| Callilou Pascal Gravibolt |
|
|---|---|
| OOC Game Stats | |
| Game Name | Callilou |
| Faction | Alliance |
| Race | Gnome |
| Gender | Female |
| Class | Warlock |
| Professions | S.A.F.E. Decontaminations, Frugal Futures LLC. Mechanic |
| IC Info | |
| Nicknames | Calli, Gravy Boat, Blue Cal |
| Age | Human Equivalent: 22 |
| Height | 3'2" |
| Build | Compact |
| Hair | Green |
| Eyes | Blue |
| Skin | Fair |
| Occupations | Scientist |
| Affiliations | Gnomeregan Rebel Alliance, Survivor Assistance Facilitation Expedition |
| Alignment | Chaotic Neutral |
Physical Description[]
"I'm cute. That's all y'need to put down. And since you now appear to be bleeding profusely, all the more motivation to hurry and get this [expletive] over with."
At three feet, two inches in height, Callilou is by all appearances an average gnome. Green-haired and pigtailed, she has a youthful and "cute" appearance which quickly vanishes once you realize that, yes, that is in fact a real revolver that she just fired at you and, yes, that absolutely was your femoral artery.
"Lasers have a nasty habit of getting way too hot and actually -cauterizing- the wound, producing the opposite of the intended effect," Miss Gravibolt kindly explains. "Revolvers are just as deadly at a fraction of the cost."
The smiling gnome sits, cross-legged and dainty, hands folded across her lap. Her figure in the tight green vest is an impressive hourglass, as far as gnomish figures go; Miss Gravibolt seems to be well aware of this, and says nothing in regard to it. Deep, strikingly-blue, and increasingly-critical eyes are conveniently hidden behind a pair of bright green, glowing goggles at all times, rendering them completely obscured. The lenses of said goggles often extend, retract and rotate in order to better focus on whatever she may be looking at at the time. In this case, it's a particularly terrified, hemhorraging biographer.
"The goggles? I need 'em. Don't worry about why."
When asked why it is necessary to wear them even in her sleep, the scientist replies only:
"One less thing to fumble around in the dark for."
Personality
"I haven't got one."
The biographer, by this point already considerably unnerved, simply nods and agrees to quietly - and hurriedly - scribble down the gnome woman's ramblings:
"If it needs doing, I do it. If it needs saying, I say it. Sentimentality is for people who've got the time and the patience to worry about who's gonna find them and cry tomorrow night. Those of us with more important [expletive] to deal with just get things done and get them done post-haste."
With shivering breaths, the note-taker reads off another question.
"What? A man in my life? ...Don't worry about it."
The biographer suddenly looks -terribly- interested.
"Why're you so damn curious, anyhow? He's..." Miss Gravibolt turns her face away, saying nothing for a minute.
"...He's amazing and that's all I have to say. Carry on now, please."
History[]
"I was born, and then I lived, and then I died."
The color has gone, by this time, from the biographer's face and from most of his upper body as well. Trembling, he pleads ever-so-politely to the gnome for just a little bit more detail than that. But quickly, if she'd please.
Miss Gravibolt does not look amused.
"Fine. Born in Sector 15. Working class. Father? Kelvin Germanium Gravibolt. Mother? Apostrophe Lilly-May Capflux. Aviators both-- ...Wh-what? Are you... are you serious-- Yes, she spelled it out. Do you really want me to take even -longer- explaining this [expletive]? No? Then shaddup and write. One brother. Younger one. Helix Kelvin Gravibolt. Don't worry about him. He's dead."
"...They all are."
The gnome stares grim and poker-faced at the forward-hunched gentleman, who seems to be doing his damnedest not to keel over in a pool of his own blood. He's fading fast. The gnome rolls her eyes, and stands up with a hugely-reluctant grumble to approach him with a staple gun. What follows is not pleasant and can be heard several districts over.
"There. Sheesh. You happy now? You should be. Look how fast you worked when you thought you were gonna die. That! my friend, is efficiency."
The biographer is a blubbering mess by this point, though his bleeding has slowed down significantly.
"Now get the hell out of my house. You left a mess and I've got a [expletive]-load of cleaning up to do."