crowder noun 1. to go overboard; overkill. “heard he shot ‘im dead at point blank range, burned the body, and then threw 'im in the ocean. he really Crowdered that son of a bitch.” rye. whiskey to you. thirty-eight. co-owner of forbidden vices. you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.
Sundays, late in the evening, his choice of gym (because he would haunt no other). This was their deal. Only he was running late due to a few crackheads setting up camp behind Vices, which definitely wasn’t about to happen if he had anything to say about it. He was an empathetic guy until his personal space was invaded; and lately they were multiplying like flies in a shit house. Nevertheless, he’d be dead before he missed Sundays.
“What kind of move was that?” He was a shadow beside the ring; a silent spectator of her fighting form until he couldn’t help but speak up. “I thought you liked boxing, Rye.”
SHE WAS HOLDING TIGHTER to the ropes, taking more frequent swings, bouncing side to side. Huddled hands occasionally connecting, often missing. With another short burst, she traded weight from her right to left foot. Then, in rapid succession: Rye, in typical fashion, went too fast, too soon. Tried to leap into a hit, aimed straight for the nose. Instead, got clocked neatly upside the head, her vision spinning as her eyes were forced, against their will, to refocus on the ground as it rose up to meet her. An easy mistake; something a foolhardy rookie might make. She was no rookie, and certainly not a fool.
“Watch it,” she cautioned him lightly, voice booming and authoritative even with the wind knocked out of it. Her hands were unsteady before her, shaking softly as she righted herself, not sparing so much as a glance in his direction. With mechanized precision, like a wind-up doll started anew, she resumed her position. “We’re going again,” Rye supplied levelly, already reawakening her limbs.
“APPROACH THAT ONE AT YOUR OWN RISK. SHE SHOULD COME WITH A CAUTION SIGN.” — A WISE BASTARD WHO LEARNED THE HARD WAY
BASIC INFORMATION.
FULL NAME: Virginia May Crowder — nicknamed NIA since childhood.
NICKNAME(S): To those who are familiar to her, RYE is her chosen name. Otherwise, she’s strictly WHISKEY or MS. WHISKEY (depending on how formal the situation is). To a lucky (very) few, she’s Nia. If she allows you to call her by her given name, you’re in.
AGE: Thirty-eight.
D.O.B.: March 7th, 1980.
HOMETOWN: Dertosa, California.
CURRENT LOCATION: Detrosa, California.
ETHNICITY: White (primarily Irish) on her father’s side. Black on her mother’s (Ethiopian).
NATIONALITY: American.
GENDER: Cisgender female.
PRONOUNS: She/her.
ORIENTATION: Bi(romantic/sexual).
RELIGION: None. There was no mention of God in her household, and she sees no reason in crawling to him on her knees now.
POLITICAL AFFILIATION: Independent, though she seldom participates in politics.
OCCUPATION: Co-owners of Vices (and, by extension, Forbidden Vices).
LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: Lives in a comfortable loft in the city. She likes the bustle, the energy, the noise, and would be hard pressed to give that up in favor of the seclusion of the suburbs. She grew up in a house with quite a bit of property, and she now associates the quiet with unnerving memories — namely, the one that got her father taken away from good.
LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: English, a small amount of Spanish.
ACCENT: The slightest hint of a Georgia twang, picked up because she mimicked her father when she was younger. Because she lived a relatively sheltered life, only exposed to California kids during school hours, she learned to speak like her Southern parents.
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.
FACE CLAIM: Ruth Negga.
HAIR COLOUR: A deep, near-black brown.
EYE COLOUR: Chocolate brown.
HEIGHT: A misleading 5′2 (her presence makes her appear much larger).
WEIGHT: A sinewy, muscled 120 lbs.
BUILD: Strong and sturdy, like a gymnast. Her muscles are short-twitch, compact, made for sprinting. She can pack one hell of a punch, and her kicks could definitely knock a jaw off its hinges. There’s nothing diminutive about her.
TATTOOS: None.
PIERCINGS: One in each ear.
CLOTHING STYLE: If she’s trying to project an air of professionalism, she’ll go for something simple but with a bit of flair — like a dark suit with a bold shirt underneath, or a classic suit in a vibrant color (since she doesn't mind some attention). Otherwise, girl vacillates between dresses and beanies, between jeans and a fringed motorcycle jacket and something a little more girly. Her Doc Martens and moto jacket are definitely her prized possessions, however.
USUAL EXPRESSION: Relatively neutral. She’s not an asshole right off the bat; more than anything, she’s efficient. She’s not going to waste time on small talk, and you better not waste hers.
DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: The beauty marks that spot her face, like a smattering of stars. The free way she walks, hips swinging. Her voice, which is loud and commanding without any effort. Her stare, which can morph from warm to ice-cold within seconds (a trick she inherited from her father).
HEALTH.
PHYSICAL AILMENTS: Only the occasional splits in her knuckles or pulled muscle from running or boxing (her two chosen exercises in order to remain strong enough to defend herself).
NEUROLOGICAL CONDITIONS: None.
ALLERGIES: Cats. Get those fuckers away from her.
SLEEPING HABITS: Consistently sleeps about five hours a night. There’s simply too much to be done, too many dreams that need capturing, too many ideas that need to be implemented. She can’t afford to waste nighttime hours — the day is short enough as it is.
EATING HABITS: Much more irregular. Often she foregoes meals in favor of something on-the-go, or something in liquid form (i.e: her favorite dark beer, or even a cabernet if she’s feeling fancy). However, she is partial to a good mac and cheese — her mother’s was her absolute favorite as a child.
EXERCISE HABITS: Runs six miles each morning, every day, without fail. Similarly, she tries to get a couple matches at the boxing gym, or at least knock a few out on a bag. She has a lot of frenetic energy, and a lot of aggression that she tries to keep at bay, so the physical activities are necessary parts of her day.
EMOTIONAL STABILITY: Rye probably ranks a 10/10 on emotional stability, whereas Nia herself is somewhere around an 8. She has her moments, but she generally manages to keep herself neutral, mild, and unaffected. In truth, she’s father sensitive about certain things, and she’s definitely got a soft interior when it comes to her fellow Drinks. She is joyful when around them, and loves to witness their happiness. Anything happens to them, and she’ll go into efficient Amy-Dunne-frame-a-motherfucker-for-my-murder mode. She’s capable of it, too.
SOCIABILITY: Rye is truthfully a social being, though that doesn’t necessarily extend to everyone. Again, it’s her fellow Drinks that she most prefers (and a select few in particular). Though she doesn’t necessarily tell them, she certainly demonstrates her love for them. She’s a total mama bear.
BODY TEMPERATURE: Despite all her energy, she’s usually cold. It’s like her body knew she would constantly be running around, covering this problem or that, and so gifted her with superhumanly cool blood in order to keep her from sweating profusely. When she’s stationary, her body goes into shock — it demands a blanket, heat, something. She likes to curl up around a fire.
ADDICTIONS: Does moving count? She can’t stop and sit still. Other than that, nothing. She doesn’t allow herself to get too addicted to anything — everything is okay in moderation.
DRUG USE: None, besides the occasional melatonin when her mind simply won’t cease buzzing.
ALCOHOL USE: Regular, but nothing excessive. Definitely not beyond the one-drink-a-night on average, despite her work.
PERSONALITY.
LABEL: The Ambitious, The Mafia Princess, The Pariah, The Loyalist.
GOALS/DESIRES: To continue to run Vices efficiently, providing a good working environment for her employees (and a positive experience for her customers). Additionally, she wants to expand business, make it even more of a spectacular — she has a few ideas about some underground operations, but she’s keeping that hush hush so far (until she can sway Moonshine over to her side — quite a feat)
FEARS: Failure.
HOBBIES: What are hobbies? Girl is always working.
HABITS: Picking at her cuticles. Absently gnawing on her lip. Leaning her head against her hand; cocking it sideways. Going glassy-eyed when someone bores her (she can’t help it!) Stopping people when she feels they’re wasting her time. Speaking bluntly, which can often come across as rude. Cutting to the chase. Smacking people who are close to her on the shoulder, or otherwise getting physical with them. Laughing too loud.
FAVOURITES.
WEATHER: A warm seventy-five degrees. Alternately, nighttime and storming. She loves a moody sky, smeared with dark blues and grays.
COLOUR: She doesn’t really have a favorite, but blue’s a good one. Purple, too.
MUSIC: Classic rock. Give her some Nirvana and she’s good to go.
MOVIES: The movies from her childhood. Other than that, she doesn’t really watch TV.
SPORT: Give her MMA and she’ll go hog-wild. She’s also partial to Basketball (go Golden State).
BEVERAGE: Despite her name, she rarely enjoys a whiskey. Instead, she’ll opt for a simple Belgian beer or a Cabernet.
FOOD: Mac and cheese. That is all.
ANIMAL: Dogs. She wants one of those fucking Labradoodle things in spite of herself.
FAMILY.
FATHER: Virgil Joe Crowder / Seventy-eight / Infamous Dertosa crime lord (currently imprisoned with over a dozen life sentences).
MOTHER: Aisha Dawit / Sixty / Housewife.
SIBLING(S): Julius Beau Crowder / Forty-three / who the hell knows? Not Nia.
CHLDREN: N/A.
PET(S): N/A.
FAMILY’S FINANCIAL STATUS: Wealthy and then, just as swiftly, impoverished.
