Kaverin, Ophelia "Ophie" Rein

[Reila Tsukino]

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CASE FILE: Alchemist/Amestrian Militant

"I need more dreams and less life."
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FULL NAME:
→ Ophelia Rein Kaverin

AGE:
→ 22

SEX:
→ Female

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Kyiv, Drachma
→ until adopted to North City, Amestris

RACE:
→ 1/2 Drachman, 1/2 Crieg

DEPARTMENT:
→ Assigned to the Head of Fort Briggs

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ June 21, 1990

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HEIGHT:
→ 5'3"

WEIGHT:
→ 116.8 lbs

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Pale blue hair from her father. Silver eyes from her father. She looks in the mirror and sees him in the bathtub staring up at her with dulled, lifeless eyes. She looks away and knows it’s just her. She puts on makeup and feels pretty, but remembers what living in filth is like. Raised in trash piles, the stench has eternally permeated her judgment. Because of that, she is always clean. While her lifestyle may be messy with discarded clothes, stepped on and trampled, she always keeps herself hygienated. Usually keeping her long hair in pigtails out of the way, she never considers cutting it. Having grown it since birth, she only keeps up with trimming it now. Bangs and brute force, Ophie is something to reckon with. Her silver eyes shift and change, flickering callously like the icy flames of distant stars. There is no air in space, even above and looking down, all there are are tiny dots. Hers may be menacing and intimidating, but she is one of many.

Paper thin with small boobs and a six pack, she is made of rock. Her muscles could lift a burly man and hurl him. Her glare could make a bartender shit himself. Her white teeth could blind a blind man. She is pristine. She is always ready. She counts the dollar bills in her wallet and knows which one faces up. Her nails are hardly ever painted. She never wears jewelry. She never gets cold. Ophie is a strong woman that walks in shadow, wielding light. She carries it to people that needs it, and asks for nothing in return. She dresses like a girl and acts like tough man. She cries in her sleep and wishes yesterday was different, but holds tight to now. She knows she would be different, but doesn’t care because crying makes it okay—makes her okay.

She wonders what Hamlet would think of her now when she puts on skirts and brushes her hair. When she smiles, and when she commands people under her as he used to command them and keep them safe. She walks in straight lines and keeps her back as straight as her attitude. Her skin is a pale as the light reflecting off the snow. She gets sunburn easily, but she never throws up or gets sick. Her voice is soft with a charming trill when she’s speaking normally. She gets overenthusiastic and excited when telling stories just as she used to when she was child. From her passed mother, she acquired a flirty drawl that she uses when teasing people. It strings out her words and makes them sound just that much funnier or that much more appealing, depending on what she’s after.

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PERSONALITY:
→ A personality is something unpredictable. No matter how much you think you know someone, they can change in a matter of moments. Knowing this her whole life, not only has it made Ophelia cautious, but also aware of herself fluctuating or swaying in a decision. Consistency is something she highly values in both herself and in others. She is always looking for it and constantly gauging others not just for that, but also to be able to meet them halfway. There is no point in mindless jabber; if you’re going to talk to someone, talk to them. Without that connection—without meeting someone halfway, why are you wasting your time? People are people and whether they acknowledge it or not, they will notice when someone half-asses something—when someone doesn’t care enough to go all in. When Ophie does anything, she gives her 100% and never backs down no matter what.

She is loyal through and through, giving anything to the people she cares about, the job she holds, and the promises she makes. With that, she is a stickler with a schedule, getting up at the same time every morning, arranging things in blocks, and meeting standards above and beyond. Her drive is simple: she wants to be nothing like her family. She wants to move on from it all and become something else—her own person far from the recesses of filth. Her roots are rotten, she knows, but to her, that does not mean she cannot grow into a dionaea muscipula. Not that she would eat flies, just that she can now fight back. No longer the weak and innocent girl, she has become a strong-willed woman hellbent on finding her younger brother, proving her worth, and doing some good for the world.

Harsh to a crime, Ophie will speak her mind when asked. She doesn’t look through rose-colored glasses or candy-coat the truth; she is hard, adamant, and brutal with her words. Even so, she can occasionally guess people’s limits and come out and apologize. To her, relationships are more valuable than opinions. It’s better just to let them go sometimes; people won’t always see eye to eye, and meeting halfway is often just realizing that. However, what she won’t do is point fingers; she will never go around and start blaming people for things or yelling at them for their mistakes. She can take failure with a spoonful of sugar, helping cover for them and backing them up. In the end, she will make sure they understand exactly what they did and the consequences that determine it as something meant to be a success.

Barbed wire in the shape of smiles, she guardedly appears fragile. Like ice itself, she stands against the laughter of screeching ice skates. Able to smile in the face of fear, laugh over dead bodies, and pretend they were never breathing, Ophie is a special case. She feels the brunt of death—the weight of lives ending, but somehow remains unaffected. Understanding fully well the gravity of each moment, she is yet still capable of both taking life, and coping with loss. Like collecting moonlight in a jar and setting it upon a dusty windowsill, the next morning is dark. Like a hangover, she deals with her choices, her decisions, her own failures and misgivings. She’ll muddle over them, tossing and turning until it’s either sifted through, or fallen through her fingertips like sand in an hourglass. Time moves on, and she follows.

When meeting someone new, she doesn’t hold back. Full-on Ophie comes out whether they are ready for it or not. She may or may not adjust herself to fit each person, but she does tend to get along with pretty much anyone. She’s sweet, open, caring, and way too generous…except for the fact that she’ll take handouts without a second thought. Free dinners are certainly her favorite; never expect no for an answer. She loves doing things, going out, accomplishing tasks. She also loves couch-potatoing on her days off: watching movies, reading books, being lazy, not cooking dinner. Even so, she is also perfectly capable of doing nothing. With herself and with herself only, she can sit still for long periods of time and never give in to the mental torture of being with oneself. She is trained to withstand pain, endure any torture, and be able to stand firm. With strong Drachman blood in her, she can blink away anything dished out under capture or otherwise. Even so, her body is entirely human and will eventually give out, just always before her mind does.

She loves teasing people, bringing out a laugh, and sometimes just being obnoxious. Having fun always does come at a price, and better it be at someone else’s expense then her own (especially when she drinks; that Creig blood is a killer). She doesn’t take getting made fun of well and will pout at you until you take it back. Sulking works too. Despite not being so fragile, she is rather paranoid about judgment. She’ll have her fuck-if-I-care-what-you-think moments outwardly, but she really does take everything to heart. Because to Ophie, anything that exists out there has some form of meaning. Why else would it be out there? Her self-esteem is lacking sometimes, has its downfalls as well as its overabundance. It takes being a Gemini to understand the falling and rising of her moods—the fact that she can go from being happy-go-lucky to murderous rage in a mere five seconds. She tends to stay more positive, letting out her free-willed smiles, and spreading her happiness onto the less fortunate. She breaks through barriers, shells, well-armed fortresses, both mental and tangible. It’s a gift. And like hell she lets it go to waste.

LOVE:
→ Hamlet, Othello/Fia
→ Teasing,
→ Getting down and dirty,
→ Being tethered,
→ When snow can be warm,
→ Floating,
→ Drowning sorrows,
→ Praise, Compliments, Being acknowledged, The spotlight

HATE:
→ Playing pretend,
→ Memories,
→ Leaning on shoulders,
→ People taking their time,
→ Being alone,
→ Ashes, Ants, Coffee grinds,
→ Spoons, Drugs, When someone throws up, Hairdryers, The sound of hairdryers,
→ Flyswatters, Picking flowers,

DEEPEST SECRET:
→ She has a lost younger brother (Othello Hale Kaverin I.E. Taska Bleak).
→ Her father committed suicide.
→ Her older bother died of an overdose.
→ Her mother died in childbirth.
→ That she is afraid of having kids one day.

IDOL:
→ Her older brother, Hamlet
→ Reila Tsukino, and her selfless determination.

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HISTORY:
→ A Drachman pride and Creig bride were led down the aisle by an unplanned pregnancy. A full belly and bouquet of red roses, the love it spoke was unvoiced in their vows. Holding hands, their rings were as frigid as the Kyiv air. Kissing chapped lips, they turned away down a winding road. When the baby was born, they named him Hamlet after the play they had seen together on the eve he was conceived. He grew up, had things happen to him, landed a job, made bad choices. His parents were aloof, but still slept together every night. He was essentially left to his own devices and those of his friends. Living in a pit in the wall, he could only climb out covered in grime and filth. That was all he knew: back alleys and conspicuous folk. He was one of the darkwalkers: baggy pants, scuffed shoes, and empty wallets. Scrounging around for a little dough, the job he landed involved the receiving end of a pistol. He learned how to sweet talk—how to laugh and hold up his hands—how to give in so he could return home that night, exhausted and out of breath. He never did catch it. Shooting up and hiding the track lines, he could laugh it all off and float away. Sweet serenity, Hamlet was a famous dealer that not only dealt, but did. Heroin: the tar of society—the black to the snow—the balance they all needed to survive. Without it, the world became a dank, dark, desolate place. So long as he didn’t overdose, he could keep dishing out and taking in. Oh, the balance of the world.

His younger sister happened—he couldn’t remember. He’d shoot up when he was watching her, hold her in his arms and whisper nonsense that meant the world. She had grown. Their parents were hardly around the shabby apartment that reeked of smoke and was scattered with spoons and trash. Tripping over empty beer cans and newspaper clippings, Hamlet would feed Ophelia religiously. He’d bounce her on his knee and worship her every gurgle. By the time she was ten, he was nineteen. She was going to school every day and coming back with drawings of a better life. He was absorbed in her stories, asking questions, knowing that he had to be that big brother—that he had to be the one to take care of her because no one else would. He resented his parents, but saw the bills that came in and were sent out. He sat around the heater with Ophie in the harsh winters, singing songs about Christmas without presents, yet knowing that the heater wasn’t powered with his time.

Their parents came home at nights. They would stay up together to see them, but there was always broken glass and cursing. Their father was an addict: alcohol, meth, heroin, cocaine, gambling, expensive evidence scattered all about their mother’s complaints and wails for help. It never came in any form. Counseling, sex, begging, anything she gave him was turned up in her face. She was pregnant again by the time she put her foot down and said no more. But that was the last time. Beyond the hospital doors, the line went parallel, evermore stretching on throughout Ophelia’s life. Her mother had asked to save the baby instead, her life forfeit. Motherless, the gap was obvious in her glassy eyes, like a doll’s staring into the void. That was the first time she felt death. Hamlet lost himself in a haze, highly entertained by his ceiling fan. Playing with incense, Ophie wore the same outfit for a week, staring at herself in the mirror, and wondering why all black meant that someone died. When she closed her eyes there was black too, but when they were open, it was all white. Why remember that black, wasn’t it the white that should be remembered?

She hardly saw her father after that. Hamlet was trying to raise the baby, Othello, so he was always busy. Without an outlet or a mother to fondle, Ophie was left entirely to her own pursuits. She’d sneak out the kitchen window and wander the snowy landscape. She’d spent nights sleeping over at the library and piling books for a pillow. She learned alchemy while she was learning how to spell. When she stopped going to school, no one cared except her. Everything she did to get attention, earned her nothing but scolding. Half the time, her brother’s eyes were dilated and in another realm, but he was the only one that would hear her out. She showed him one time how she could bend spoons like a magician on TV, but he forgot the next day. When she showed him again, he rushed out of the room in frenzy. She didn’t know why. Magnetism. It made sense to her; Hamlet just thought he was hallucinating in a drug-induced state. There was no way that Ophie could pick up on that; she thought he didn’t like it, so she stopped showing him. She’d play with water and turn it to ice, create volumes of no air where she could flick stones at snowmen and knock them over with high speeds. Whenever she was stopped and asked why she wasn’t in school, she would shrug and runaway as fast as she could just like her brother taught her.

While Hamlet was making sure Othello survived off the meager scraps they could scrounge together, Ophie was mastering high-leveled alchemy and playing with it like a toy. Under his radar, she skipped across ice of her making, essentially becoming a child prodigy that would make most older alchemists have a conniption. Eventually, Othello was old enough to go to school. Out of diapers and doing the big boy walk, he strutted around and recited his ABC’s as if it were his job. He knew them better than Ophelia and Hamlet combined. Needless to say they were impressed, and silently agreed that if anyone, he had to stay in school. Illegally, Ophie landed a job in the library, reordering books and labeling covers with barcodes. She did what she had to do, this time, helping out Hamlet. She hid his spoons and took away his cigarettes, watching him shake in the corner and sober up time and time again just enough to stop spending. The cash rolled in, and their father shipped out to stop rebellions in Moscow. Low level foot soldier, he had his rifle and his vodka to keep him company. Hamlet started to pull out of the drug business, looking hard for something to be proud of. Without a college degree, he fell hard on the market, tumbling through turmoil, while fighting off threats. If he wasn’t selling, what were the buyers to do?

One day, Othello didn’t come home. Ophie was there to pick him up from the bus stop. Thirty minutes. An hour. Two hours. She didn’t have a phone. Three hours. She waited. It was dark. It was cold. Her pearly hands, small and frozen, were squeezed into the worn pockets of her jacket—squeezed in hope—squeezed in panic. Young and inexperienced, she found herself crying into the warm shoulder of Hamlet when he showed up in a huff. ”Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Right here,” she answered, “Waiting.”

The next day there was a knife in their door, a cliché letter spelled out in magazine clippings. ”Kids,” she heard Hamlet mutter. Tattered and a veteran of down-and-outs, Hamlet already knew who it was. They just wanted their drugs. They’d stop at nothing to get them. They just had to hunt and sell them some was all, only those ties were broken now. Othello was as good a gone. His words and letters were scattered away down that long road somewhere. Hamlet would try, but there was no promises—no guarantee where needles were involved.

When their father came home and found Othello missing with a ransom on his door, requesting drugs, he flipped the table. Shattered bottles and scattered papers, broken dishes and a wedding ring. ”You think I asked for this?!” He was screaming. He was hollering and carrying on and drinking. He was lost. His shirt had blood on it. His trigger finger was trembling. His words were gushing. He was drowning. They found him in the bathtub the next morning. The ancient hairdryer was as dead as he was. They wore black again. The cemetery was fuller. People weren’t crying. There were scraps of inheritance money, custody was given to Hamlet. They sold the car and cleaned out the apartment. When that was done, Ophie started seeing spoons again. Othello’s trail was starting to blur, Hamlet was losing hope. Losing that hope—that drive, drove him again to the only thing that made him feel strong.

In the middle of the night she heard gagging. When she rushed to his bedside, he was heaving out his life. His eyes were rolling up, he said nothing. That nothing left her alone. She walked two miles at four AM in the snow, barefoot. Her tiny hands knocked on the neighbor’s door, trembling, she could barely speak. He didn’t have a pulse. He wasn’t breathing. Hamlet, the only one that had always been there for her—the only one that listened to her—the only one that loved her was dead. He died that night. They rushed him to the ER, did stuff to try and bring him back, but he was locked away somewhere. Like the rest of her.

She stopped speaking, didn’t say no when they sent her off to an orphanage in Moscow. She was passed through hands, saw different places, and felt nothing but the cold streak of tears down her face. Dirty child, they called her. No manners, no politeness, no finesse; she was a vile monster of defilement. No one wanted her, so they put her on a plane and she disappeared somewhere in the sky, looking down at the planet Earth, leaving the snow behind—leaving that cemetery off on the horizon. People live in constellations with the faint sounds of sirens chasing them. Away, away she went as far as she could until someone took her to fancy pianos, to silk dresses, to a bed of pearls around her neck. What she smelled like with salon shampoo in her hair and nail polish painted like a mask over her, was something that hurt. They’d ask questions she couldn’t answer out loud, they’d pry into her life and wonder why when she touched wine glasses they turned to ice. When she couldn’t cry anymore, she started learning Amestrian. When she started speaking the same language, she stopped mopping. They were kind to her, gave her space, and supported her when she started training in the military opposite her father.

Back home, where their bones were frozen under feet of snow and piles of dirt—where their tombstones had their names, a new leader was seizing control. Something called RIOTE was smearing over her father’s name, efforts, and misery. It was walking all over where they rested, turning the slums where they lived into even bigger slums. The poor had no place but to fight. She didn’t understand their demands, their will, or their efforts toward peace; she only wanted to destroy it. She learned how to fire a gun, how to curse louder than her big brother, how to steal people’s lives and step over their bodies. She just had to step over their bodies and keep going. Looking on at something worth the effort, she kept breathing if only to find Othello. She fought to topple RIOTE, joined hands with her adopted family, and learned how to laugh again. She became an Amestrian through and through. She threw away her half breed self, tossing both Drachma and Carraig to the wind. A state alchemist dog of the military, she wooed and baffled most examiners, earning herself a title. A wolf among dogs, she triumphed authority, wielding her own with just a single…step forward.

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TRIVIA:
→ She smokes when she's distressed, but she will only ever smoke one at a time. She started smoking when she was eleven.
→ She is anal about recycling and always cuts the plastic circle holders of soda cans so birds won't get their heads stuck.
→ Every time she meets a new guy, she compares their surname with her first name.
→ She is cruel to what she loves
→ like Taras.
→ She drinks almost every night; her favorite is champagne.
→ She chose to keep the last name Kaverin instead of changing her surname to that of her adoptive family in hopes of finding Othello (Fiasco).
→ She is fluent in Amestrian and Drachman.

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ALIAS:
→ Aki

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Aurel, Spade, Toss, Ela, Jack,

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ FOR BRIGGS! (ﾉಥ益ಥ）ﾉ ┻━┻

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]VOCALOID[/b]/[i]Hatsune Miku[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ BURY ME IN ARMOR

OFFICIAL TITLE:
→ Wolf

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[Iris]

OBJECTION!

How does she know what month she was born in in Drachma. Silly Miss Aki. Drachman months are all the same!

NONETHELESS!

APPROVED

Enter the Ophie :3