[attr="class","tbeapponetop2"]

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an exaggeration circled around the minds of those who dare humor the idea states that there are fifty, perhaps more, words for “snow” in eskimo. despite the fact that this is clearly false, the phrase “in eskimo” hardly even a specific narrowing, the people of lyeant can say that they, too, have fifty words for something as well known as frosty precipitation. fifty words for a certain woman by the name of lorelei ackermann, and none of them synonymous with anything nice. when once classifies themselves as a destroyer, after all, and and fills in the shoes of such a position with the perfect size, one would be a fool to expect anything pleasant falling from the lips of the people she has terrorized.[break][break]

to know the daughter of the ackermann family is to know fear. she is intimidation personified, six feet of perfect posture, furrows brows, and eyes that read of the hellfire she was born with and has learned to wield with deadly precision. when she stands beside you, she does so with the towering nature of a mountaintop, magnificent as it is daunting, and the moment she has laid eyes on you is the moment that she wills you to submit out of terror. words break, scare, and rebuild into a mold of submission; leadership, she knows, is not gained through sweetened blows and lollipop words, but through striking a stake of paranoia through the hearts of the maggots she wishes to govern over. her's is a presence that certainly invokes paranoia, as well, many a soul claiming that her sort of essence seemed to haunt the room long after she'd left, leaving people to cast weary glances over their shoulders as if to make sure she's not remained to wreck more havoc. even without speaking words, it is easy to tell that fear is her game, but the words that fall from her lips only serve to fan such terrifying flames – she does not sugarcoat threats, nor does she spare any soul for any reason. if she tells you the exact time and date of your death, as well as the method with which it is carried out, she does so in such a way that can have a person absolutely certain that she will attempt to make good on such words. and, while she has never likened herself to be an honest person, the odds are that she will make good on such words.[break][break]

the raven-haired woman is not strong in the sense of physical strength. she can be deadly with a sword in hand, having mastered such an art during time spent in isolation, but tact is what makes up for a lack of “burliness”. she's the sort of cut easily, bruise easily, and even if she will deny it to the end of the earth, sob easily over a broken limb. no, rather, her strength lays in her power of mind; her's is a willpower not so easily shaken, and where brawn may tear down a wall with might, her mind will tear down the rest of the city with little more than strategy. textbook definitions would label her as something of an idiot, seeing as she lacks any form of proper education, but the way in which she speaks and the method in which she can analyze a situation and concoct solutions for most anything certainly spit in the face of that. these are the skills taught with a childhood based on survival and an adulthood based on the vaporizing of a whole species – in her lifetime, it was necessary to master such things or be eaten by the world around her. and master them she did; always analyzing, always thinking. there are few times in which she is not taking in an area, a scenario, an anything and plotting ways with which to work it to her advantage. even if she is not under any sort of immediate threat, or even if there is nothing of gain to be found where she is, studying when there is idle time does well to cut down studying when someone is trying to do away with her head. while she would be slow to admit it aloud, though, a sad reality is that she is terribly forgetful, trying too often to store away more information than her mind can handle and having the bad fortune to lose the things that are important or would aid her in a campaign to make way for trivial things she may never even use. she's the sort to be tardy to most every meeting, if not entirely absent. agendas are a requirement to keep her on task – she'd likely forget to arrive at her own wedding if writings did not remind her to show – but even then, she has found such a combat to her pour retention of information far from foolproof.[break][break]

a frequently used “but” to characters who wallow in more negative traits than positive is that, once one has made it passed the character's outer shell, they can find a loyal, loving friend. to some extent, the same could be said with ms. ackermann – omit the “loving,” perhaps, as well as the time it would take to break passed “outer shells” and you have the loyalty that she possesses. lorelei is not a woman of shields; she does not act the way she does in order to protect some deep-rooted fear or a crippling lack of self worth. she is what she is on the surface, and one must only trod such a surface in order to earn her loyalty. she serves with a fervor, years spent at the head of the heinous team imum if only to fulfill the “final wishes” of a woman who left she and her fellow imum members to rot. she would, in fact, leap head first to take a blow meant for her admins hataro or felix, or generally put her own life at stake in place of that of an ally's. she wastes no time on mistrust, not because she is a gullible person, but because she knows that those who wish to deceive her will ultimately be the ones belly up when all is said and done. as such, even if she is working alongside someone of questionable means, she will submit everything she has to them and the things they must accomplish together, almost certain that she will be able to pick up any possible shards she may create in the aftermath. after all: only once has her loyalty placed in a false god led to her ruin, and taking into consideration all of the people she has served or fought alongside, this is a startlingly small number. under no circumstances, however, does she love, and while she may use herself as a meat shield in order to ensure that you live to see another dawn, never will she do so out of any semblance of affection. her heart lies buried with the younger sister she believes dead, and not since has she felt any sort of love for anything – platonic, romantic, or otherwise. this also, however, puts her in a spot that many would refer to as “merciless”; her lack of appreciation for human sentiments, alongside their lives makes her a horrifying force to be reckoned with. wrong her once and she will break you. let there be no doubt of that.[break][break]

pride. if one removes intimidation from the equation that equals this fiend, what they will find left in its place is pride. tall does she stand, feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders back, back as straight as a board, and even when posture is cast aside, the air that she presents rings true of the ambition she possesses. she is lorelei ackermann, and proud of that she is, and never will she allow anyone to think anything less of it than that. such pride, however, has led to many a downfall – namely the sort that prevents her from admission of weakness, or the asking for aid. she has lived most all of her life requiring the help of no man or woman, only succumbing to the fact that turning down the helping hand of a certain ms. valkyrie would ultimately lead to her death once, and has burned it into her brain that self-reliance is synonymous with survival by any definition. to break down and accept aid offered by another, by extension, would be synonymous with accepting the fact that she cannot survive with her skill alone, and if she could not make it out of a situation without need of another at that moment, nothing would stop her from falling in a similar situation when caught alone later in life. as such, she will fight to the end using only her own skills, only ever allowing someone else to help in the instance that she absolutely knows (or, at least, believes) that should be able to do the very same job herself. similarly, she will never openly admit to her shortcomings, knowing that if someone knew that breaking a rib would elicit tears from a destroyer such as herself would make her out to be less of a threat than she truly is. so does not cry. she has never loved. she is not forgetful, and she does not have a short temper. and, most of all, she is no puppet.

[attr="class","tbeapponebio2"]



In the days when the weather is warm and the food supply is low in their crumbling little house, she is occasionally sent outside to buy as much supplies as she could with so few funds. If she is especially lucky, the man running the flower shop will forget to switch off the little old television sitting near the glass windows near the front door. More so than that, however, if fortune truly chooses to grace her, she'll be able to press her face flush against the transparent planes and watch as images flash through the supposed magic box before her very eyes before someone catches her staring and runs after her with a broom.[break][break]

She remembers seeing a sharp-dressed man one time, as well as the word "rocket" plastered on the bottom of the news channel, but her blue eyes were particularly attracted to the pretty blonde woman standing in the background.[break][break]

Some nights, she dreams of being pretty just like her.

She stands outside the tiny building, hands shielding icy blue eyes and cheeks scrunched up against the cool glass on that autumn afternoon, straining to see the images paired with the sounds that she can hear through the thin walls. Obviously, it is interesting enough that the man has turned the gray box away from its usual spot and it staring at it so intently, he hasn't even noticed his little “guest”. Normally, she would have given up on it by now, but she was lucky enough to have heard the name “Rocket” through the static of the television and was instantly flooded with thoughts of the blonde-haired woman. Desperate to know more, she chose to put herself at risk if only to better understand the situation. According to what she can hear and the few things she catches with her sharp eyes, she predicts that the organization has fallen at the hands of a valiant hero in Kanto (so, so far away from her home in Veherna, is it not?) and that the Association has been doing their best to crack down on any remains of the organization in question.[break][break]

She wonders if they caught the pretty woman that has plagued her mind for so long.[break][break]

She turns tail and flees for home, tears threatening to fill her eyes as she tears herself away from horrible news from the man's evil box.[break][break]

That night, when she sits at the table with her parents and sister, she asks about Team Rocket and her world is plunged into silence. By now, she's old enough to know that it's louder than any spoken word could ever be. (She doesn't bring it up again.)

There are glass shards everywhere – littering the floorboards, embedded in the carpet – and if they had neighbors, she is sure one of them would have called the police due to noise pollution from the vicious screaming coming from both mother and father. At this point, she is not entirely sure of what they are shouting about. Honestly, it sounds more like animalistic noise than honest human language, but this is probably due to the fact that she is so scared, her pants are beyond soiled and she's been trying so, so, so hard to shut everything up that every noise around her is nothing more than a loud blur of every conceivable sound all at once. If her ear drums survive to see another day, she will get down on her knees and pray to every deity she has ever heard of but never allowed herself to believe in. She would run (should run, should run, she's been cut on the head and she's pretty sure she'd bleeding out and -) but there's one factor that keeps her within the confines of the house.[break][break]

If only she could find her.[break][break]

It has taken her a total of approximately fifteen minutes of walking, running, crawling, and finally dragging herself across the floor before she finally finds herself face to face with a familiar russet haired girl, even younger than she herself, shaking in the corner with her head buried in the space between her knees and her chest. She is dizzy, but the need to keep her sister safe at all costs beats out the monochrome fog threatening to take over her brain. She drags herself over to the young girl, wrapping her arms and body around the smaller frame and whispering, “Sh, Frieda, sh... it's... it's gonna be o-okay...” in her ear before exhaustion takes over and the world crashes into a tidal wave of darkness.[break][break]

When she wakes up, her head is bandaged and her father is gone.

She is twenty-one years old when she watches the light fade from Frieda's eyes and she knows, knows that there is nothing left. Her sister, her friend, her everything has been ripped away from her by a demon known as illness, having taken her mother in the passed year as well, and she is certain now more than ever that the Ackermann name is to wither and die before she is to reach the age of twenty-two. Her immune system is not that of a beast, after all, and no pair of shoulders, much less her own fragile ones, would be able to carry the weight of an empty household made all the heavier by the ghosts of monsters and men deceased. She plans to run, she imagines, run as far from Veherna City as she can and die so far from the place everything went to the Distortion World that maybe, just maybe, when she dies, she won't even be able to remember any of it.[break][break]

She spends one last night under the leaky roof, however, her younger sister's cold, unmoving body clutched tightly in her hands as she dreams of blonde-haired women, of the freedom of Pokemon, and a chance to be anywhere that wasn't here.[break][break]

In the morning, she covers the little girl's head in the only blanket to spare and kisses her last shreds of insanity (and herself) goodbye.[break][break]

(And when she runs, she meets a very stern lady with pretty blonde hair who knows her as “Oberan's daughter” and offers her a chance to live.[break][break]

As much as her heart says no because Oberan, her father, the one whose lap she'd sit on while he read them bedtime stories when she was little was a bad, bad man, she accepts because she's dreamed of this woman for so long and she'd give her heart and soul just to be able to reach out and touch her if only to make sure she wasn't dreaming once more.)

She calls Nymah master because she looks up to her in ways that she has never looked up to anyone ever before. She is more of a mother figure than her sickly old mother. She is more of a father figure than her traitorous old man. To label her as either of those typical titles would almost be degrading to her majesty and the impact she has held on so many, especially the brown-haired prodigy scrambling up the ranks she has discovered were once scrambled up by her wicked father. As a slave is forced to do for its master, she obeys every single command given to her, albeit with the enthusiasm as a puppy has doing a new trick for its owner. She would do anything to please her. She would even end her own life on the spot if it were to better the cause of the person who saved her life years back. To slip up on any conceivable level would be utter chaos for her and the dependency to please she's built up in her mind.[break][break]

But no person is perfect and she is no exception.[break][break]

Her mission is to capture the heir of the Sylph Company, the young man – even younger than herself – who is visiting the region in hopes of putting up branches of the massive company onto a new frontier. He is to be brought alive, held for ransom, and returned without a hair plucked from his head should the required sum of money be met. She is careless, however; lets him slip out of her sight for only a few moments. When she turns, she only sees what is left of him. A few moments was apparently all it had taken to cross boundary of life and death. She pinches herself multiple times – sixteen, exactly, but who is to be counting? - in a useless attempt to wake herself from this nightmare, slaps herself, hits her head on the wall so hard and in such repetition that, when she carries his limp frame back to base bridal style, she is swift to passing out before Nymah's door.[break][break]

She sobs uncontrollably to her master, not in fear of death, but because she has failed. She cries until her eyes no longer have anymore salty liquids to produce, and continues to weep dryly until her throat is sore and her hair is pulled to snap her out of her trance. One of the admins tells her she is to be tested if she is to prove her utmost loyalty, to which she bobs her head like an imbecile and begs forgiveness through a rough voice. Anything to prove herself, anything to make her master pleased again, anything.[break][break]

(That night, they fasten the noose around her neck and pull the box out from under her feet.[break][break]

The next morning, a straggler finds three dead bodies tossed lazily across the ground and an empty noose tied up in a tree overhead.)[break][break]

When she returns to headquarters the next morning, tired, but otherwise unscathed, the admin blinks at her in shock, dipping his head in respect to her as she cuts her way through to Nymah's office to ask if all has been forgiven.[break][break]

But of course she is.[break][break]

(She goes to bed with burns across her wrist and arms that sting for months to come, swiftly replaced by identical red marks when the initial pain and color begins to fade before she has re-payed her crimes to Imum. She gladly accepts her punishment; anything to have her name in the clear once more.)[break][break]

She always was Nymah's favorite.

When she was called down to the leader's office that morning, she wasn't entirely sure of what to expect; certainly not the tomfoolery she received. The blonde who sits before her claims that she has done so well for so many years, gushing that the organization needs more people like her to help it keep going. However, she continues. However. The twenty-six-year-old nearly chokes right then, thinking that she has messed up, that she has made her master displeased, that she is to hang once more and doesn't think she can slip out of that noose so easily this time and – However, she is young. She is young and there is one thing left for her to do should she ever become an admin of the organization. What the older woman's words imply send a wonderful flood of relief washing through her and she nearly weeps in joy right there, bowing so low on the floor her head touches the hard, gray stone below them and thanks her until she can't hear herself saying those two words anymore.[break][break]

But then she hears her mission and she nearly chokes on her own words.[break][break]

(Needless to say, they cease tumbling out of her mouth.)[break][break]

Not a week has passed before she finds herself in a small, single story home in the swiftly growing Irisia Town, pale hands rat-tat-tating against the wooden plane that makes the door. Only a few moments of absolute silence before the door is being swung open from the inside, a short female nearly ten or twenty years older than herself looking up at her in slight confusion and a slight sense of deja vu.[break][break]

(Mother always told her she looked like her father.)[break][break]

She hates this woman immediately.[break][break]

(Mother also told her to not trust men.)[break][break]

She wastes no time shoving her way in, slamming the door shut, and making use of the knife hidden in her pocket.[break][break]

(Mother told her that they lie.)[break][break]

Deeper into the house she goes, swinging open the door to their child's room, the boy not even three years of age if she had to assume, but she hates him, too. Hates him, hates him, hates him.[break][break]

As she digs the blade into the back of his head, she thinks angrily that he would never have been a real Ackermann, anyway.[break][break]

(Mother told her that they steal.)[break][break]

She searches the entire home, finding it entirely empty, but she is not quick to give up the hunt for her real target. She sits in his living room, pondering if he is out of the house at that moment and when he will come back if he is. If he had made some sort of daring escape – more plausible, especially considering that would involve him leaving his wife and son in the hands of a murderer – she could always find him after a few hour's wait and a cup of tea.[break][break]

(But most of all -)[break][break]

When he opens the door and hangs his spring jacket up on one of the hooks at the front door, he is surprised at how quiet and clean it is. Needless to say, he is even more surprised when he sees his daughter, standing in his living room, icy blue eyes seemingly staring into his soul and the dead bodies of his only other family clutched by the hair in her hands. They stand still for a moment, him staring in horror and she sipping on vanilla chai before he starts to move in the opposite direction.[break][break]

(Mother told her they cheat.)[break][break]

Fifteen minutes later, the woman and child are hung from the blades of a ceiling fan within the home, the husband and father hung between them, body unrecognizable due to the abundance of knife wounds litering his chest, limbs, and face.

She is woken at an ungodly time of the night in the midst of a light slumber one evening when one of the more recent grunts comes tumbling into her room, dark hair ruffled, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and eyes giving away his nervousness. He tells her quietly that Nymah wishes to speak with her and slinks into the darkness from which he came, almost shameful as though he has done something wrong. She only ponders whatever could be the matter for a moment, though. (He was always a shifty little boy, almost as though he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to be there.) When Nymah calls, there is nothing to do but clean your schedule and prepare for the best and worst all at the same time.[break][break]

When she knocks on the door and no one answers, she shoves her way inside and receives both the best and the worst at the same time.[break][break]

Nymah is gone. For good, actually. The dark room is as organized and tidy as it always is, always had been, and always would be, but the lack of the blonde-haired woman usually sat at the chair behind the mahogany desk is unnerving at best. She stands in the middle of her room for an hour, pondering if she is out as her father had been almost three years prior, but as the early hours fade into the average morning times, she starts to wonder how long it will be before the woman returns. It is then that a note on the dark, wooden desk catches her eye and – she would never snoop, she swears – but she can see her name written in something between chicken scratch and beautiful cursive handwriting and her hand snatches the envelope off the desk so fast, she nearly hurts her hand when recoiling. Icy blue eyes flutter over the lined paper's message once. Twice. Three times. She can't believe the nonsense that is being spewed from such simple words; thinking she is tired and this must be a dream, she stumbles back into her own separate admin suite and lays down on her sheets, letter clutched firmly in her hands as she tries to fathom what is going on.[break][break]

Hataro (cold, strong, almost as loyal as herself and the first person she could ever even remotely call a friend) pokes his head into her room after twelve o'clock has slipped them by, worried for her safety and shrugs the slumbering lady awake. She reads over the letter again and groans; it has not changed.[break][break]

“Where is Nymah?” she asks almost too bitterly.[break][break]

“I heard that she went out this morning for supplies; I would have figured she'd be back by now, though. Why?”[break][break]

She hands him the letter, covering her eyes with an arm draped over them limply as he scans it over himself.[break][break]

“You don't honestly think she's left, do you?”[break][break]

“I hope to Arceus she hasn't.”[break][break]

“And if she has -”[break][break]

“If she has, then I suppose there's going to be quite the battle for power going on around head quarters.”[break][break]

“But she specifically said you were heir to the Imum name right here. They'd never challenge Nymah's words.”[break][break]

“No, but they would challenge mine. It would be easy to forge her handwriting, kill her off, and attempt take her place.”[break][break]

They sit in silence for a moment because they both know she's right; even if they were to broadcast the contents of the note left on the blonde's desk to the entirety of the organization, only a fraction would believe it. And, even then, only a subset of those who did would be able to accept it. Few would be able to hold her as accountable to the word of their now-former leader, save for the only two members who spoke with her aside from when it was necessary, so even if she was the rightful successor, there was only a small chance she'd ever be able to claim the title.[break][break]

“I would fight for you.” The male's deep voice in the midst of a long stretch of silence was nearly enough to make her jump – though she rarely elicited outward reactions to anything, these days – when he repeated, “I would fight for you. Felix would, too.”[break][break]

A breath of hopelessness fell from her lips as she responded, “And I thank you both for that. Sadly, I don't believe there will be any need; if it comes down to battle, I'd rather not get involved.”[break][break]

“Of course.” After a brief pause, the dark-haired man changes topics. “I have some lunch waiting for you if you wanted it. I figured you would be hungry, spending all morning in here.”[break][break]

“My gratitude, Hataro.”[break][break]

(Three months later, brown locks drenched in blood and flailing wildly in the violent breeze that bite at their flesh, she stands above the limp body of the only person left fighting for the title. In her hands, she grips the flag pole tightly that had impaled him through the diaphragm and she relishes in watching him struggle for a few moments longer before falling still at her hands.[break][break]

When she returns to the base, she drags his limp corpse across the polished tiles below her, not even caring as his blood scribbles a line all the way across the building as she calls the organization for a meeting in the spot that her predecessor had held so many before her. When they gather, standing below her in a confused mass of people, wondering what could possibly be the meaning of this, she tosses her collection of bodies down on their heads and watch as they scream, trying not to touch the blood stained, rotted flesh, and exposed bones.[break][break]

With a voice not her own, she speaks.[break][break]

And when she speaks, they finally listen.)

Sometime between the bombing on Neurift City and the dumping of nuclear waste on Ishya Town, she sniffs out disloyal scum lurking in her ranks. For weeks, she does not know who, does not know if she's even right or not, but time proves to be her ally – if only for a moment – and she trains her ice cold stare on a young man of an elite position in the murderous organization. For nearly three years, now, he has been working as a solo double agent, trying to learn the secrets of the team and use them against them from the inside. She thinks, bemused, that the most crucial secret he failed to learn was that nothing escapes her eyes; nothing at all. She watches him for a month outside of anyone's knowledge, filming his missions and work around the base and scowling at his blatant lack of loyalty to the cause. To Nymah's cause. She dodges two assassination attempts and returns for round two on a massive acid trip for Ishya (relishes in the way everything burns and grows giddy when her scientists tell her it will be uninhabitable for generations to come) when she finally makes her move, sneaking into the room that he stays in at night and knocking him out cold with a crow bar.[break][break]

The faction is called to gather in the main room and curious eyes turn to watch as her admins – Hataro, Felix – march the fool down each and every hall. His chestnut hair has been shaved, his skin torn and freshly bleeding with the knife wounds from words she has carved into the canvas of his chest and back, clothes in tatters, but olive eyes still burning with a passion she could never hope to quench. It does not matter, though. He will soon be just another limp body hanging from the trees outside of their seemingly invisible base. She grins maliciously, once blank features having taken on the facial expressions more akin to a maddened beast in the horror novels she sometimes takes inspiration from as she stares down at her latest piece of fresh meat. They lead him to a halt on the raised platform in the middle of the rooms. All eyes are on him as they stand him above the retreating floor, fresh noose brushing against the back of his neck.[break][break]

“Matthew Burke,” she practically sings, voice louder than if she had just been addressing him. Of course, she has to put on a show for the spectators. “You have been accused of treason against the power of Team Imum. All evidence points to these claims being true. Have you anything to say for yourself before you are put to death for these crimes?”[break][break]

He raises his head, leaf eyes meeting ice ones and the fire of hope and heroism flickers out to be replaced by a desolate smoke of utter hatred. She licks her lips, finding the falter of his ambition absolutely wonderful. “... Go to the Distortion World,” he growls angrily and she laughs, Mightyena cackle echoing off the walls of the room until she's out of breath and leaning over the balcony on which she stands.[break][break]

Gasping for breath and still suppressing giggles, she counters, “That's what I'm aiming for.” A pause; a sweep of her gaze. “Get on with it, you two. If he's not going to stand up for himself, I suppose that is simply his loss. We don't have time for whelps like him here.” He doesn't struggle as Felix takes the rope and slips it carefully over the traitor's head, each move practiced and calculated. The crowd erupts into chants of what she assumes are the words “hang him” before she has no choice but to feed their hungry desires for blood lust and gives the signal, watching the last chance for rebellion within their walls die has his body is jerked downward toward the floor by gravity.[break][break]

The chanting does not cease, however, as she would have expected when the spectacle is all over. Instead, her own pleasure at a job well done is reflected in the men and woman under her and, before she knows what is happening, it is her name that is rippling through the mass of people, raising until the volume is deafening. They never cheered this way for Nymah, she thinks. Only for her. Something tingles in her toes, claws up her legs and sits heavy in her heart; but it is far from an uncomfortable feeling. In fact, she welcomes it with open arms.[break][break]

Lorelei wonders if this is what power truly feels like.[break][break]

(When the brunette watches the men and women who dedicated their lives to her cause executed and imprisoned, however, while she herself has remained unharmed as she has for decades, she thinks that she has been strong all along. And, even as Imum collapses in on itself at the hands of the rebellion that sprung up because of it, no soul will ever be able to quell the splendor that is Lorelei Ackermann.[break][break]

She turns on her heel, back turned to the land she once had wrapped around her finger, and disappears into the uncharted woods beyond.[break][break]

In her mind, she already knows she'll return.)

[attr="class","tbeapponebot2"]PLAYED BY LEAP

[attr="class","tbeapponebot3"]