Post by Kella on Mar 22, 2009 4:36:43 GMT -5
Name: Grizzelda Xanxere
Race: Human
Age: 31
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 150 lb.
Birth place: Coronet, Corellia
Appearance:
Grizzelda looks like the kind of woman who knows how to handle herself. She has an athlete's build, long and lean and well-toned. She'd say her style of dress sits somewhere between practical and bohemian, a mix-and-match of loose cargo pants, tight tanks and half-buttoned shirts, in beiges and olive greens, favoring well-worn leather boots. Her short, dark hair frames a fine-featured face and hazel eyes.
Grizzelda's most common expression is a smug half-smile, with a bit of mischief glinting in her eyes. She is an aficionado of exotic weapons, and usually has at least one blaster holstered. Thigh holsters are her favorite, for their convenience, but she's been known to use a shoulder-harness for her rifle, or a hip-holster for her smaller blasters. To see Grizzelda wearing only one such weapon is a very rare occurrence. She almost always has some sort of trick up her sleeve, and often literally. From boot-sheathed daggers, to grenades on her belt, Grizzelda is always prepared.
All her years of experience have lent her a rather attuned instinct. She trusts her gut. While she will plan ahead at times, she much prefers to improvise. And when Grizzelda decides what she's going to do, she doesn't hang around and wait to do it. Grizzelda's the kind who will only start a fight if she knows she can win it, however, being at a disadvantage doesn't necessarily deter her. She is not afraid of failure, but certainly strives to succeed.
As Grizzelda got older, she tended to space herself from more morally questionable jobs and occupations, taking on more charitable jobs when her bank account would allow it. That seemingly moral turn had more to do with justifying her lifestyle to herself than any sort of true moral reform.[/ul]
Profession: Fringer: Wanderer, trader, smuggler, bounty hunter. Whatever job that requires her skills.
Skills: Persuasion, Hacking/tech, dead shot with a blaster, exotic weapons, basic mechanical repair, pick-pocketing.
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 6
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 6
Ranged Weapons: 8
Ship Name: Slipstream
Model: Razorback - Grizzelda still uses the same ship she pieced together in her youth. Over the years, it has been heavily modified by Grizzelda, and also by those who upgraded it to fulfill a debt. The most remarkable change is a drastic upgrade in speed, but as a result, the engines are much less stable. They like to stall. Each problem results in another patch, which then malfunctions and results in another patch, ad infinitum. Grizzelda loves that ship to death though.
Bio:
Grizzelda was born to Gertra and Frederick Xanxere. The couple lived in Coronet, teetering precariously on the lower edge of middle-class. Grizzelda's first years were relatively average. Both of her parents worked long hours at difficult jobs, and more often than not Grizzelda's babysitter was the kids down the street or her father's data-pad. As young as she was, she could feel the way her complaints and questions wore on them, and that stress made them bicker and fight. So she learned how to do things on her own, how to keep her complaints to herself, and then they could be a happy family.
Grizzelda started school, and found a happy place with her classmates and her teacher. She would proudly bring home her pasta-art and clumsy colorings, but they never got quite as much approval from her parents as from her teacher. But everything was still alright, so she just tucked them away, and reveled in the praise at school.
The first year went well and the second seemed to be ending wonderfully, but there was much that Grizzelda could not know. Gertra had decided she wanted something different. She had a degree, she wanted to be a career woman, a lawyer in Tyrena. She hadn't intended to get married so soon, and had certainly not expected the fluttery feelings of young love to fade so fast. Frederick was a good man, he could take care of Grizzelda, it was time to move on.
Frederick never said it. He never said, 'she's never coming back', and for a long time Grizzelda kept hoping. But when Frederick took out his grief on his boss and lost his job, and the two were tipped over the edge of middle class, dumped in a cheap house in a cheap slum so Frederick could get a cheap job, she knew. And she grew to hate her mother for it.
The eight-year-old missed her house and her friends, she missed her neighborhood and the corner store with the lolly-pops that her father never said 'no' to, but most of all she missed her school, and her teacher, and the friends she had there.
It didn't take long for Grizzelda to figure out that things at her new school were going to be very, very different. Innocence faded quickly in the slums, and by the time Grizzelda was in fifth grade, she'd learned how to tell when a fight was starting, and avoid it. Or egg it on.
Grizzelda had the potential to do incredibly well academically, but nobody knew or nobody cared. Most classes bored her, and even those for which she had interest were approached with a sort of apathetic aloofness, because that was the kind of attitude that let you still have friends at the end of the day. From those friends she learned how to lie, how to pick pockets, how to avoid cops and how to get into trouble.
It seemed as if any day, Frederick would be bailing Grizzelda out of jail. So his shame was very great when he was the one behind bars. With the last of the funds they'd tucked away, she bailed him out, but that only bought her a few more months with her father before he was convicted of stealing from his employer.
Grizzelda felt utterly betrayed. She recognized the hypocrisy but she didn't care. He was her dad he was supposed to do things right, supposed to finally wise up to what she'd been doing and smack her around and give her a lecture about morals. Then she'd clean up her act and they'd be a happy family again. But no, instead she was giving him a lecture on being caught, on being a man, but he couldn't even give her the catharsis of biting back. He just hung his head, and listened, and took the beating, and at the end all he did was tell her that she'd now be staying with an old friend of his, Garou Bleu. No 'I love you', no 'goodbye', just 'Garou will take good care of you.'
Garou was a gruff old Besalisk, a mechanic who ran a shop out of Coronet's largest port. He and Grizzelda got along well. Garou had a rude wit and a disdain for 'emotional flim-flam' and 'pansiatic whining' that endeared him to Grizzelda. But most appreciated was the fact that Garou agreed that school was absolutely useless to Grizzelda, and instead put her to work in his shop. In her free time, she continued to haunt the streets of coronet, adding lock-picking, hacking, knife-throwing and fist-fighting to her set of skills.
When she was sixteen, Garou caught Grizzelda with one of his blasters, and instead of giving her a lashing, taught her how to fire it properly. Grizzelda was hooked. She spent hours and hours melting cans and bottles, getting the feel for different blasters, gaining an intuition for the distant or moving target. It became a comfort, one of the few things that let her really relax.
Another such comfort was Aaron. He was the first boy Grizzelda had taken seriously, the first that had managed to keep her interest beyond a flirt and a kiss, probably because he didn't attempt either of those things. They were friends, teammates, knocking off stores together, running from the cops, landing breathless in a safe alley and laughing off the adrenaline while they picked through their spoils. She didn't have to guess with Aaron, didn't have to think that he might be a threat, didn't have to keep her guard up.
And then he disappeared. There one day, gone the next, the addicts and corner-girls offering just enough information to assure Grizzelda that he wasn't dead, that he'd up and gotten on a star-ship and left. No note, no 'goodbye', no 'I love you'...
Grizzelda didn't cry. She didn't scream, she didn't punch the wall. Like that helped anything anyway. She spent the rest of the day at the shooting range, and slept in the next morning. Garou let her be. Grizzelda didn't speak of Aaron again. She didn't want sympathy or pity, and most of all she didn't want to feel sorry for herself. That's how you got stuck on the streets, feeling sorry for yourself. Life was life and sometimes it was a b-tch, and she'd deal with it.
All she wanted to do was forget Aaron. But they'd walked so many streets together that wandering the city just wasn't the same anymore. So Grizzelda spent more and more time in Garou's shop, using her spare time to work on projects. When Garou noticed that she'd started to reccomission a scrapped ship, he didn't try to stop her. And when that ship was finished, he didn't try to stop her, and when she announced she was leaving, he didn't try to stop her, and it wasn't until that moment that she realized she wanted him to. She wanted to be wanted. To be clung to. Fought for. But that would have required Garou to be someone else altogether, and Grizzelda wasn't about to go back against her word and confess to 'flim-flam emotions'. So she started up the Slipstream and left Garou, and Coruscant, and Corellia behind.
It was easy enough to find a job, if you were stupid enough. You gave the holo-add displays a closer look, you talked up the bartenders, you stood on a corner, except Grizzelda never accepted the jobs offered by that last one. Fake it 'till you make it. That's the principle the Coronet slums ran on, and luckily for Grizzelda the galactic underbelly was no different. Smuggling was the easiest to start, you just acted like you knew what you were doing, took the cheap jobs to start. Simple, semi-legal deliveries were the best jobs, but they got snapped up quickly by the more experienced smugglers, so Grizzelda learned to talk and walk like she had experience.
She'd never forget her first bounty, what it was like to kill a man in cold blood. Eating up the thrill of victory, of getting their first, hoping you can shove it down fast enough to keep the bile from rising to your throat. Six months and three more bounties later her gut had hardened and she'd grown to enjoy the chase, the creativity required to hunt someone down.
Somehow she managed to set herself apart. Maybe it was the fact that she didn't barrel through bars and beat thugs up for information, she hacked her way to the data trail and followed that. Maybe it was the fact that she was a dead shot, and could hit a man across a dozen yards of white space as easy as she could shove a gun in his face. It didn't matter who the job was for, it didn't matter what messiness it entailed, she took whatever paid and depended on her instincts and her smarts to keep her alive.
Slowly, she gathered a reputation. People started coming to her, specifically, for jobs. She got repeat customers. Started to hear her own name whispered among the names of those she was hunting down.
Certain perks came with a reputation, and they weren't just business-related. Darian started as a rival, one Grizzelda met when he plucked a bounty from under her nose. He offered to buy her a drink as consolation, and there was something in his suave manner and smooth with that charmed Grizzelda. They worked together for three months, enjoying all the adrenaline rushes and hedonistic pleasures of such an arrangement. Grizzelda had a reputation, a nice stack of credits in the bank, and never spent a night alone. She felt invincible, untouchable.
Until Darian stabbed her in the back. He whispered in her ear, assuring her that this time had been genuinely fun, to not take it personally, that it was only business. Then he twisted the vibro-blade and left her to bleed out on the hotel room floor.
Darian's sentimentalism saved her, what an idiot, using a blade and not finishing it off with a blaster. Her desperate groping finally found the room com. Four days later, she left the hospital with a scar, stacked her pride back together and returned to business as usual.
She could fool herself into thinking that for a few more months, until the truth grabbed her through a sniper-scope and made her pay attention. It started as a nagging, when she saw the children's toys outside. It became a tremor in her hands when she saw the mark's wife give him a kiss, and all-out trembling when a child ran in front of the sight. Grizzelda swore. How could she justify this? How could she make a living off of death?
It was an effort but she shoved the nerves away, centered the scope, watched the bolt tear through the mark's head. But it hadn't been hers. Someone had snatched him out from under her.
Darian. She just knew. Grizzelda followed him, knew his habits well enough to know what safe-guards he had on his hotel room, how to avoid them, how to get a blaster pressed against the forehead of the man who thought he knew everything. I thought you were dead, he said. No, she said. But now you are, she said, and she pulled the trigger. No blood, no mess, no ghosts, and she even tipped the bell-boy on the way out.
That reminded her of the credits still sitting in the bank, of the fact that this had gone so far beyond feeding herself, that it was a lifestyle. A lifstyle she didn't want to give up. She was taking more bounties than she needed. Maybe it was time to branch out. Trade and sell information, that was interesting, and lucrative. She could hunt the bad guys, help the good-guys. Smuggling med supplies to a struggling colony, surely that was different than smuggling spice. She could justify her actions. All she had to do was put a bit on the altar of the god of Charity and that moral nagging would go away.
Being an information broker had a more sophisticated, refined thrill than reckless bounties, and Grizzelda's taste was growing to prefer it. She could remember things. Make connections. Manipulate people. Grizzelda's travels brought her all across the galaxy, and in contact with species from all walks of life. She knew things. People owed her favors. Chances were high that if Grizzelda wanted to know something, she could pry just the right lever to find it, whatever it was.
She even enlisted in the Sith army, deserting after six months, just so she could get an inside-look at their recruitment process. They were not so polite about publishing policy as the Republic.
The Fringe was not a kind place. It held many hard lessons and Grizzelda, in her amibition, learned them all. She gritted her teeth and she gave a coy smile and she moved on.
Grizzelda never stopped pushing herself, never stopped honing her skills. Hours at the shooting range, shredding targets, at the gym, berating the sandbag, at her work bench, assembling new weapons or reverse-engineering the old ones.
She never stayed in the same place for long, preferring to bounce from planet to planet, world to world, network to network. From the inner core to the fringes of the outer rim, if Grizzelda hasn't been there, she's heard of it. Various Aliases and an cunning aversion to being caught in the records have allowed Grizzelda to drift in and out of the official world.
RP Sample:
His nose twitched. The tell. Grizzelda grinned.
"Call."
He narrowed his eyes and laid out his cards. She laid out hers. The man's eyes widened, then he swore, then he swept his arms across the table and swept all the cards onto the floor, before turning his spittle-flinging wrath on the dealer, who'd already pushed the distress button under her kiosk.
Grizzelda leaned back in her chair and smiled, patiently waiting for the man to be hauled off, ignoring his insults as one would the buzzing of a mosquito, then thanking the dealer for her time and providing her pin, pleased to see the credits settle into her account. Having exhausted her willing opponents, she started to acquaint herself with the barkeep.
The man who offered to buy her a drink then was more handsome than they usually were, and commented on her cardplay. She made a comment about how cards were not the only thing she was good at playing with, and his polite smile grew a little deeper, a little more confident. This night could end up being a fun one after all.
Race: Human
Age: 31
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 150 lb.
Birth place: Coronet, Corellia
Appearance:
Grizzelda looks like the kind of woman who knows how to handle herself. She has an athlete's build, long and lean and well-toned. She'd say her style of dress sits somewhere between practical and bohemian, a mix-and-match of loose cargo pants, tight tanks and half-buttoned shirts, in beiges and olive greens, favoring well-worn leather boots. Her short, dark hair frames a fine-featured face and hazel eyes.
Grizzelda's most common expression is a smug half-smile, with a bit of mischief glinting in her eyes. She is an aficionado of exotic weapons, and usually has at least one blaster holstered. Thigh holsters are her favorite, for their convenience, but she's been known to use a shoulder-harness for her rifle, or a hip-holster for her smaller blasters. To see Grizzelda wearing only one such weapon is a very rare occurrence. She almost always has some sort of trick up her sleeve, and often literally. From boot-sheathed daggers, to grenades on her belt, Grizzelda is always prepared.
All her years of experience have lent her a rather attuned instinct. She trusts her gut. While she will plan ahead at times, she much prefers to improvise. And when Grizzelda decides what she's going to do, she doesn't hang around and wait to do it. Grizzelda's the kind who will only start a fight if she knows she can win it, however, being at a disadvantage doesn't necessarily deter her. She is not afraid of failure, but certainly strives to succeed.
As Grizzelda got older, she tended to space herself from more morally questionable jobs and occupations, taking on more charitable jobs when her bank account would allow it. That seemingly moral turn had more to do with justifying her lifestyle to herself than any sort of true moral reform.[/ul]
Profession: Fringer: Wanderer, trader, smuggler, bounty hunter. Whatever job that requires her skills.
Skills: Persuasion, Hacking/tech, dead shot with a blaster, exotic weapons, basic mechanical repair, pick-pocketing.
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 6
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 6
Ranged Weapons: 8
Ship Name: Slipstream
Model: Razorback - Grizzelda still uses the same ship she pieced together in her youth. Over the years, it has been heavily modified by Grizzelda, and also by those who upgraded it to fulfill a debt. The most remarkable change is a drastic upgrade in speed, but as a result, the engines are much less stable. They like to stall. Each problem results in another patch, which then malfunctions and results in another patch, ad infinitum. Grizzelda loves that ship to death though.
Bio:
Grizzelda was born to Gertra and Frederick Xanxere. The couple lived in Coronet, teetering precariously on the lower edge of middle-class. Grizzelda's first years were relatively average. Both of her parents worked long hours at difficult jobs, and more often than not Grizzelda's babysitter was the kids down the street or her father's data-pad. As young as she was, she could feel the way her complaints and questions wore on them, and that stress made them bicker and fight. So she learned how to do things on her own, how to keep her complaints to herself, and then they could be a happy family.
Grizzelda started school, and found a happy place with her classmates and her teacher. She would proudly bring home her pasta-art and clumsy colorings, but they never got quite as much approval from her parents as from her teacher. But everything was still alright, so she just tucked them away, and reveled in the praise at school.
The first year went well and the second seemed to be ending wonderfully, but there was much that Grizzelda could not know. Gertra had decided she wanted something different. She had a degree, she wanted to be a career woman, a lawyer in Tyrena. She hadn't intended to get married so soon, and had certainly not expected the fluttery feelings of young love to fade so fast. Frederick was a good man, he could take care of Grizzelda, it was time to move on.
Frederick never said it. He never said, 'she's never coming back', and for a long time Grizzelda kept hoping. But when Frederick took out his grief on his boss and lost his job, and the two were tipped over the edge of middle class, dumped in a cheap house in a cheap slum so Frederick could get a cheap job, she knew. And she grew to hate her mother for it.
The eight-year-old missed her house and her friends, she missed her neighborhood and the corner store with the lolly-pops that her father never said 'no' to, but most of all she missed her school, and her teacher, and the friends she had there.
It didn't take long for Grizzelda to figure out that things at her new school were going to be very, very different. Innocence faded quickly in the slums, and by the time Grizzelda was in fifth grade, she'd learned how to tell when a fight was starting, and avoid it. Or egg it on.
Grizzelda had the potential to do incredibly well academically, but nobody knew or nobody cared. Most classes bored her, and even those for which she had interest were approached with a sort of apathetic aloofness, because that was the kind of attitude that let you still have friends at the end of the day. From those friends she learned how to lie, how to pick pockets, how to avoid cops and how to get into trouble.
It seemed as if any day, Frederick would be bailing Grizzelda out of jail. So his shame was very great when he was the one behind bars. With the last of the funds they'd tucked away, she bailed him out, but that only bought her a few more months with her father before he was convicted of stealing from his employer.
Grizzelda felt utterly betrayed. She recognized the hypocrisy but she didn't care. He was her dad he was supposed to do things right, supposed to finally wise up to what she'd been doing and smack her around and give her a lecture about morals. Then she'd clean up her act and they'd be a happy family again. But no, instead she was giving him a lecture on being caught, on being a man, but he couldn't even give her the catharsis of biting back. He just hung his head, and listened, and took the beating, and at the end all he did was tell her that she'd now be staying with an old friend of his, Garou Bleu. No 'I love you', no 'goodbye', just 'Garou will take good care of you.'
Garou was a gruff old Besalisk, a mechanic who ran a shop out of Coronet's largest port. He and Grizzelda got along well. Garou had a rude wit and a disdain for 'emotional flim-flam' and 'pansiatic whining' that endeared him to Grizzelda. But most appreciated was the fact that Garou agreed that school was absolutely useless to Grizzelda, and instead put her to work in his shop. In her free time, she continued to haunt the streets of coronet, adding lock-picking, hacking, knife-throwing and fist-fighting to her set of skills.
When she was sixteen, Garou caught Grizzelda with one of his blasters, and instead of giving her a lashing, taught her how to fire it properly. Grizzelda was hooked. She spent hours and hours melting cans and bottles, getting the feel for different blasters, gaining an intuition for the distant or moving target. It became a comfort, one of the few things that let her really relax.
Another such comfort was Aaron. He was the first boy Grizzelda had taken seriously, the first that had managed to keep her interest beyond a flirt and a kiss, probably because he didn't attempt either of those things. They were friends, teammates, knocking off stores together, running from the cops, landing breathless in a safe alley and laughing off the adrenaline while they picked through their spoils. She didn't have to guess with Aaron, didn't have to think that he might be a threat, didn't have to keep her guard up.
And then he disappeared. There one day, gone the next, the addicts and corner-girls offering just enough information to assure Grizzelda that he wasn't dead, that he'd up and gotten on a star-ship and left. No note, no 'goodbye', no 'I love you'...
Grizzelda didn't cry. She didn't scream, she didn't punch the wall. Like that helped anything anyway. She spent the rest of the day at the shooting range, and slept in the next morning. Garou let her be. Grizzelda didn't speak of Aaron again. She didn't want sympathy or pity, and most of all she didn't want to feel sorry for herself. That's how you got stuck on the streets, feeling sorry for yourself. Life was life and sometimes it was a b-tch, and she'd deal with it.
All she wanted to do was forget Aaron. But they'd walked so many streets together that wandering the city just wasn't the same anymore. So Grizzelda spent more and more time in Garou's shop, using her spare time to work on projects. When Garou noticed that she'd started to reccomission a scrapped ship, he didn't try to stop her. And when that ship was finished, he didn't try to stop her, and when she announced she was leaving, he didn't try to stop her, and it wasn't until that moment that she realized she wanted him to. She wanted to be wanted. To be clung to. Fought for. But that would have required Garou to be someone else altogether, and Grizzelda wasn't about to go back against her word and confess to 'flim-flam emotions'. So she started up the Slipstream and left Garou, and Coruscant, and Corellia behind.
It was easy enough to find a job, if you were stupid enough. You gave the holo-add displays a closer look, you talked up the bartenders, you stood on a corner, except Grizzelda never accepted the jobs offered by that last one. Fake it 'till you make it. That's the principle the Coronet slums ran on, and luckily for Grizzelda the galactic underbelly was no different. Smuggling was the easiest to start, you just acted like you knew what you were doing, took the cheap jobs to start. Simple, semi-legal deliveries were the best jobs, but they got snapped up quickly by the more experienced smugglers, so Grizzelda learned to talk and walk like she had experience.
She'd never forget her first bounty, what it was like to kill a man in cold blood. Eating up the thrill of victory, of getting their first, hoping you can shove it down fast enough to keep the bile from rising to your throat. Six months and three more bounties later her gut had hardened and she'd grown to enjoy the chase, the creativity required to hunt someone down.
Somehow she managed to set herself apart. Maybe it was the fact that she didn't barrel through bars and beat thugs up for information, she hacked her way to the data trail and followed that. Maybe it was the fact that she was a dead shot, and could hit a man across a dozen yards of white space as easy as she could shove a gun in his face. It didn't matter who the job was for, it didn't matter what messiness it entailed, she took whatever paid and depended on her instincts and her smarts to keep her alive.
Slowly, she gathered a reputation. People started coming to her, specifically, for jobs. She got repeat customers. Started to hear her own name whispered among the names of those she was hunting down.
Certain perks came with a reputation, and they weren't just business-related. Darian started as a rival, one Grizzelda met when he plucked a bounty from under her nose. He offered to buy her a drink as consolation, and there was something in his suave manner and smooth with that charmed Grizzelda. They worked together for three months, enjoying all the adrenaline rushes and hedonistic pleasures of such an arrangement. Grizzelda had a reputation, a nice stack of credits in the bank, and never spent a night alone. She felt invincible, untouchable.
Until Darian stabbed her in the back. He whispered in her ear, assuring her that this time had been genuinely fun, to not take it personally, that it was only business. Then he twisted the vibro-blade and left her to bleed out on the hotel room floor.
Darian's sentimentalism saved her, what an idiot, using a blade and not finishing it off with a blaster. Her desperate groping finally found the room com. Four days later, she left the hospital with a scar, stacked her pride back together and returned to business as usual.
She could fool herself into thinking that for a few more months, until the truth grabbed her through a sniper-scope and made her pay attention. It started as a nagging, when she saw the children's toys outside. It became a tremor in her hands when she saw the mark's wife give him a kiss, and all-out trembling when a child ran in front of the sight. Grizzelda swore. How could she justify this? How could she make a living off of death?
It was an effort but she shoved the nerves away, centered the scope, watched the bolt tear through the mark's head. But it hadn't been hers. Someone had snatched him out from under her.
Darian. She just knew. Grizzelda followed him, knew his habits well enough to know what safe-guards he had on his hotel room, how to avoid them, how to get a blaster pressed against the forehead of the man who thought he knew everything. I thought you were dead, he said. No, she said. But now you are, she said, and she pulled the trigger. No blood, no mess, no ghosts, and she even tipped the bell-boy on the way out.
That reminded her of the credits still sitting in the bank, of the fact that this had gone so far beyond feeding herself, that it was a lifestyle. A lifstyle she didn't want to give up. She was taking more bounties than she needed. Maybe it was time to branch out. Trade and sell information, that was interesting, and lucrative. She could hunt the bad guys, help the good-guys. Smuggling med supplies to a struggling colony, surely that was different than smuggling spice. She could justify her actions. All she had to do was put a bit on the altar of the god of Charity and that moral nagging would go away.
Being an information broker had a more sophisticated, refined thrill than reckless bounties, and Grizzelda's taste was growing to prefer it. She could remember things. Make connections. Manipulate people. Grizzelda's travels brought her all across the galaxy, and in contact with species from all walks of life. She knew things. People owed her favors. Chances were high that if Grizzelda wanted to know something, she could pry just the right lever to find it, whatever it was.
She even enlisted in the Sith army, deserting after six months, just so she could get an inside-look at their recruitment process. They were not so polite about publishing policy as the Republic.
The Fringe was not a kind place. It held many hard lessons and Grizzelda, in her amibition, learned them all. She gritted her teeth and she gave a coy smile and she moved on.
Grizzelda never stopped pushing herself, never stopped honing her skills. Hours at the shooting range, shredding targets, at the gym, berating the sandbag, at her work bench, assembling new weapons or reverse-engineering the old ones.
She never stayed in the same place for long, preferring to bounce from planet to planet, world to world, network to network. From the inner core to the fringes of the outer rim, if Grizzelda hasn't been there, she's heard of it. Various Aliases and an cunning aversion to being caught in the records have allowed Grizzelda to drift in and out of the official world.
RP Sample:
His nose twitched. The tell. Grizzelda grinned.
"Call."
He narrowed his eyes and laid out his cards. She laid out hers. The man's eyes widened, then he swore, then he swept his arms across the table and swept all the cards onto the floor, before turning his spittle-flinging wrath on the dealer, who'd already pushed the distress button under her kiosk.
Grizzelda leaned back in her chair and smiled, patiently waiting for the man to be hauled off, ignoring his insults as one would the buzzing of a mosquito, then thanking the dealer for her time and providing her pin, pleased to see the credits settle into her account. Having exhausted her willing opponents, she started to acquaint herself with the barkeep.
The man who offered to buy her a drink then was more handsome than they usually were, and commented on her cardplay. She made a comment about how cards were not the only thing she was good at playing with, and his polite smile grew a little deeper, a little more confident. This night could end up being a fun one after all.
She's also stubborn; she wouldn't leave me alone until I finished her bio... 
