Name: Meabh Eir
Physical Appearance: A tall, lithe woman who’s grace is born from constant struggle. Standing at 1.80 meters and weighing in at 68 kg, she could never be confused for a delicate little flower. Be that as it may, her body moves with the subtle ease of one long accustomed to finding nasty surprises just around every corner. Her skin is the colour of fresh cream, off-set by a blaze of fiery red hair, cropped short. Her deep grey irises, the same hue freshly mined slate, are ringed by a thin band of gold. In the web of skin between her right thumb and forefinger there is s simple black tattoo, its slender lines forming the Gaelic word for ‘justice’. Much larger tattoo covers her left forearm, made from the numerous names permanently etched into her skin; each name carries significance, though no one is quite sure if they are names of fallen comrades, or the names of her more illustrious victims. A collection of scars run from her left temple, down her jaw, and across her neck, disappearing into her clothing. Many more such mementos from her past mark her fit body, everything from bullet holes to bite marks, each one a strong reminder of the price she has paid for her continued existence.
Clothing of Choice: She prefers fitted clothing; items that will not hinder movement, but will not restrict it either. Typically, her wardrobe consists of a black or grey high-neck sweater, long black fatigue pants, and tall, soft soled boots. Over it all, she usually dons a full length, dark grey trench, its collar turned up against cold winds or unseemly fangs. The heavy material is inter-woven with Kevlar, designed to stop most projectiles, knife edges, and/or claws. A black web harness crosses her back, holding secure her side-arm and long knives. She has no piercings, as they could possibly be used against her in a close fight.
Weaponry of Choice: Prototype Unique Alpine TPG-1 (silenced) with .338 Lapua rounds. Full metal jacket alloy, heavy grain, blessed silver projectile. Specialized rounds include mercurial tips, tracer rounds, hollow points, and incendiary rounds.
A matte-finished DAK SIG-Saur P229R is her only side-arm, modified for the .357 SIG hollow-point rounds - a lower caliber than most would carry in her situation, but she finds it a much more versatile weapon; adequate stopping power for lower tier creatures of the night, but with minimal penetration power to drop a normal human. Each round is a silver/tungsten blend, the latter incorporated in an attempt to harden the soft silver.
When forced to close-combat, Meabh prefers two silver and steel long knives, both reverse-sheathed at her back. The one she wields with her left hand is inscribed with a Gaelic phrase meaning ‘the Hand that Ministers’, while the blade brandished by her right carries the phrase ‘the Hand that Crucifies’.
Abilities: : A normal human in most ways, Meabh has only a handful of traits that distinguish her from her homo sapiens kin: the first and foremost would be her eyes. Considered a genetic mutation, the gold-rimmed grey irises are uncommonly keen, naturally allowing her to see great distances, and in areas with little light.
Her stamina and reflexes are sharpened to a much finer degree than the average human, but these things can be attributed to her training; she excels in parkour, making her extremely difficult to track in urban settings, and since she is not uncommonly strong, Meabh has learned that being fast enough to get out of the way is often a better idea than blocking.
Personality: Meabh is a study of opposites: she is kind though abrasive, calm while fierce, understanding but ruthless. She has a penchant for small children, as they are the only creatures remaining on the Earth that are truly innocent. As troubled as her life may have been, Meabh has come to care for those she hunts; ghouls are incapable of choice, forever denied their humanity, and as such, should be pitied, not scorned. Sending them to eternal rest is the greatest gift she can give them, an act of kindness that should not spring from hate. This is not to say that she harbors good will to all unnatural beings; on the contrary, full vampires are the culmination of murderous choices and reckless morals, beings that have made a decision to further the evil of the world. But even these bastards of nature pull at her heart, as they have willingly given up their humanity, an act she finds desperate and hopeless, as though these monsters had no option other than self-debasement.
As for her attitude towards battle, Meabh feels that discretion is the better part of valour. Sure, the world would be better off without the masses of undead running amuck, but she isn’t going to wade in amongst them unless she has a fairly good idea of the outcome. This ‘survival’ mode goes out the window, however, when Meabh is faced with the choice between a child dying or herself. Granted, she can be a bit calloused at times, often leaving adults to the mercy of their attackers should she be unable to aid them without harming herself in the process. She feels that dying would create yet another hole for evil to leak into the world of humanity, and while that may be a bit self-serving, it has proven to be a most valuable attitude.
Rank: Field Operative
Biography: Born 1967 in Antrim, North Ireland, Meabh’s home was warm, loving, and full of life: her mother was a vivacious woman that had a stern hand and an infectious laugh; her father was a quiet man who doted on his daughter while teaching her of the hardships in life. For years, all she knew of her father’s life was that he went to work, came home, cared for his wife and loved his daughter. Often, he would be gone for days on end, during which her mother would fret by the window when she thought little Meabh wasn’t around; the red-head lost count of the times she saw her mother staring out that window. But when her father did finally come home, he would shuck off his long coat, set down his large black bag, and scoop up his unabashedly happy girl, crushing her in a warm hug. It wasn’t until she was nine or so that she first began to catch the shadow of a haunted face on her father, one quickly banished at the sight of his two women.
She started school at age six. Meabh made few friends, either because of her odd looks or her family’s religious views: Catholicism was frowned upon in a Protestant town. Her school years went by uneventfully, marked only by her excellent grades in History and poor ones in Writing, until her eleventh birthday. Her father’s gift was a large one, not in size, but in meaning; she eagerly accepted the twin long-knives he had hidden away in the back of his closet.
Soon after receiving that precious gift, her father began to instruct her on their use. Day in and day out, for three short years, they practiced together on the outskirts of town, him teaching and her quickly learning. He did not instruct her solely on the physical, however; he sharpened her mind as well. To stay alert to one’s surroundings, to watch the target until it makes a mistake, to know the target’s mind as well as you knew your own. Languages he taught her as well: Gaelic, German and Latin among them. But the greatest knowledge he could impart was encapsulated in four short sentences: Do not hate, as it eats from the soul it springs from. Do not envy, as it sickens the heart. Do not lust for money, as it is an unquenchable desire. Do not kill, as it will forever stain the soul and leave an un-fillable hole in the heart.
She had never once questioned how her father knew these things, and she would never have the chance to. The day before her fourteenth birthday, Meabh entered her ransacked home to find a trio of monstrous things, things of nightmares, ripping into her mother’s body and hacking at her father. Blood bathed the walls in great crimson swaths, and the chilling, mind-numbing screams of her mother’s last breath echoed in her ears. But her father – coated in blood and gore and bits of flesh – stood his ground, as little as there was left. Terrified, she darted into the bathroom, locking the door and scurrying into the tub. Meabh could hear her father shout insults to the creatures, but they were cut short as a sickening gurgle was heard, followed by a dull, wet slap as something heavy hit the hard-wood floors.
She was found sometime later, curled in the remains of her parents, encrusted with drying blood. She was whisked away to a hospital where, after a cursory check, she was deemed mentally unfit. Events progressed rapidly after that, and she was sent to an institution in London to ‘aid in her mental recovery’: it was the single most maddening hell she had ever been in. Her mind could not reconcile what she had seen with reality, and it wasn’t long before she came to hate not just the monsters that had taken her family from her, but everyone and everything. After an interminable year - and a day before her fifteenth birthday – she managed a break, though it was a success born more from sheer luck than any real planning.
The first six months of her ‘freedom’ were the most difficult. Quickly, she learned the hard life of the streets, scraping for every meal and fighting for the best places to sleep. Her mind was still fragile, and more than once she was caught mumbling to herself. For the first – but not the last – time, the question of why she was still alive dug painfully at her conscious. She could not fathom why she should be allowed to live, when her parents were…not. It was something she would never find the answer to.
After those hard six months, she began to move around, stealing money for train fare and ferry tickets. By her sixteenth birthday, she had travelled the whole of the Isles, and came to the conclusion there was nothing left for her in the constant rain and dreary streets. On what was to be herself-proclaimed ‘last day’ on the miserable Island, she stumbled across a painful and heart-stopping reminder of the past: her silver blades.
They had been pawned many times in the two years she had been gone, and yet there they were, in an antique shop, seemingly waiting for her. Needless to say, they were…liberated…from the shop that night, and kept close to her body from then on.
For the next three years – until 1986 – she travelled and toured mainland Europe, never quite settling in one place, constantly on the move, driven onward by an unknown and unseen force. In that time, she became acquainted with the less savory side of humanity, and before long, she was hiring herself out to those who needed a particular problem taken care of.
That was her darkest hour.
Meabh pushed away all her father had taught her, retaining only his martial instruction. Around this time, while in France, she added to her repertoire a strange, new method of going from point A to point B – it was to be the precursor to parkour, a decidedly exciting and economical way of movement that she threw herself into headlong.
As she roamed through the streets of some unnamed town near Burgundy, she came face to face with the horrifying monsters that still plagued her nightmares. There were only two, but the memory attached to them multiplied them a hundred-fold. Before she could think, her body waded in, taking off arms and cleaving into dead flesh. When her mind once again became her own, she was left standing in nothing but a pile of ashy sand. In that moment, her father’s words, his lessons, came flooding back; she was crushed under the weight of her betrayal to his teachings.
Months went by before she pulled herself from her stupor, and with budding resolve, she struck out to begin a life anew. Meabh had learned some time ago how to handle a firearm, but she wanted to learn more about the ‘shoot from far away and then run’ tactic; her encounter with the creatures of the night left her feeling like perhaps she wasn’t a physical match for them.
This decision led her to countless countries, her mind bent on finding instruction for her new obsession. Through bribery and begging, she found those willing to teach her, and before long, she came to appreciate just how valuable her odd eyes truly were; even from a thousand meters, she could see the details of a patterned shirt, or the numbers of a car’s license plate. For years, she toured Europe - once making a quick stop in America to see what all the fuss was about – with the sole desire of sending the monsters that had haunted her past to eternal sleep.
She did not know when it happened, but within that time, her view on the beasts changed: she no longer felt hatred in her heart for them. They had lost their humanity through no fault of their own, and were creatures whose damnation was equal to her own; Meabh had given up her humanity long ago, by willing choice, and now she fought to regain it.
Her breathing was even, a constant in and out that left her hands steady and her mind blessedly clear. The feel of the rifle pressed against her shoulder was a familiar and reassuring presence, one she had come to rely on, and the hard, chilled alloy caressing her cheek was as a lover’s touch. The night was cool, and the smell of distant rain cut through the thick city air, promising a storm. She had tracked them, weakling vampires, to their favourite hiding place, a dark and dank alley flanked by dilapidated warehouses. The sun had set only moments ago, and Meabh knew they would be on the prowl soon. With perfect timing, she was proven correct: the two children of the night exited one of the buildings and began to slink off into the shadow. Her finger gently took the slack out of the trigger as her keen eyes sharpened their faces, bringing their hideous expressions into full view. She hesitated until one stepped in front of the other. Her breath caught for a moment, and as she slowly, deliberately exhaled, her finger tightened around the trigger. With a jerk, the rifle bucked against her shoulder as the round was expelled. She didn’t need to watch to know that her shot had found its mark, but her eyes could never look away. Meabh saw, in full detail, the bullet tear through the first’s head, entering its ear and exiting its temple before the round sank into the other’s eye. In quick succession, the pair fell into dust. With practiced ease, she dismantled the rifle and stowed it away; within moments, she was skimming the tops of the buildings, on to her next target.
She knew it was going to hurt as soon as she saw it coming. Raising her arm, she managed to block most of the blow, the knife sliding along her jacket sleeve before glancing off to her right. But the jarring, blunt impact sent a wave of pain through her arm and shoulder, reminding her to be a bit quicker next time. Fuck, he hits like a hammer. A living, angry, large hammer. Backpedaling, she reverses her blades and brings them to bear, and with a quick ‘one-two’ she lashes out at her attacker’s chest and face.
Meabh raised an eyebrow at the comment. Really? He’s dense enough to believe that? With a rueful grin, she settles back into her chair, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. The pub was small – luckily – and she could hear a no small amount of detail from the conversations around her. The discussion that held her attention at the moment was just behind her, between an older gentleman and a travel-worn young man, who by all appearances had been on the receiving end of a few too many bad days. He nursed a bottle of some imported ‘beer’, while listening intently to the aged man’s trumped-up tales of war-time glory. Downing what was left in her glass, Meabh rocks back in her chair, tilting it onto two legs. Smiling sweetly – or as sweet as she could muster – she addressed the younger man. Ask him the make and model of his rifle. I’ll bet anything he can’t tell you. She grins wolfishly at the stuttering man, waiting patiently for his answer.