Character Name: Maeve Morgan Murrough
Nickname: Maeve, May
Age: Twenty-six
Gender: Female
Grade: Teacher
Subject: Forensics, Latin
Race: Water Dragon
Play-by: Kristin Kreuk
Appearance:

Maeve stands at five feet, four inches; every bit toned and ready for action. Her eyes are a muddy brown thanks to contacts to hide the true green-blue hues of her eyes. A brunette, she comes across as a hard ass ready to take someone down at a moment's notice should they cause trouble. Her skin is lightly tanned, but often borders on being pale. She is a compact one hundred and twenty-five pounds, but don't let her light weight fool you, for she can put a full grown man on his ass in less than a second should he prove a threat. All in all, she tries to keep her features toned down so as not to draw attention to herself.
An intricate dragon tattoo adorns her back, though it is not of inked origins. Born with the mark, it grew as she did. The limbs of the creature are thin, the length of its body slender as well. The colors are rather similar to a peacock's feathers, each scale glittering with the same iridescent sheen. The tattoo's eyes are the same green-blue of her natural eye color, glowing brightly whenever she feels most threatened. Blues, greens, and purples are grace the design, but it is more than just a pretty intricacy.
The tattoo - if it can even be called that - is a representation of the dragon that usually lies dormant within herself. It moves along her spine, sometimes traveling so far as to wrap around her arms or extend its long tail around her legs to stretch. It is at moments like these that Maeve is most at risk of exposure, for the beast is close to the surface. She is not only Beauty, but the Beast as well. Unlike others of her race, her dragon is not a shy, meek creature.
As a Water Dragon, Maeve has no conscious control. For all intents and purposes, she dies and is taken over. The Dragon is at least thirty feet in length, its body long and slender rather than the more bulky representations of European cultures. Height-wise, it stands at ten feet from clawed feet to the top of its head. A fin-like crest adorns the Dragon's head, fanning out like a crown to frame cold, glittering eyes and razor like teeth. Its scales are resistant to metal, yet pliant as the peacock's feather with which it shares appearances. It does not roar as one would imagine. It isn't at all like a lion, but rather similar to the Barn Owl's scream. It is a harsh, splitting sound that can shatter glass if the pitch is high enough. The Dragon has little regard for things Maeve may care for. When it takes over, it is the one in charge, making the decisions.

Dragon Reference, Scale reference

Personality:

Paranoid: With good reason. It has kept her alive for the better part of her life and she'd be a fool to break the habit now. Maeve is rarely caught off guard, and when she is, she reacts rather poorly. Her first instinct is to defend herself in whatever way she can and she'll only offer a cold apology in return for any who surrender and none at all for those he act out in anger. She is always carrying.

Secretive: A requirement for the way her life has turned out. Maeve does not share much about herself at all, offering little to conversations centered around her. No one has ever been invited to herself, much less passed any farther than through the driveway. Even deliveries are carefully inspected and Maeve treats each as a potential security threat.

Standoffish: Maeve isn't good with people. She prefers them as far from her person as physically possible and is hardly inviting when it comes to conversation. Her tone is clipped and precise, as she would like people to move on as quickly as possible.

Controlled: She needs to feel in charge of a situation. If another has the wheel, Maeve feels threatened and must take over. Relying on others had only ever caused trouble for her, so she relies only on herself. Leaning on another is not acceptable for her, though she thinks it is perfectly normal for others. She doesn't see herself as normal.

Passionate: Latin is a hobby, but forensics is her passion. When it comes to her work with forensics, Maeve can talk on and on for miles. Her background begs her to teach the course to the best of her abilities, encouraging the younger generation to never cut corners and to be absolutely certain in their technique, for lives could be saved. But work isn't the only thing she is passionate about. Her dog, Barton, is the only constant in her life for the past few years. The large Irish Wolfhound is the only one she can talk for hours to without worry, the only one she could be herself around. For him, she would risk even death.

Survival Instincts: Like no other, she has a powerful will to live. Whether it stems from wanting to eventually have justice for her father or just that being on the run puts things in perspective, Maeve will uproot her life in order to keep safe.

Second Skin: For all the control Maeve has over herself, there is one factor she cannot control. Her dragon. Unlike shifters and werewolves and the like, she has no control over her other half. When the dragon takes over, her consciousness disappears. If ever she'd made a friend and the dragon came alive when they were around, there'd be no telling if said friend would die a cruel death or live to tell of the tale. The only people the beast could recognize on instinct were her parents. With their demise, there was no one to keep it in check. Her dragon is not typical for her species. It does not follow the laws of the ocean. It chooses to sleep rather than remain present most of the time, luckily for her. Maeve can easily be mistaken for human until the day the beast envelops her.

Frightened Child: Hard to blame someone who'd been on the run for so many years. She'd been but a child when unspeakable terrors had happened, and a part of her still remained that terrified little girl in the hallway of her old home. The control, the cold shoulder, the standoffish behavior? All of it is to protect that scared child inside her.

Brave: One would have to be with a life like hers, no? And yet, she doesn't see herself as such. The steps she takes are out of necessity. This must be done to live. That must be done to survive. Nowhere in the calculation does she see a factor of bravery. Staying alone, keeping to herself, hiding away the secrets she knew of a man who'd done more wrong than any she knew? It wasn't bravery in her eyes. It was required.

History:

Witnessing a murder is hard enough. Having to stand on the stand against a powerful man who'll stop at nothing to see to it you won't live until the day of trial? That's worse. And yet, Maeve lived with it. Except back then, she'd been known as Carrie Reinstorf.

She'd been hardly more than sixteen when she'd seen the brutal murder of her father. He'd taken to dealing with dangerous people to help take care of her after her mother had died the year before; the kind of people everyone knew to avoid. But people did what they had to in order to make ends meet. Ends just hadn't been meeting like Carrie and her father had needed them to. They hadn't been meeting like Kriton Volkov had wanted them to either. And when the big man wasn't happen, heads rolled. Usually, cronies were sent after his dirty work. But the man on top himself came down to their small home.

Carrie had been in the hallway, quiet as a mouse, when the door was busted in. Her first instinct had been to scream or just run. Neither happened and she'd been glued to her spot. She watched from the dark hall as her father was shot multiple times in the head. Listened in mortal terror as Kriton gave orders over the phone to several members of a dangerous corporation that had been running the city for years, despite police officials' efforts to prove any wrong-doing.

Apparently her father had never mentioned her existence to Kriton. Surely his face wouldn't have been so shocked when he turned to see her frozen there. His face was handsome, eyes almost kind. But Carrie knew they were tools he used to get his way. Too smart to let herself be killed in the same brutal way her father had been, the young dragon had run.

Kriton pursued her down the hall, coming short as her door was slammed in his face and quickly locked. The powerful man set to ramming it down, and the old hinges wouldn't hold for long. Not wasting time, Carrie leaped from her window, rolling to absorb the hard hit to the ground a story below. Her arm had broken on impact, but fear had her shoving to her feet despite the agony. She'd fled as fast as she could, her insides shaking while tears streamed down her face.

Controlling the sobs was difficult, but necessary. She'd run into the woods, hoping to find refuge there and not bring about danger to her neighbors. They were such lovely people and didn't deserve such a tragedy to be brought upon their doorsteps. And Carrie had no doubt if Kriton caught up, he'd only kill them, too.

There had been a close call. He'd almost found her hiding place when she finally did stop. But he'd moved on, hearing something racing off into the woods in fear. Carrie had kept her spot for what felt like eternity, though it couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes. When she was certain the coast was clear, she began running again.

She stumbled into the police station, her words a steady stream. She listed off names well-known. Well despised. It didn't take much for them to believe her. The ball was set and rolling into motion. Witness Protection had enveloped her quickly, giving her a new name and new identity without falter. They moved safe houses often. Those in charge of her safe keeping had become family. They were the only ones she could look towards for guidance. Her schooling continued through online sources, but it took painstaking efforts to keep her concealed until the day the trial was set.

Somewhere along the way, things had gone wrong. Horribly, inexplicably wrong.

There were shouts. Screams. Pattering of gunfire. She'd heard her name called, along with the order. Run.

She was off again. She didn't dare find the police. They couldn't protect her. Highly trained men approved for protection hadn't been able to. No one could.

Not lacking in intelligence, especially gifted with computers, Carrie had made a new identity for herself. Over the course of several years, she'd had twenty names. When finally any news of her had died down for good, the man responsible for her father's death free due to no witness available, Carrie had settled down. She took a new name. A new life. It was time to start anew.

Maeve Morgan Murrough. It had been inspired from her mother's Irish roots. She knew it was foolish to use such a connection, but if this was to be her new life, she deserved some type of connection. She'd finished school, got several degrees. She kept her head down, didn't draw attention with awards. Any she was nominated for, she quietly contacted and turned down. She couldn't afford any kind of limelight.

With her life beginning to level out some, Maeve finally began to breathe easier. So says the extensive security system she has for her home in the woods surrounded by acres of land not accessible other than through the driveway which was carefully surveyed through cameras. So says the Glock pistol in her nightstand. The 9mm in the drawer beside the fridge. The 45mm in the bathroom. The hunting knife in the spare bedroom. The shotgun behind the door in the foyer. And various other weapons, all of which she knew as intimately as she knew her body. So says the big ass Irish Wolfhound who had enough bark to deter any curious visitors that didn't require a gun in the face.

Though Maeve felt certain her identity was safe, breaking the habits that had kept her alive so long was not easy. Any unexplained noises in the middle of the night were thoroughly investigated. Her locks were triple checked each time she came in the house. To say she was meticulous was underestimating things.

She had no friends. She'd never had time for them. Making them was dangerous. Even now, she didn't bother. She had a job which could be considered relatively safe. Teaching couldn't be too bad. Even if they were a bunch of supernaturals. Hell, she knew how that went. Though her power was rarely tapped, she could understand how teens would struggle with keeping their in check along with the raging hormones.

She'd snatched the job up, figuring there'd be no place better for her. If some human with a gun wanted to track her down, she was surrounded by people with powers far better than a gun could keep down.

Maeve kept her own powers secret. Kriton hadn't known of the intricate dragon tattoo on her back. She'd never let anyone save for her family know about it. It wasn't just a tattoo. It moved. Whenever she felt threatened, it practically writhed. She couldn't allow the beast to take over. Ever. Whenever it took over, she went someplace else. Control didn't exist. She was as much a prisoner as those around her were victims. Maeve could only hope the dragon felt those in her proximity were in its good graces.

Name: Vet
Your Age: 22
Other Characters:

Crispin Rhys Russell

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