P E C A D O R; @contritusx-blog - Tumblr Blog

ooc,

if anyone wants to, reblog or if it lets you, reply to this with your personal or 1x1 blog so we can keep in touch and all that jazz, that includes all of you!

presidentberkeley

boo

fedlust

yoooooo

contritusx-blog

friends, i am down to keep writing w these characters? i would love to explore zita (and all your chars) with all of you?

main and 1x1

♞ : Does your muse have a strict honor code?

♧ : Is fate something your muse believes in?

✍ : Have your muse say what their motto in life is (or if they don't have one, have them think about it).

⚁ : Does your muse agree that "fortune favors the brave"?

✞ : Is your muse religious? Which religion do they follow, if any?

☁ : Nietzsche said that "hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man". How does your muse feel about that?

⚖ : Does your muse believe in reincarnation? An afterlife?

✌ : Is your muse a pacifist? To what degree?

♛ : If your muse were a ruler, how would they use their power?

❤ : Plato said that “love is a serious mental disease”. What does your muse think of that?

☞ : Would your muse call out someone who does something bad on a busy street?

♫ : Lots of philosophers talk about the significance of music. What does music mean to your muse?

♡ : Would your muse sacrifice themselves or their time/money to help someone else in need? Or would they mind their own business?

✿ : Does your muse feel a strong connection to any of the seasons? Why?

✧ : What does your muse think the meaning of life is?

#ask meme;

novacrp

TEREZA DOLOR TELLER

USED NAME(S): Zita

DATE OF BIRTH/AGE: July 8th, 1970 / 34 years old

GENDER & SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Cisgender bisexual demiromantic

FACECLAIM: Rosario Dawson

WEAPON(S): M16 rifle; M7 bayonet.

POSITIVE: Pragmatic, protective, self-sacrificing, adaptable, compassionate.

NEGATIVE: Self-loathing, socially awkward, obsessive, dependent, volatile.

All that Zita had owned had come from Iñigo. As soon as she could walk, their mother left Zita in his hands, leaving a fifteen-year-old alone to raise his half-sister. He’d bought a new name, one that didn’t speak of the dirt they came from: Teller. Her given name had come from him, in the hopes her holy name would keep her safe: Tereza. Dolor, he added, to mark the beginning of their sadness. She had been a burden from the day she was born, and Iñigo never let her forget it. Resentment and love marked Zita’s scuffed shoes and knobby knees. Every Sunday, they went to church, where everyone watched the tall brown boy and little brown girl with eyes like knives, as if even the Lord, in his infinite mercy, would renounce them. At home, Iñigo fed her, sent her to a school ‘too good for the likes of them.’ Never a word of affection from him, but she grew up wanting little but love. Zita spoke little, became an easy target among children who’d searched for a scapegoat, for one sorrier than they. In time she learned to raise her fists, to let her knuckles speak where her tongue could not, and their fear kept her safe.

Still, seeds of love grew in the barren land of Zita’s heart. She cradled broken wings in her calloused hands, found sanctuary and purpose in caring for something other than herself. Their home became home to creatures who needed it, but humans rarely dared to enter, afraid of Zita’s dark eyes and explosive anger. Iñigo, all the while, dreamed of being a doctor, of something beyond the odd jobs he’d taken to keep the two of them afloat. Zita had no ambition beyond making her brother smile, proving herself not useless. The inner city taught her its ways, and she began to work underground at the same age he’d been when he’d taken her, leaves traded for paper, saving up to send her brother to college. Before Iñigo could find out, he was caught in the crossfire of a gang war. She broke tombstones at his funeral.

In the aftermath, she discovered that his dream was her own. She used the money she’d saved up to go to college, though everyone scoffed to see such a brute want to heal. Though she loved him fiercely, Iñigo’s death had freed her; for the first time, she felt she could grow. As soon as she graduated, Zita applied for med school in another state, in Louisiana, where she could be someone new. There were moments when her anger had gotten the better of her, but she’d kept on, through the long tests and sleepless nights. On her residency, however, she was involved in a freak accident, and her supervisors – already suspicious of her – only begrudgingly allowed her to practice medicine. They spread rumours of her heavy hands, and Zita could hear the voice of her brother, yelling at her in a moment of weakness, screaming what she’d known all this time: she was useless.

She found little work as a doctor, certainly not enough to sustain herself. Too tired to move elsewhere, she worked as a medical technician in the lab, far removed from what she wanted to do. The apocalypse was a blessing, though even Zita, who’d seen many unspeakable things, felt her stomach turn at the first site of the zombies. Raw panic gave way to the need to survive; she had long grown used to keeping her emotions at bay. Luna followed her from one of the empty houses she’d looted, and the big dog had been Zita’s only joy until she’d met them.

They were all she’d been searching for, the Iñigo she’d wanted, the god she’d prayed to. At the precise moment she felt she could have laid down and let her spirit leave the earth, they came: the Prophet, the blessed one. She swore allegiance to them, protected them with her life. They were her salvation, the breath of life and truth. She would be the priest at their altar, would break bones to follow them. Though Zita does not know what lies ahead, she is secure in the knowledge they are with her, and that she may glimpse paradise.

the PENITENT is TAKEN by RACHEL / GMT+8.

#about;#biography;

veronicamars

ladies meme » eight lady medical workers 3. claire temple

#images;

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

P E C A D O R;