Alice Walker
Female | 22 | Reborn Human
(Short and lithe with hipbones that could cut glass and collarbones that could open a letter. She's all sharp angles - her sister used to joke she was a box of elbows someone had drawn a mouth on with shitty, broken pieces of chalk. Her face is small and angular, with high, prominent cheekbones and a straight nose. Alice’s eyes crackle like embers of a dying fire, casting an eerie glow in the darkness. Unfortunately, this means her capacity for stealth is essentially nonexistent.)
Personality: Flippant, cocky, and always ready with a witty quip or round of deadpan, dry sarcasm, Alice wouldn't understand the meaning of the word 'sincerity' if it sidled up to her and spat in her eye.
Rarely treats solemn matters as somberly as she ought to. Everything is either a joke or the opportunity for some crappy metaphor or crude - yet inventive - bout of profanity. Often invents vulgar, crass nicknames for those she's become close with. "Joyless shitpail" numbers among her favorites. Her overall tone is extremely sardonic, even during her rare moments of sincerity, which has ended many relationships, platonic or otherwise, and distanced many potential allies. She doesn’t know what to do with a genuine compliment; she’ll either bolster it with some cocky, arrogant quip or shy away and pretend it was never offered.
Alice is reckless and brash, to the point of making borderline suicidal decisions at the drop of a hat. She truly doesn't care for herself; not out of a sense of altruism or loyalty to others, but because she doesn't really think she's got any right to care about what happens to her. She doesn't think she deserves to be selfish, and yet there's that deep, nagging voice in the back of her mind constantly urging her to forsake everyone else and cater only to herself.
All the arrogance and self-gratifying comments she makes are to compensate for the crippling sense of inadequacy and uselessness she endures. She often feels powerless, like she's just some toy for fate to have its wicked, wicked way with, and it frustrates her to no end. Often doubts her value, but disguises this by playing up her worth and boasting about things that she claims to have done.
Unique Skills: Extraordinary reflexes and natural sense of direction. Capable of orienting herself with little more than a rooftop and the current position of the sun. Can memorize landmarks relatively easy, but can't follow coordinates to save her life. Agile and graceful in midair, like a cat.
Soul Relic and Ability A pair of gloves, which, with proper application of friction, can serve as a tinder or “catalyst” for the remnants of her soul.
- Basic Function: The gloves amplify Alice's natural strength, granting her the ability to compensate for her otherwise frail composition. While she couldn't stomp a crater in the earth (the energy centers in her hands, not her entire body), she could certainly mangle whatever sorry sap incurred her wrath. Or uproot a small stop sign; possibly crack a wall.
- Special Function: The gloves can serve as a vessel for Alice's soul, and the friction generated from rubbing the fabric together, the catalyst. The snap of a finger can conjure up a ball of searing flame, hot enough to eat through solid bone. The speed at which the fabric rubs together - and the material it scrapes against - determines the duration and intensity of the flame. Alice cannot kickstart the fire without some form of friction, though; it’s not as if she can summon up fireballs from midair. It also requires a concerted effort, just rubbing the gloves together accidentally won't do anything.
Former Name: Ava White
Former Age: 17
Former Gender: Female
Former Species: Human
Former Appearance: 
History (which is all kinds of cliched): Ava’s older sister used to fondly remark that the pair of them were inseparable; that they were united from the womb to the tomb. Be it weathering out their father’s propensity for gambling and dabbling in the seedier sorts of addictive substances, or trying to keep a lazy, honestly ambivalent Ava in school, there was nothing, no worldly adversity or sadistic act of fate, that could tear the sisters apart.
The day Ava’s sister stormed out of their shitty three-bedroom apartment, deserting their father and effectively becoming the estranged daughter only spoken of in whispers was the day everything escalated. Angry words were exchanged, flurries of punches were thrown, and Ava’s sister, in one final, vicious act of rebellion, stole all the money in the kitchen drawer and fled for her life. Ava didn’t hesitate to throw her essentials in a bag and scamper after her.
She'd barely managed to shove her sister out the door before thick, grimy fingers knotted in her hair, yanking her abruptly backwards, and half-full beer bottle shattered against the back of her neck. She wasn’t sure quite how many blows she sustained before sweet, sweet, unconsciousness finally embraced her.
Then, searing, burning agony. Then, cliched as it sounds, nothing.
“Sisters from the womb to the tomb”, indeed.