Gender: Female

Kit: Super

Location: Storm City, Khazan


Alignment: Villain

Team: Solo Villain


Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: standard (rank 1)

Mind: superior (rank 2)

Body: standard (rank 1)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Infamy Points: 0

Personal Wins: 0

Personal Losses: 3

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Disabled

The Rookie

It was cold although it most certainly had to be. This was the last stop before heading back home and I was aching for my return. I was tired of all the praise, tired of hearing about how I capture true emotion. The human condition seemed to come easy to me but right now all I could think about was getting into the studio and getting back to work. I take a long sip of champagne before I step out into the gallery.

They did a great job converting this old abattoir into an industrial paradise only the rich and overly hip can enjoy. Old meat hooks hung from the ceiling, sushi and beef Carpaccio were served to add to the theme. The place was so cold people bundled up in either expensive furs or ironic sweaters. You can see your breath come out in plumes in front of your face.

Of course there were the masterpieces. Statues and installations I created. One of a man on his knees was begging and pleading, another of a family sitting around a dinner table looking at each other with unease. There was the couple holding each other in a final embrace and another of a man in mid stride trying to run away.

What’s unique about my subjects is they depict man naked. I don’t mean unclothed either. I mean raw, stripped, all hair and skin and tooth and nail removed, nothing but bright red glistening flesh revealing the true nature of emotion to the world. I remember the first exhibit I had, a modest four statues in a tiny studio space, garnered both attention and controversy. However I dared to keep doing what I wanted to do and look at me now. I’m touring the world as people gasp and marvel at my master pieces.

I love walking through and hearing people discuss my pieces. I love to hear about how they imagine the sort of pain and anguish one would have to fathom to get such a pose. About how there’s sadness but hope in my installations. I love the over analyzing, the search for deep meaning. It means I’m making it work. It means I truly was meant to be an artist.


I hate uggs with yoga pants shoved into them.

I hate Ed Hardy shirts.

I hate skinny jeans.

I hate Blazers with Shorts.

I hate dyed hair.

I hate hair.

I hate the freckles you think are cute.

I hate the twinkle in your eye.

I hate well manicured nails.

I hate rough hands.

I hate how we cover up what’s truly beautiful.

I hate how we hate what’s inside us.


The Subject

     Binding: superior (rank 2)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Area Affect


She was “cute” by conventional terms. When I met her she had a face covered in dirty however I saw it. Her beauty passed tattered clothes and a layer of filth. She has bright red hair and a number of freckles over her face and arms. I get ready, a large lump of clay sitting in front of me, my sleeves rolled up as she took a seat on the stool in front of me. She was shaking, nervous, she had just finished showering up and she was draped in my long grey robe.

“Take it off” I say very matter of fact as I run off and grab another large lump of clay.

“I, I don’t know if I want to do this.”

Coming back I slam the lump of clay down. “Are you nervous? You said you wouldn’t be nervous.” Sighing as I look towards the door “you know we’ll call it square. You can leave now. You wouldn’t be the first to try to.”

“Well ok, you said this is for a sculpture right? I mean I should thank you for dinner.”

“That’s great! Ok strip now.”

She starts to slide the robe off her shoulders, exposing her pert breasts first before letting the garment slip all the way down. I stand there, looking at her up and down, admiring every inch of her young body as I put my fingers on my chin.

“What are you looking at?”

“Sorry just admiring your form and how I will use it for my next piece.”

The girl reaches down for the robe “sorry now this is making me…”

She stops in mid sentence. Probably because the large black tendril from my arm had grabs her around her throat, her ankles and her wrists. I walk up to her kicking away the stool as I hold her up in the air.

“You had your chance to walk away sweetie. Now it’s time to make art!”


The Medium

     Polymorph: supreme (rank 3)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Area Affect


At first she screams and then it turns into horrible gurgles as my long black tendril extends from my body down her throat. I tug hard, gripping on her insides as I started to pull and rip at her organs. The process was long and was the part of sculpting I hated the most. Eventually we get to a point where all the resisting gives in. The trachea and the esophagus come out first. The lungs are next in their pillow softness. Followed is the heart, the digestive system. Just feet after feet of intestines as I have to re-grip, pulling out offshoot organs, and finally getting to what I was aiming for, the flesh; the soft, red, beautiful strands of meat, working slowly, working carefully to minimize damage in order for me to get what I was looking for.

She’s now standing there, propped up by the black tendrils, imperfect but more beautiful nonetheless. Pulled inside out she stands there, no skin, no clothes, no eyes or hair to disrupt the impeccable beauty of raw flesh. Organs hang off in a random array, no longer confined within the vessel of the body as they dangle like they are Christmas ornaments.

I lick my lips. Now is where the fun begins.


The Master Piece

     Combat Supremacy: supreme (rank 3)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Area Affect


I work at first to clear the organs. As beautiful as they are they also ruin the purity of the vision I have for her crimson red flesh. As I watch my tendrils work I deftly think in my mind how I want to preserve her for viewing.

I think of different poses, different stances. What sort of emotion I want to convey with her. My mind is going a mile a minute as I watch the blood pool on the ground around me.

My tendrils work deftly, quickly, patching up ripped pieces of flesh. Some work to shape her form into something a little more aesthetically pleasing. Others carve excess flesh from one part and patch it onto others. When a section is perfect I grab the special preservative and apply it though I have to work quickly. As good as that stuff is the only way to ensure it keeps its shape is to put it in the deep freeze. Tirelessly I work as quickly as possible, thus is the nature of working with this medium.

When I’m happy I step back and see her, flesh for skin, standing there. Her hands clasped as she is still, stoic. There is little emotion, a simple statue of a girl who is only waiting. Her stillness preserving the way she fought right before death. She struggled little and suffered only a fraction of the amount most suffer. Calm, peaceful, beautiful, the ugliness of humanity turned into a beautiful work of art. I think I’m going to cry.