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proletariatifa's Journal
Created on 2006-04-25 08:05:04 (#10106225), last updated 2006-10-22
41 comments received, 911 comments posted
Basic Account [Gift]
12 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 6 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | Tifa Lockhart |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | 01-26 |
Bio~~ User Lookup / Sample Application ~~
Player Name: D
Email Address: dvlsdghtr@hotmail.com
AIM Screen Name: cheshire katt eq / Lu the Doctor
Character Name: Tifa Lockhart
Series: Final Fantasy VII
Age: 24
Physical Description: With dark hair, fair skin, and deep, shining black eyes, Tifa is quite the beauty, at least when she's not frowning at the ruffians who frequent her bar, the Proletariat. Her hair falls to the small of her back and her bangs would fall about halfway down her nose if she didn't brush them all off to one side or split them down the middle. Standing at about 5'8", Tifa isn't very intimidating physically, though she has about her an aura of confidence that prevents most people from messing with her. Typically seen wearing dark colors, with her characteristic black pants and clunky workboots, Tifa dresses quite utilitarianly; even the work cap she wears, which used to be a dark green but has since faded to a bland grey, is used primarily to secure her bangs out of her face.
Personality: At first glance, Tifa is brusque, businesslike, and prickly. She seems to be somewhat disconnected and disengaged, and she's not exactly the most chatty person in the world. Very few people get through her many layers and filters, but when someone has finally worked his way into her heart, she cares deeply and without fail. But make no mistake, Tifa is the queen of tough love and is even a bit rough with the ones she cares about. It seems she can't bear to let anyone get too close to her, and even though she hopes in the privacy of her own mind that someday she'll finally be close to someone, the closer people get to her, the more she seems to push them away. Encased in this tangle of paradoxical desires and behaviors, Tifa strives to be practical, self-reliant, and no-nonsense.
Strengths: Always armed with sharp analytical skills and some stout and practical advice, Tifa is also quite good in a fist fight and carries a few small throwing knives on her person, though they're no use close-range.
Weaknesses: Tifa's greatest weakness is her blunt honesty, which gets her into quite a bit of trouble. Another major problem for her is the way she's constantly hurting herself, getting attached to people and then pushing them away. She could be quite easily manipulated by a sly enough person.
History: Tifa was an only child and a daddy's girl, despite being rather wretchedly poor. She lived with her parents in a rather pitiful tenement building on the west size of Azhun, and every day her father would go to the mines while her mother lazed around all day, drinking, smoking, and, on occasion, shooting up with whatever she could get her hands on. At a young age, Tifa began working in the mines to escape her mother, and to spend more time with her father. She didn't do much there, really, just emptied the full carts and brought the empty ones back down to the workers below, but it was a few extra cents a day that their family desperately needed, even without her mother's rather horrible spending habits.
When Tifa was thirteen, the engine that powered the heavy, fully-laden carts to the surface burst, shooting scalding, high-pressure steam through the mine and killing dozens of men, her father included. Tifa had been unloading a cart on the surface at the time. It was hours before they disabled the engine and began hauling the bodies up top. Tifa had never seen a dead body before. Her father's wasn't even recognizable; she kept watching them pull more bodies from the mines, scanning each corpse to make sure her father hadn't been one of them. It wasn't until they stopped bringing out bodies and he hadn't come to find her that she realized her mistake. It must have been very strange for the miners to see the young girl walking amongst the bodies, bending and peering at each one. They were all red and roasted, the high pressure steam not only cooking them, but scouring away a lot of flesh. She'd long stopped feeling ill and went about it numbly; when she finally came to her father, she knelt, recognizing him by his socks. No wonder she hadn't recognized him--the steam had caught him in the face.
The foreman eventually came over to her and pulled her away, sending her home. Her mother took the news well, spending the rest of the night getting completely drunk, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that she was two months pregnant. Feeling strangely hollow, Tifa curled up on her little mat on the floor--they couldn't afford a bed for her--and fell asleep. She didn't cry. The tears would come later.
After a few days Tifa went back to work. Her mother sent her, saying they needed the money, and Tifa went, too numb to question her mother, who had yet to get dressed, let alone seek out a job of her own. When she did eventually ask, her mother simply replied that she couldn't work herself too hard because of the baby. Out of pity, the foreman hired her again at almost full wages despite her being a child and a woman. They were short-handed at the moment anyway, and could use all the help they could get, so he put her in the mine to do her late father's old job. It should have scared her; it didn't.
Seven months later, a few days before Tifa's fourteenth birthday, she came home from the mine one night to find her mother lying dead and stiff on the bed, her round belly cold. No baby brother after all. Calmly, Tifa grabbed the tin holding all the money they had, all the wages she'd earned that were rightfully hers anyway, and gathered up what little food they kept in their little room. Throwing them in a rough canvas bag with her few sets of clothes, she simply left, walking slowly, in that numb state once again.
In a back alley a good twenty blocks southeast of the tenement, Tifa sat down behind a trash can, hugging her knees to her chest. And then she cried.
For a little over two years, she lived on the street, learned to fight and throw knives. Somewhere along the way she got her cap after kicking the pants off some older boy who thought he could boss her around. But one day, she was fighting off one of the more persistent boys who'd started following her around--she'd grown into a rather pretty young woman--in some back alley behind a bar, and the owner, an old sailor, came out and chased the guy off before inviting her in for a drink on the house.
Tifa had never tasted alcohol and had no intention to, but she went in and managed to get him to serve her a plate of food instead. They talked, and he seemed disturbed at her living on the streets. After Tifa spent a few hesitant weeks dropping in for a hot meal every now and then, the old man asked her to work in the bar as a waitress. He offered her wages, room, and board; Tifa got suspicious and disappeared for a month, only to show up looking for a hot plate of food again. After a few more weeks of the simple, straightforward offer coupled with no attempts to coherce her, she took him up on his offer and moved into the spare room above the bar, becoming a waitress/bartender a few months before she turned seventeen.
The owner became like a second father to her, which was maybe why she seemed so unmoved when he died about three years later. When his will revealed that he'd left the bar to her, her numb reaction to his death raised many suspicions and she spent the next few months dealing with police investigations, even though his death had obviously been heart failure in his sleep. It seemed someone around couldn't stand the idea of a woman owning and running a bar.
When the investigations concluded her innocence, Tifa saved up the cash to put up for some renovations. Once the bar was suitably different and didn't remind her of the old man anymore, she changed the name of the bar to The Proletariat and has been running a thriving business ever since, though everyone takes their cut of her profits and so she never manages to make any headway. At least she eats every night.
V. Exiting a store just before closing time, you begin heading home when the soft click of a gun being cocked precedes a sharp voice behind you demanding, "Don't move."
For a moment, Tifa froze, staring straight ahead as adrenaline thrilled through her, scowling as a hand passed over her hips, feeling for weaponsyeah right. Then, quickly enough for the rather distracted man to be caught off guard, she spun to the side, kneeing the guy hard in the side of his knee, feeling a rather satisfying jolt and a loud pop that accompanied his yell. Grabbing his hand, or, more specifically, his thumb, which rested on the hammer of his revolver, she yanked it backwards, effectively breaking it.
She stepped back as the gun clattered to the ground, sweeping her foot in front of him and knocking it away before backing herself toward it, watching the guy clutch his hand in startled agony. It wasn't the first time someone had pulled a gun on her. Bending to grab the revolver in one hand, Tifa slipped a small thowing knife from her boot, holding it ready in the other. The jackass might not been using a loaded weapon, and if it wasn't, she wanted to be prepared.
"Who sent you?" she asked, voice only shaking a little. Even if she was moderately attractive, no back-alley bastard would bother pulling a gun on her on personal business. She wasn't stupid. "I asked," she prompted, stepping toward him slightly, the gun leveled at him and her knife glinting in the light of a nearby streetlamp, "Who sent you?"
Player Name: D
Email Address: dvlsdghtr@hotmail.com
AIM Screen Name: cheshire katt eq / Lu the Doctor
Character Name: Tifa Lockhart
Series: Final Fantasy VII
Age: 24
Physical Description: With dark hair, fair skin, and deep, shining black eyes, Tifa is quite the beauty, at least when she's not frowning at the ruffians who frequent her bar, the Proletariat. Her hair falls to the small of her back and her bangs would fall about halfway down her nose if she didn't brush them all off to one side or split them down the middle. Standing at about 5'8", Tifa isn't very intimidating physically, though she has about her an aura of confidence that prevents most people from messing with her. Typically seen wearing dark colors, with her characteristic black pants and clunky workboots, Tifa dresses quite utilitarianly; even the work cap she wears, which used to be a dark green but has since faded to a bland grey, is used primarily to secure her bangs out of her face.
Personality: At first glance, Tifa is brusque, businesslike, and prickly. She seems to be somewhat disconnected and disengaged, and she's not exactly the most chatty person in the world. Very few people get through her many layers and filters, but when someone has finally worked his way into her heart, she cares deeply and without fail. But make no mistake, Tifa is the queen of tough love and is even a bit rough with the ones she cares about. It seems she can't bear to let anyone get too close to her, and even though she hopes in the privacy of her own mind that someday she'll finally be close to someone, the closer people get to her, the more she seems to push them away. Encased in this tangle of paradoxical desires and behaviors, Tifa strives to be practical, self-reliant, and no-nonsense.
Strengths: Always armed with sharp analytical skills and some stout and practical advice, Tifa is also quite good in a fist fight and carries a few small throwing knives on her person, though they're no use close-range.
Weaknesses: Tifa's greatest weakness is her blunt honesty, which gets her into quite a bit of trouble. Another major problem for her is the way she's constantly hurting herself, getting attached to people and then pushing them away. She could be quite easily manipulated by a sly enough person.
History: Tifa was an only child and a daddy's girl, despite being rather wretchedly poor. She lived with her parents in a rather pitiful tenement building on the west size of Azhun, and every day her father would go to the mines while her mother lazed around all day, drinking, smoking, and, on occasion, shooting up with whatever she could get her hands on. At a young age, Tifa began working in the mines to escape her mother, and to spend more time with her father. She didn't do much there, really, just emptied the full carts and brought the empty ones back down to the workers below, but it was a few extra cents a day that their family desperately needed, even without her mother's rather horrible spending habits.
When Tifa was thirteen, the engine that powered the heavy, fully-laden carts to the surface burst, shooting scalding, high-pressure steam through the mine and killing dozens of men, her father included. Tifa had been unloading a cart on the surface at the time. It was hours before they disabled the engine and began hauling the bodies up top. Tifa had never seen a dead body before. Her father's wasn't even recognizable; she kept watching them pull more bodies from the mines, scanning each corpse to make sure her father hadn't been one of them. It wasn't until they stopped bringing out bodies and he hadn't come to find her that she realized her mistake. It must have been very strange for the miners to see the young girl walking amongst the bodies, bending and peering at each one. They were all red and roasted, the high pressure steam not only cooking them, but scouring away a lot of flesh. She'd long stopped feeling ill and went about it numbly; when she finally came to her father, she knelt, recognizing him by his socks. No wonder she hadn't recognized him--the steam had caught him in the face.
The foreman eventually came over to her and pulled her away, sending her home. Her mother took the news well, spending the rest of the night getting completely drunk, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that she was two months pregnant. Feeling strangely hollow, Tifa curled up on her little mat on the floor--they couldn't afford a bed for her--and fell asleep. She didn't cry. The tears would come later.
After a few days Tifa went back to work. Her mother sent her, saying they needed the money, and Tifa went, too numb to question her mother, who had yet to get dressed, let alone seek out a job of her own. When she did eventually ask, her mother simply replied that she couldn't work herself too hard because of the baby. Out of pity, the foreman hired her again at almost full wages despite her being a child and a woman. They were short-handed at the moment anyway, and could use all the help they could get, so he put her in the mine to do her late father's old job. It should have scared her; it didn't.
Seven months later, a few days before Tifa's fourteenth birthday, she came home from the mine one night to find her mother lying dead and stiff on the bed, her round belly cold. No baby brother after all. Calmly, Tifa grabbed the tin holding all the money they had, all the wages she'd earned that were rightfully hers anyway, and gathered up what little food they kept in their little room. Throwing them in a rough canvas bag with her few sets of clothes, she simply left, walking slowly, in that numb state once again.
In a back alley a good twenty blocks southeast of the tenement, Tifa sat down behind a trash can, hugging her knees to her chest. And then she cried.
For a little over two years, she lived on the street, learned to fight and throw knives. Somewhere along the way she got her cap after kicking the pants off some older boy who thought he could boss her around. But one day, she was fighting off one of the more persistent boys who'd started following her around--she'd grown into a rather pretty young woman--in some back alley behind a bar, and the owner, an old sailor, came out and chased the guy off before inviting her in for a drink on the house.
Tifa had never tasted alcohol and had no intention to, but she went in and managed to get him to serve her a plate of food instead. They talked, and he seemed disturbed at her living on the streets. After Tifa spent a few hesitant weeks dropping in for a hot meal every now and then, the old man asked her to work in the bar as a waitress. He offered her wages, room, and board; Tifa got suspicious and disappeared for a month, only to show up looking for a hot plate of food again. After a few more weeks of the simple, straightforward offer coupled with no attempts to coherce her, she took him up on his offer and moved into the spare room above the bar, becoming a waitress/bartender a few months before she turned seventeen.
The owner became like a second father to her, which was maybe why she seemed so unmoved when he died about three years later. When his will revealed that he'd left the bar to her, her numb reaction to his death raised many suspicions and she spent the next few months dealing with police investigations, even though his death had obviously been heart failure in his sleep. It seemed someone around couldn't stand the idea of a woman owning and running a bar.
When the investigations concluded her innocence, Tifa saved up the cash to put up for some renovations. Once the bar was suitably different and didn't remind her of the old man anymore, she changed the name of the bar to The Proletariat and has been running a thriving business ever since, though everyone takes their cut of her profits and so she never manages to make any headway. At least she eats every night.
V. Exiting a store just before closing time, you begin heading home when the soft click of a gun being cocked precedes a sharp voice behind you demanding, "Don't move."
For a moment, Tifa froze, staring straight ahead as adrenaline thrilled through her, scowling as a hand passed over her hips, feeling for weapons
She stepped back as the gun clattered to the ground, sweeping her foot in front of him and knocking it away before backing herself toward it, watching the guy clutch his hand in startled agony. It wasn't the first time someone had pulled a gun on her. Bending to grab the revolver in one hand, Tifa slipped a small thowing knife from her boot, holding it ready in the other. The jackass might not been using a loaded weapon, and if it wasn't, she wanted to be prepared.
"Who sent you?" she asked, voice only shaking a little. Even if she was moderately attractive, no back-alley bastard would bother pulling a gun on her on personal business. She wasn't stupid. "I asked," she prompted, stepping toward him slightly, the gun leveled at him and her knife glinting in the light of a nearby streetlamp, "Who sent you?"
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