Name: Her birth name was Isabelle Jackson, but that's a name that belongs now to the dusty deserts and mountain ranges of the Arizona highlands. The name Isabelle just... it never really jived with her, y'know? She couldn't put her finger on exactly why if you asked her. So from quite a young age, she cast that name aside, and started goin' by the name of Izzie, which is shorter, more to the point, and... hell, it just sounds better, don't it? As for the name Jackson-- many Native American families began adopting Westernised names in order to integrate themselves into White American society better, and much to Izzie's ire, hers was one such family in times past. Her true family name, in traditional Yuki Tribe naming custom, was 'Haniya', which translated roughly into 'spirit warrior'-- a fact she'll tell just about anyone who'll listen, because Izzie's just a little too proud of the meaning. At age eighteen, once she figured, fuck it, she probably wasn't gonna have much to do with the person she used to be or with the folks she used to associate with, she had it legally changed to Izzie Haniya.
Nickname: Monikers applied to Izzie include 'sarge' (being the sergeant at arms), as well as 'Devil Dog', 'Jarhead', or 'the ol' leatherneck', deriving from her history of United States Marine service. Any other nicknames are most likely not endorsed by Izzie and will be met with a most fearsome wrath.
Age: Izzie comes in at a comfortable forty seven years old-- okay, so she ain't exactly in her glory days anymore. She's clearly not interested in lettin' age be an obstacle to her, though: as they say, once a marine, always a marine, and Izzie hasn't actually diverged from the notoriously punishing work out and physical fitness regimens of the United States Marines since she first enlisted, and as a result, she's still in pretty damn good shape. However, it doesn't stop the lines emerging in the defiant structure of her face around her mouth and eyes, nor the emergent speckles of grey amidst the faded black of her hair.
Remember when I said Izzie was in pretty damn good shape? Okay, that may or may not have been a slight understatement: even approaching fifty years old, Izzie Haniya is very clearly not somebody you want to goad into a fistfight, and she's definitely got the imposing presence of a sergeant-at-arms. Her height is probably a major factor of that presence: at six feet and five inches, few people are able to look down at Izzie, and she gets to enjoy the ability to look down on universally everybody around her, something she delights in a bit too much. Of course, if she'd only ever gotten the height half of the size equation down, she still wouldn't be much to be afraid of-- after all, who wants to be some towering beanpole who looks like a moderately strong breeze would be the end of 'em? Well, that ain't Izzie's concern-- she's trained hard every day for years to achieve the state of physical strength and authority she now enjoys, and it shows-- shows in her wide shoulders, burly, muscular arms, and powerfully built torso. All of it a less than subtle indication of the considerable physical strength she wields.
Her skin, as might be typical of an individual of western Native American descent, is a tawny, leathery brown, a dark canvas across which one finds a gruesome portrait of her life-- a motley amalgamation of tattoos, scars, and even a number of birthmarks. Some of the tattoos and scars are hallmarks of her service with the Marines-- others hearken from more recent escapades with the Reapers. For example, on her right bicep you'll find an image of a helmeted skull overlaid with two crossing KA-BAR combat knives, accompanied by the text 'We Fight What You Fear' beneath it and the acronym USMC over it; on her left, you'll find the good 'ol 'lil Reaper, defiantly flippin' the viewer the bird. Other tattoos indicate Izzie's fascination with the morbid and the grotesque-- there's a pentagram on her shoulder, for example, tattooed to make it look like it had been carved into the flesh there. There's plenty of others, though chances are you'll only ever see the ones on her arms-- considering her arms are absolutely armoured in tattoos, however, you can generally assume the rest of her is inked up as well. The scars are similarly typical of someone who went from fighting wars as a marine to fighting street-side gunfights with rival MCs and gangs-- vaguely circular remnants of bullet wounds, the long, jagged reminders of knife injuries, some that... well, fuck, even Izzie can't remember or properly identify. And the birthmarks? Hardly even register considering all the shit, the scars and the tattoos, they're surrounded by-- splotches of pale, discoloured skin in a couple spots on her throat and back. Hell, she'd be impressed if you somehow manage to spot 'em.
With regards to facial features, Izzie possesses a countenance that appears as though it has been deliberately carved and sculpted by a less than prodigal sculptor-- the features are angular and sharp-edged, and the way they come together is anything but the work of an expert craftsperson. High, pronounced cheekbones carve out an enclave inhabited by a small, slightly pointed nose that has clearly been broken more than once in the past, set over a pair of thin, scarred lips. Beneath a high, wide forehead lie a pair of slender, almond-shaped eyes that tend to really trip people up once you take a single look at 'em-- having been born with a genetic condition known to the medical dictionaries as 'complete heterochromia', and to anyone who asks Izzie as 'fucking mismatched', one eye is a surprisingly pleasant forest green-- the other an ugly mottled brown. Those eyes of hers tend to freak people out, which Izzie fucking loves
doing... again, probably a little too much. Her hair is comparatively plainer, in that there ain't a whole lot of it: for as long as she can remember, she's always made a habit of keeping the wiry black hairs cut down to a short, bristly shave. It's sort of a faded, ashen black, with speckles of grey emerging in the midst.
In terms of her attire, Izzie doesn't break much from what many would consider very typical biker fare-- you're sure as hell not gonna catch her in khaki slacks and flip flops. Ubiquitous, of course, is her cut-off-- the proud hallmark of her membership in the Reapers, the back, surrounded by short half-inch metal spikes (sort of her own little touch) is spanned by the patch of the Reaper, with the name of the MC in large, bold letters over the figure. Under the cut-off, she generally wears a variety of band tees from her favourite metal and punk bands, the sleeves of most of them haphazardly torn or sawed off with a knife. Her lower body is invariably clad in a pair of old, faded jeans with a clear history of wear and tear, tucked over a pair of harness boots; some of her favourite accessories include a set of thick chains hanging from the loops of her jeans, and a belt of rusted copper bullet casings, the kind you can buy at most surplus stores, slung low on one side of her waist. Unfortunately, they're not real bullets. That would be bitchin'. Probably totally illegal, but bitchin'.
Bike: Izzie takes great pride in her bike
-- it's nothing too ostentatious, being more or less solid black in colour with the exception of the Reaper on either side of it, though as a chopper she's done a fair deal of fucking around with it, such as slapping a V8 engine on it. The thing rips and roars liable to make Satan himself shit his pants, which is always a plus. 'cause, y'know, a bike's quality is all about how loud it is.
Izzie ain't much one for thinkin' too much about the past. It's not like she had some kind of traumatic past that's made her unable to so much as reflect on the day before without having some kind of psychotic episode or going off on a Rambo-type spree or some shit. She just... doesn't think about it much. Why should she? Past ain't got a thing to offer her except dust and blood, and hell, she gets plenty'a both nowadays anyway-- especially the former, the further she gets in the years.
Due to her tight-lipped nature concerning anything about herself prior to her marine service, the fact that many, many years ago, she was just some skinny little girl in Gila County, Arizona named Isabelle Jackson, is one known to few, if any, living people. There's not a whole lot to say about that period of her life, unless you're particularly curious about her day to day activities crawlin' and climbin' in the Mogollon Rim, pokin' at Gila monsters and wilin' away the days readin' out in the wilderness beneath the gently sinking late-afternoon sun. And that was really most of what her youth consisted of: people never really figured into Isabelle Jackson's childhood.
For one, she never knew her father. Never even really knew what happened to him-- maybe he died, maybe he cut town before she was born, hell if she knows. Never really gave a shit either-- he didn't figure into her life one way or another, and the only thing she ever had to indicate he'd ever even existed was an old KA-BAR knife her mother kept around. As for her mother, a Native American of Yuki descent who had presumably moved to Arizona from that tribe's California roots-- well, she wasn't a bad parent by any means, but she spent most all day workin' to keep food on the table, a roof over their heads, and clothes on their backs, so Isabelle got used to being alone. Which didn't bother her-- far from it. She learnt to revel in being completely and totally alone, detached from others, such that when her mother did get the rare opportunity to communicate with her daughter, Isabelle showed no real interest in it. Her mother was just another person-- just another mouth that talked too much about little things of no consequence or relevance.
That attitude translated over to her interactions with other kids her age: needless to say, Isabelle never got along with them. Sure, it sounds narcissistic as all fuck to say it, but she really was pretty damn mature for a kid, and she had no patience for the jaw-droppingly stupid, boring, trite shit the other little runts seemed so preoccupied with. Her rare interactions with them were often violent in nature-- Isabelle learned that people tended to leave you alone when you responded to their attempts at conversation by beating the shit outta them, and once she discovered that effective method, it was pretty much lone-rangin' from there: nobody wanted a thing to do with her. The other kids were afraid of her, adults considered her a problem child, and everybody left her alone.
Much to her own delight, of course. No more pointless jaw-flappin'. No more trivial, juvenile bullshit. No more irritatingly loud, overactive little shitheads disturbing her peace. It was just Izzie, and the vastness of the Arizona highlands. Seeking further and further detachment from others, Izzie found herself strongly attracted to the desolate loneliness that lay just beyond the town limits, and before long she was spending increasingly large portions of her days out there, frolicking about on her own and revelling in her isolation. Sometimes she'd bring with her a book or two-- reading was another pastime Izzie came to enjoy, partially because it was an activity that could be conducted in silence and solitude, but also, of course, because she found it creatively and intellectually engaging.
So how exactly does one go from obsessed with silence and isolation to enamoured with loud music and louder motorcycles? Well, that didn't come until Izzie was in her mid-teens-- musta been about sixteen when she found a book called The Moon Upstairs - A Biker's Story
. 'til that point, Izzie'd never had much interest in motorcycles or any of that kinda shit, and it was a hell of a lot harder back then to come across non-mainstream types of music than it is now. She'd always figured motorcycles were big, loud, city things, and those were all reprehensible to her, but The Moon Upstairs
presented the motorcyle as something else entirely-- as an instrument of the blissful isolation she idolised. It painted a picture of a lone biker, riding out to the mountains, feeling the wind against their face, drivin' out into the middle of nowhere and basking in the cool evening air.
The book also made mentions about some shit called heavy metal-- threw out names like Judas Priest, Motörhead, Deep Purple, shit like that. She'd never heard of it, and music, at least the music she'd heard, had always been nothing but an annoyance to her, but hey, she'd thought the same thing about motorcycles, and now she couldn't stop fantasising about riding her own motorcyle through the Mogollon Range. Maybe this book would be right about music, too. So she asked around, made an earnest effort, eventually heard some jackass in nearby Sedona was sellin' a copy of Motörhead's 'Overkill'--
Weapon of Choice: Honestly? Most of the time, her fists are her two weapons of choice. To Izzie, nothing can really replace the personal nature... the intimacy-- most accurately, the fun
of a fistfight. But if she has a 'signature' weapon of any kind, it's an old standard issue KA-BAR combat knife, the blade seven inches long: it dates from production during the Vietnam War, which Izzie, needless to say, isn't nearly old enough to have fought in. But if anybody asks, she'll just say whoever it belonged to before it belonged to her, she's still more than capable of gutting just about any son of a bitch who fucks with her, and that's all that counts.
Otherwise, Izzie is quite skilled with a wide variety of weapons-- handguns, automatics, rifles, explosives, knives, nearby pipes, sheets of paper, etc. It's how she ended up Sergeant-At-Arms. She's also quite good with... er, the less savoury methods of interrogation. In other words, torture. Doesn't enjoy it, only does it when it's necessary for the good of the club and when the person she's doing it to deserves it, but... she'll make 'em talk. Scream, and talk.
You can pretty much tell what kind of person you're gonna be dealing with after Izzie walks up to you, hands blacked with soot and motor grease, tattooed, muscled arms glistening with sweat, the music player back in her garage blasting all kinds of pissed off music from death metal to hardcore punk, fixin' you with a mean glare-- she's not a nice person. In fact, she's kind of an asshole most of the time. At her best, Izzie's rough, fierce, and stubborn, with an admirable fire and passion for her friends, her lifestyle, and the Reapers MC-- but that persona can quickly take a turn for her worst, and she becomes cruel, callous, and violent, sometimes towards the very people around her. Fortunately, it's more often than not the adversaries of the MC she takes that vehemence out on, but even amongst her comrades, she's pretty abrasive. She's a veritable machine of ruthless invective, pumping out the most horrific blasphemies and obscenities just because she can, she insults and puts down everybody around her for lack of anything better to do or say, and she's got a hair trigger temper would have even The Incredible Hulk sayin' 'Dude, chill the fuck out'. Her caustic nature is only worsened by a very deadpan, mordant sense of humour-- sarcastic, pessimistic, angry, profane, with an absolute need to feel like she's bigger and stronger than everyone around her (which often is the case, to be fair), not to mention a born fighter whose first impulse in any situation is violence: really, there weren't a whole lot of places Izzie could fit in except with the Reapers.
But once she did find a place where she could fit in, Izzie... well, she didn't become a goddamn saint or some shit. Fuck no. But when Izzie came to feel like she belonged with the Reapers, some of that directionless violence and anger was funneled into an absolute, consummate loyalty to the club, such that the mere act of mentioning the Reapers in a light that she doesn't approve of by any outsider is grounds for an immediate ass-kicking in her eyes. For all her irascibility, her selflessness with regards to the club can't be ignored, though she makes it damn hard for that to outweigh her usual abrasiveness-- there's very little she wouldn't sacrifice for the club, because she feels that the Reapers MC is all she's got now, and without it she'd just be some retired veteran riding out her closing days in life all by her lonesome. She takes her duty of heading the club security and guarding the president of the MC very seriously, as evidenced by the fact that her duty as Sergeant At Arms is literally the only thing she'll keep her temper under control for if she thinks she has to. She's always willing to lend a hand to her fellow Reapers-- even prospects, though of course she'll make fun of and mock them the whole time she's doin' it-- and she might grumble and snarl and swear and rough around with them, but she regards the Reapers MC as her family. All things said and done, she's a fierce, dependable road warrior with a love for motorcycles, smokes, alcohol, loud as hell music, a good fight, and her fellow Reapers.
Position within the Club: Sergeant At Arms and one of the First Five to boot.
Old Lady/Old Man/Partner/Significant Other: Pffffft. Izzie Haniya in a relationship. Sure, maybe the day she renounces the biker lifestyle and starts listenin' to Mozart or some shit.