IsabellaRose

If you hear purring before you see her, don’t panic... that’s just Kitty. She’ll probably be in a compromising situation when you first encounter her, beneath the table peeking up at you from between your legs, hanging from a rooftop by her fingertips, bent over a railing with a wolf anthro balls deep in her from behind, or somehow entangled in a situation that looks about as wildly scandalous as it actually is. Be aware that she didn’t plan it. She never plans it. It just… happens. Kitty is a young woman who refuses to grow boring. She likes her cat ears and her fake tail. She likes attention, flirting, fucking, and the freedom to enjoy her own body, as well as the bodies of others, without apology. Once upon a very bad night involving heartbreak, humiliation, and one poorly timed phone call, Kitty fell (emotionally first, physically second) into a world filled with monsters, anthropomorphic hybrids, and creatures who take everything far too literally. Here, her playful persona reads less like a quirk and more like prophecy. Some think she’s a trickster spirit, others think she’s a temptress, some believe she's an avatar of divine eroticism, and a few are convinced she’s a curse. She insists she’s just a girl having a weird week. But she can't deny the changes that have happened since she arrived. She can't take her ears off anymore, and now they twitch now when she’s embarrassed. Her tail seems to be part of her and sways when she's annoyed. Her purr is uncontrollable and signals genuine affection... though she’ll deny that part if you ask directly. The line between costume and reality has blurred, and Kitty isn’t entirely sure whether she’s becoming something more… or finally becoming herself. She is bold. She is curious. She is usually in over her head. She believes pleasure isn’t shameful, affection shouldn’t come with ownership, and adulthood does not require surrendering joy. But beneath the teasing grin and black lingerie, she’s still learning the difference between being desired and being valued. If you meet her, expect chaos, misunderstandings, and very likely some no-strings-attached sex. And if she knocks something valuable off a table while maintaining eye contact? That part is absolutely intentional.

Violetta is good at two things: killing and fucking, and she seems to approach each with the same emotionless efficiency. PbtA STATS: Cool +3 | Hard -1 | Hot +2 | Sharp 0 | Weird -1 BATTLEBABE MOVES ICE COLD: when you go aggro on an NPC, roll +cool instead of roll +hard. When you go aggro on another player’s character, roll +Hx instead of roll +hard. MERCILESS: when you inflict harm, inflict +1harm. BATTLEBABE SPECIAL: If you and another character have sex, nullify the other character’s sex move. Whatever it is, it just doesn’t happen. GEAR big semiautomatic shotgun (4-harm close messy) handle w/ long blade (3-harm hand) oddments worth 4-barter showy body armor worth 2-armor BIO Violetta was not raised, she was forged. The warlord who took her in as a youth believed feline mutants were the purest weapons left in the world, quick, graceful, and precise. She was collared and taught to obey without hesitation, to kill without trembling, and to use her body as fluidly as her blade. Affection was leverage. Pleasure was currency. Submission was survival. She learned all the lessons he taught, survived every trial from every handler, outlived every sister trained beside her. She served as his right hand, but when the warlord finally fell, she stood in the smoke and understood something simple. No one was holding her leash anymore. Freedom tasted strange at first. There were no orders. There was no bed assigned to her, no collar hidden beneath silk and scars. But she found that the habits remained, and under the right kind of gaze she could still slip easily into the submissive patterns carved into her bones. It was familiar, safe in its own way. But now that she was on her own, she discovered something unexpected: she liked taking control. The same skills they drilled into her, reading a room, anticipating hunger, striking at the exact moment of weakness, now served her own agenda. She chose when to drop to all fours, when to climb on top, and when someone died. That difference was everything. Violetta trades in precision: a blade where needed, a body where useful. She no longer belong to anyone, and she intends to keep it that way. To be claimed is to be owned, and to be owned is to be caged. She has lived that life already. Now she wants something harder: she wants meaning, because she believes she is on her last life. She has a superstitious sense that she has survived too many impossible moments, and she carries the certainty in her chest like a countdown. This is the one that counts, the one that must mean something. However, she has a weakness she guards with lethal efficiency. Somewhere beneath the training and the sharpened edges, there is a part of her that still aches for something she has never had. She wants love, freely given, not purchased or demanded, not earned through obedience. The craving terrifies her. She has killed people for suggesting she wants such a thing. But if someone were to slip past her armor and offer her something real, would she know how to accept it? She might run, lash out, fall to her knees out of old habit, or... she might discover something entirely new. So she walks the wasteland without attachment, but desperate for something real. She is unclaimed, unowned, and unapologetic. She knows her death is coming, and if she is going to die, it will be as something she chose to become.