. There father hadn't left home in over a week, and the pressure was crushing in the small space they shared. Sicario hoped that he would simply take his new prize and leave, but that was wishful thinking.

Only two days and two nights passed after Sicarios and Purl's evening talk before their mother was awoken with the pain of birth. It was finally happening, and Sicario had never been more frightened in his life. The day was just breaking, but the sunrise brought none of the usual feelings of hope for a new day, only fear for the beginning of the end of everything.

Twelve horrifying hours of pushing, screaming, and blood. So much blood. The result was their mother in tatters, and a beautiful male bengal tiger. He was the picture of everything their father had wanted. Big, with a perfectly normal coat, and the deep brown eyes of a leader. There was only one thing missing... a beating heart. The strain of the labor had been too much. Their mother had not been able to help the birth enough, and the cub had died in the process. When their father came back to find his prize was no prize at all, he went into a rage. He screamed, and cursed them all. For a finale, he swore that if his mate could not give him what he wanted, he would find a female who could. In her final feat of strength, their mother declared that if he was unfaithful, she would leave him for good. In response, their father's face went blank with an expression of pure boredom as he swiped their mother across her muzzle, claws unsheathed. Her half propped body fell flat to the floor, and didn't move.

Purl was by their mother's side in an instant. She wasn't gone, not yet. Sicario simply stood in horror and shock. Shock... but why was he so shocked? Hadn't he been warned? He watched his father walk into the distance, leaving behind pure sadness in the wake of his pride. Sicario was snapped out of his daze as his mother and sister cried his name. Purl yelled at him to come close, as she hushed their dying mother. Yes. She was dying, wasn't she? Hadn't he been warned of that too? Sicario's own thoughts were all running into one, and he couldn't bare to reach the end. He silenced his mind as his mother spoke. Surely these would be the most important words his ears would ever hear. "Sicario... Purl... my jewels. This... is not... your fault."

Her mouth open, her eyes... dead. The truest meaning of dead. Without life. Sicario had only thought they'd been lifeless before, but this eternal darkness that stared at him was nothing he could have imagined on his own. His sister's paw softly caressed her mother's face as she closed her lifeless eyes. They stood beside each other now, the only thing each other had left in the world. Purl was the first to speak. Her voice was barely audible, even to the strong ears of a feline. It was as if she didn't want to break the permanent silence that had enfolded them all. "It's a lie, you know," she said. There was no emotion in her tone, despite the tears that stained her cheeks. "What? What is a lie, sister?" He said, his voice ringing with desperation. "It is your fault." And, now she looked at him. He could feel her eyes on him, like daggers driving into his brain, and heart. She turned to walk away from the hideous scene before he could return her stare, and spoke one final time before she was gone, "Goodbye... brother."

. . . . . . . . . .

The stars hung low in the silent night sky. The rain fell silently, softly, like a low whisper. Sicario watched his prey pass through the shadows of the alley. He was smiling, the prey. If he only knew... Sicario let the exact amount of time pass that he needed. The prey had gone inside, in ten minutes he would be circling in his bed, and twenty minutes after that he would be sleeping soundly. His mate and cub would be just a few feet away, but they didn't matter. Sicario was here for a reason. Despite his large size, Sicario slinked across the rooftops, silent and dark, like death. What a fitting metaphor. He was over his prey's head now. There was only a few feet between himself and the most important kill of his life.

He leaped from the treetops, landing without so much as a soft thud. He had been practicing, while his prey was away from home. His ear twitched, nobody was coming. A breath in, and he leaped. Just enough energy, no more, no less than necessary, to propel his graceful black form into through the tall grasses. A living shadow, he crept through the land of his prey, until the kill was right within his reach. It was two long years overdue. Sicario was here for a kill, for justice, for retribution. It all went far beyond revenge. He was standing over his prey now. He ever so softly nudged it from slumber, only to have his jaws tightly gripping the nape before it could open it's eyes. The prey couldn't move now, not that moving would have done him any good. The shadow of death had come, and he couldn't stop it. He had brought it on himself. The prey was awake now, and fully aware. Sicario held his prey's neck in his powerful jaws, feeling the pulse of the savage for it's last few cursed beats. In a menacing whisper, he spoke the final words his prey would ever hear. "I hope you're proud."

A snarl, a twist, a snap. It was over. Sicario's prey had been killed. The cub in the distance was stirring, and it would only be moments before the mate was screaming in horror. As silently as it had came, death left the room. The shadow of death had claimed it's first victim, but it wouldn't be the last. The shadow was born now, and all the light had been put out, Sicario's recent prey had made sure of that, long ago.

WHOSE THAT HIDING UNDER THE BED?

Your "name": MudBug, Mud, that chick with the face, rainbow farter extraordinaire!
How long have you role-played?: Goin' on 1 year now. woot.
Other Characters: Just this big guy so far.