Omyra Moat

[ophelia]

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~Basic info~

Behind every great individual, there is that voice which keeps them going onward and toward their next great adventure. [/center][/i]

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Username: T.D.Ophelia

Other characters: ~Dysfunction Junction

Is this character canon?: No

Link to canon thread: N/A

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~Character Info~

Waking up in the morning, your thoughts are cluttered. It takes a moment for you to fully become aware of your surroundings, but once you do, everything about your life comes back to you.[/center][/b][/i]

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Name: Omyra Moat

Age: 21

Birthplace: Destiny Islands

Birthday: January, Third

Gender: Female

Race: Merling

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~Appearance~

As you are heading out the door of your house, a small glimmer of light catches your eye. You turn around and see a mirror, putting you face to face with your reflection.

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Physical appearance:

Omyra stands at an elliptical 5’7 with an oval shaped face and an oval shaped figure. Her features are so perfectly circular that if her head was twisted upside down there would be no noticeable difference. Oval eyes, a misty grey blue, like underbelly of an oyster, are set apart at an exactly equal distance. With round black pupils like marbles. She has no eyelashes and no eyebrows but round indentations that curl all the way around her eyes. So that they can extend out of her profile on segmented stalks, similar to those on a lobster. The eye-stalks are the same color as her skin, a light slippery grey, like the hide of a baby seal. And can turn this way and that, about seven inches long. Omyra does not blink much, with an expression that does not often change.

Her lips are the same misty grey blue as her eyes, and nearly the same shape. Curvy and upturned like razor shells and formed perfectly. Her nose is a round knob, similar to her lips and equally well cast. Omyra’s hair is a dark indigo like an oil spill, and hangs poker straight down to her elbows. Slick, shiny, and sheek. Almost one smooth sheet the texture of sea-glass. With a stature to match. And only a single row of barbed teeth inside her mouth. -Teeth Image-

She could almost be called pretty, when her eye’s are snapped in and her lips are snapped shut. Her oval body is plump enough to be dimpled. And her “curvy” lips are usually pressed in a smile. The scales on her “legs” are a deep purple indigo. And her fingers and toes are sprinkled with delicate copses of the same purple indigo scales. She wears a large baggy men’s shirt that extends to her knees. The linen shirt is a more vibrant indigo blue than her hair or her scales. With long sleeves that billow out around her arms and button loosely at her wrists. Under which she wears a pair of cut off jean-shorts. (No socks, no shoes, no service.)

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~Personality~

As you're walking through the door, you see many sights that influence your mood. The different feelings that suddenly wash over you are many, leaving you with a strange mix of emotions.

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Alignment: Neutral

Behavior:

Omyra is speaks in jaunty flowing way without any real weight behind her enthusiasm. Or really any enthusiasm at all. She is a quiet, ice-cold mellow. Smooth and unruffled by almost anything with an eerie detachment and a distant stare. (You could tell her that her head was on fire, and she would simply nod and snuff it out without batting an eyelash. A little more than creepily.) Her temper is virtually non-existent, and she rarely raises her voice. At most she can manage “vaguely put out”. Floating along in her own bubble of serenity, even has her voice inflection bounces and trills in expressive epithets. Or as she smiles unseeingly.

As alkaline as the calcium in her pores, she is levelheaded and sensible. Often acting as the mediator when things go awry. But never cracking down on the rules or feeling the sting of resentment when things don’t go exactly her way. (Unless, she’s being out right snipped. Then she would obviously do something about it sharpish. Omyra is not a doormat nor a coward.) If someone or thing has failed to meet requirements, she steps up to the plate and completes it herself. Or stops to help out. Humming all the while, with a remarkably carefree attitude. Nothing can interrupt her glossy optimist stride, insatiable work ethic, or stony determination.

But behind her chilly facade, there also lurks a mischievous side. A prankster, who’ll tie your shoe laces together and unscrew the cap on the salt shaker before passing it to you. Her mermish nature insists she turn everything topsy turvy, even as she floats half submerged, creepy and silent, as the grave. (Sometimes with fatal consequences. You can bet she’d let all of the oxygen out of your scuba tank and give you a little wave before you dived in. Or cut the floor of your life boat into a paper chain.) Nothing gives her greater pleasure than to crash or sink things. Nothing else in the world. (Besides playing the ukulele...)

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~Weapons~

Suddenly, a Heartless appears in front of you, brandishing its claws and threatening to attack. You reach for your weapon and equip it, ready to defend yourself.

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Weapon: N/A

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~Abilities~

Just as you're about to fight the creature, you feel the power of your ancestors filling you. The strength of a thousand men courses through your veins as you prepare for battle.

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”Barrier” Reef

Description:

Omyra can excrete calcium carbonate from her pores. The excretion is a sticky white liquid, that is malleable in the few seconds before it hardens, so that it may be shaped by hand or imprinted by the surface around it. Then the calcium hardens almost instantly when it comes in contact with oxygen. Building over every surface of Omyra’s body in a thick and nearly unbreakable coral armor. Effective against almost anything thrown at it.

Strength: Weak

Uses:

The armor can be used “full body” or just in certain areas, in varying degrees of thickness. The over all thickness depends on how “fresh” the armor is. If, in the heat of battle, Omyra has already had the armor smashed and re-grown several times during a barrage, the thickness will wain. And the armor will become flimsier and flimsier unless Omyra finds a way to ingest some sort of mineral to refuel. But if the armor has remained largely un-cracked it will retain the same level of solidity and may condense even further. But is less potent/will not function at all if there is no oxygen present, or a only very minute amount of it.

“Barrier Reef” also has a hidden twist. Because this armor is cast in a similar manner to naturally occurring coral, the “skeleton”/armor is composed of thousands of small pockets/compartments/spaces. Whereas in “Live-Coral” these spaces would be occupied/molded by microscopic squiggly organisms, in Omyra’s armor/skeleton these spaces were created by the bubbles of air trapped beneath the secretion after it oozed out of each individual pore. Leaving thousands of hollow pinpricks.

If Omyra chooses, she may vacate the armor through these pores in the form of her own personal brand of microscopic squigglies, to revert back to her normal, solid shape several seconds/minutes later. Leaving behind the hollow “skeleton”/armor of calcium carbonate in her “place”. (Or old place, or where she was, or used to be, you know what I mean. It looks like her.) She cannot remain in this microscopic form for more than three minutes, and cannot revert to it unless she is inside the armor. Omyra is also prevented from “vacating” if her armor has been condensed too thickly. (Blocking the pores.) The thicker the calcium becomes the more difficult it also becomes for Omyra to move quickly. Omyra can only “vacate” the skeleton/armor three times a battle.

High C

Description:

When Omyra presses her lips to an object or an organism, she can “suck” the calcium out of it. Rendering human bones soft and easily breakable, de-boning them all together, or eroding away at the chosen object. Making herself stronger in the process by diverting this calcium to “‘Barrier’ Reef”.

Strength: Weak

Uses:

The length of time Omyra has her lips pressed to an object/organism limits the amount of calcium erosion. If Omyra only initiates a quick “peck” the human target will only feel “boneless”, limp, and vaguely disoriented for a few minutes. Most likely causing them to collapse (three glasses of milk recommended post haste). But if she “kisses” them for a larger duration of time, give or take five minutes, she can slurp the marrow from your ribs and the solidity of your shins clean away for easy snapping. In extreme cases, when her lips are really “going at it” (ten minutes, fifteen, twenty?) she can completely de-bone the person. Reducing them to a wobbling mass of flesh and muscle and usually killing them. (Unless you get an IV swollen with milk stat.)

Creatures cartilaginous, or otherwise without calcium skeletons are completely immune to “High C”.

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~History~

As you slay the last of the beasts, you put your weapon aside, and walk away, knowing your tale of bravery will be told for thousands of years to come.

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Once upon a time....

in the darkest depths of the NeverNeverland River, there lived the illustrious and infamous Moat family. A scholarly brood of merlings with more pride than heart. Or perhaps more pride than good sense. And they were evicted.

“OY, LET US BACK IN!”

“I should think not, rather.” said Myrtle Spire from the balcony, fingering the keys in a manner of haughty distain. “The lot of you have more pride than good sense.”

“No, no. You’ve got it mixed up. Our motto is ‘We’ve got more pride than heart.’”

“Well, you have more debt than silver. So be off on your way.”

“But our family has lived in the estate for centuries! We built it! It is our birth right!”

“SOME people should have thought of that before they decided to cheat at poker.”

In the back of the main gaggle, Ambrose Moat turned pink and tugged at his collar, shifting slightly. The rest of the group didn’t even bother to turn. They just rolled their eyes simultaneously with a choked moan of “Ammbrooooose”. The poor fellow had never been quite the same after an accident with a candle and a swordfish, and in the aftermath, had picked up quite a nasty gambling habit to deal with the trauma. Nobody blamed him. Really...

“B-B-But we have no where else to go!” cried the spokesman, gesticulating at the condensed mass of Old Moats and Little Baby Moats behind him.

“Oh...how sad...” replied Myrtle, sounding about as moved as half the audience at Revolutionary Road wasn’t. “Good luck!” She slammed the door in their faces so hard that the panes rattled.

So the Moats, dressed in their embroidered finery, were left the dredge their separate ways into the wide world. While a nice family of Seaweed Monsters moved into their old property. Most Moats could not cope with their fall from grace, or the absence of their former glory and drank themselves to death. Others lived in shanty towns along the coast of Atlantica, clinging to their traditions until they became extinct. But a paltry one sixteenth was delighted to be free of the formal constraints of their old life. Celebrating by boinking with humans and other mer-families and shimmying to wild music. Until, a couple hundred years later, their genetic material was so skewed that the former Moat Family had split into about a thousand different sub-groups. Each more different from the last. And each completely clueless about their drop of Moat Blood. Which by then, had become a sort of an Urban legend.

But all of them still had one thing in common. They still shimmied to wild music.

Arnold and Adella met at a rock concert.

“You are quite ravishing!” screamed Arnold, pumping his fins to the music. As a huge swell carried the mer-crowd closer to the band on the shore of Destiny Islands.

“You’re pretty groovy yourself!” Adella screamed back, pulling Arnold out of the mosh pit before his tail was torn off.

They were married at another concert. (Destiny Islands was having a rampant sort of year.) And they had their wedding rings pierced to the cartilage on their flippers. Head-banging down the isle.

When they had their first child Arnold said: “Darling Wife, shall we name our baby Ambrose?”
And Adella replied “Nah. There’s, like, this rule or something. I can ‘never name my descendants after the Accursed One, blah blah blah’ or something. I think it’s a girl anyway.”

“Oh.” replied Arnold.

So they named her Omyra. And after that they named their second child, a little boy, Opus.

Omyra and Opus had a happy childhood playing among the reefs and cutting holes in the bottom of row boats. The weather was bright, the water was warm, the air was clean. And there was a plentiful amount of botched stage dive victims floating on the tide. (Always a delicious and savory meal. Especially when drizzled with paopu juice or a pinch of sea-salt.) Not to mention the excellent acoustics of which occurred naturally in the island caves. Bouncing the feed back from the amps so that it could be heard crystal clear under the surf.

But then times became hard. The tour which the Moats syphoned their livelihood from suddenly stopped charting the area. In the blink of an eye, D.I. had become “Un-Hip” and the concerts moved to the mainland. It was almost more than Adella and Arnold could take. Even more horrifying, was that when they tried to reclaim the ways of their ancestors to make ends meat. They couldn’t. There were no pirate ships to lure and sink and no pirate crews aboard these imaginary vessels which they could eat. (Mostly because the droves of other starving mer-rockers had picked the Pirate Population clean.)

So they became very poor and very hungry.

In the midst of the famine, Arnold and Adella clung to their children like most other people would cling to rations. The absence of their beloved rock had stripped them of all lust for life, and the only thing that sustained them and allowed them to endure was a glimpse of a better future. Aspirations, prospects, hopes, hopes, dreams, of the next generation. Their babies. Rules and limits suddenly began to fuzz, then blur, and then melt away entirely. Everything Omyra and Opus was marvelous.

“My beautiful daughter is so clever!” Arnold would cry, when Omyra used a plastic fork to comb her hair.

“Oh My God Dad! It’s just a fork!” Omyra would reply.

or when when Opus would balance a spoon on his nose at the dinner table, Adella would screech:

“LOOK WHAT MY KID CAN DO!”

and Opus would reply “Goodness Mother, please desist. It is most improper for a Moat.” (They had asked around about their heritage when their parents weren’t looking. As they often weren’t. Limits, again, were a thing of the past. And they happened to be the purest strain of Moat left.)

Omyra and Opus were faced with a very unique situation. The kind many children only face in their most horrible nightmares. A crushing sense of guilt that out weighed the desire to break curfew and listen to bad punk music. Their parents would probably trill and make a scrap book if they so much as picked their noses. And they really felt unworthy and useless. (Even the bad things they did were rejoiced over.) They wanted to do something that was actually worth merit. They wanted to actually be deserving of their parents praise, instead of rebelling like the typical tweenager.

So they took it upon themselves to dig their family out their financial troubles.

They spent many long nights swimming out to sea and thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Until one fateful dusk when a blazing star streaked across the horizon. Omyra and Opus stared and stared, floating together on an old tire. A passing merman leered at them. He had mossy teeth and looked as though he hadn’t eaten in his lifetime.

“You guys like that, eh?” he rasped.

“Uh, huh.” they responded.

The mossy merman gave a wheezy laugh. “Well, there’s a lot more where that came from. Gummi Ships are swooping over this world all the time now.”

“Pray tell, what is a ‘Gummi Ship’ my good Sir?”

“Boy, why do you talk funny?!”

“I was born with a speech impediment.” Opus flipped him off with both webbed hands.

“ANYWAY” Omyra cut in hastily, “what is it? Is there anything good inside.”

“It’s just like a boat on the water, girly. ‘Cept it flies in the air.”

“So it has...humans inside?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Omyra and Opus looked at each other. An awful, wonderful idea had seized them. They rushed home immediately. They were so excited they dog-paddled on the tire for a few feet, before they realized they could swim faster without it. Splashing a torrent of foam and flinging the tire behind so it landed, and looped around the shoulders of the poor merman.

“You’re sure this is like sinking a Pirate Ship, right?” said Omyra when they arrived back at the grotto.

“Very sure, Dear Sister.” Opus grabbed a huge net and stuffed it into Omyra’s arms, while Omyra grabbed handfuls of shiny objects and slipped them into Opus’s pockets. (Along with several “batteries” and a string of “christmas” lights they had dredged up from the harbor.)

“Good enough for me.”

They rocketed back to where they had been. Cutting through the water a seizing up the area before they began building. Using Omyra’s coral to secure and spread the net under a ton of tough calcium. While Opus darted around, floating the sparkly objects around and in the net. And for their piece de resistance, they both lined the entire perimeter with the “christmas lights” and fired them up with a few batteries and electric eels.

The effect was a sparkling square of light, eerily reminiscent of a Gummi Ship landing pad...

(“The ship lands from above, not from below.” Opus had pointed out earlier when Omyra had insisted in building the trap up-right like they would have done for a wooden boat.)

They waited and waited. Opus fell asleep halfway through the night, and Omyra hefted him onto the tire so that he could float peacefully. But she kept her eyes wide open. And extended on their stalks, as far as they could go up towards the heavens. As oldest, far more responsibility fell on her than on her brother. It was her job to see things through, and this left her with a feeling of cool satisfaction. But soon, even after her best efforts to keep awake, her eyestalks had drooped down onto her chin...

And then it happened.

There was a huge crash, and an rippling explosion. If Omyra had not shielded them with coral at the last moment, the Moat siblings would have been dashed to death. But she did, and they were fine.

A fiery inferno of lights and melted plastic blazed in the boiling sea. The hull of a ship, engines revving and crackling, steaming. White bright and red molten. A shell of fizzling glass sinking slowly.

They stared.

“@#&*% AWESOME!” shouted Omyra.

“GLORIOUS!” shouted Opus, flipping off the sky again to make up for his lack of explicatives.

Omyra coated them both in coral and they dived down to collect their spoils. Cooked human, munny, potions. It was fantastic. The especially fantastic part was being able to drag it home to their parents with huge grins. (The parents in question, knocked out cold with “we-were-right-all-along-smugness”.) Omyra had never been so happy. And Opus so focused. They blamed the frequent explosions at night on “subterranean volcanoes”. (And were largely responsible for the continued isolation of Destiny islands.)

But, like with all good things, it eventually had to come to an end. Or at least halfway.

The number of Gummi Ships started to decline and Omyra and Opus found their stomachs rumbling again. One of them had to get another job, and Opus constantly harped on that it should be Omyra.

“Dear Sister, you are oldest. And besides you keep scaring away all my female companions! And babying me!”

Omyra was more than happy to oblige. Calm and level headed, she expressed quiet interest by dunking Opus into a copse of seaweed and gliding off to grab her suitcase. She had wanted to go abroad anyway, and how was it her fault Opus was hopeless with women? Mother and Father would not be too heart broken. And she would visit on the important holidays. Sitting on the beach and strumming the ukulele every day was getting kind of old too.

One of the Gummi ships, the least damaged they had managed to catch “fishing”, was the perfect ride out. She brought her Ukulele.

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~Extra~

Before you embark on your journey, you see three weapons in front of you.
~ A sword
~ A shield
~ A staff
Choose wisely.

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[High's .Valentine.]

o__o Amazing.

Accepted.