Party animal. Carefree, easy-going. She's quick to a smile, happy to crack a joke, and enjoys a good drink or a good lay. She possesses a flexible sense of morality. There are a few vague rules, like not kicking puppies or kids or whatever, but when it comes down to it, she’ll follow orders so she can come back alive after every mission.

Dune is a lovely woman and she uses her looks like a bargaining chip. Full lips, big eyes, wavy hair, soft tawny skin. Whoever made her did a nice job. She’s not great about uniforms though. Sloppy, devil-may-care unless the Inquisitor’s around. In her everyday wear, it's hair in a ponytail and some smoky make-up. She'll turn it up for a night on the town, all slinky dresses and high heels. At home, it's sweat pants and maybe a swipe of eyeliner. Her left arm and part of her shoulder are covered in both burn and surgery scars. The entire limb is weak, prone to shaking and it aches in damp weather. She almost lost it in a ritual gone wrong caused by a rogue arcanist. She made sure to put a bullet between the fucker’s eyes before passing out. She wears ring she received as a gift from a raven she knows as Merula.

Although Dune is already highly skilled in firearms and melee combat, she has not yet perfected the craft when it comes to shooting down things that are faster and stronger. She's working on it. Beretta 92 FS She is fluent in English and German and a smattering of other languages. She has an excellent voice for reading, and can imitate almost any accent. She is also very good at doing impressions of people.

Born and raised a military brat. Parents weren’t around very much, so naturally, Dune did what all kids did: try to get their attention and the method she chose was crime. She got into trouble for shoplifting and taking joyrides. She was truant more often than not. She was a scrappy kid too—not the cops’ favorite delinquent to pick up. These skills and that profession followed her well into her teens. She didn't join any gangs--her family moved around too much for that--but she always made fast friends with suspicious characters wherever she went. Drugs entered the scene soon after, and even if she didn't partake, she made a pretty penny moving stock. Then she turned eighteen. Her first and only slip up landed her in the slammer and with her record, the judge gave her no quarter. Either it was sweating out her sentence in prison or straightening out and joining the military. With the promise that she could wipe her record clean, she picked the service. She went to basic, got the shit beaten out of her until she formed herself a goal good enough to make it hurt less. She’d be a pilot. A really good pilot. In fact, she’d join the Army Rangers. It was already a soaring goal, made even more difficult by her small stature and gender, but this shining beacon sent her from boot camp to flight academy. Flight academy to special operations. Her singular focus and bulldog tenacity had her star rising hot and fast. Dune never quite made the cut to serve in the ground forces for the Rangers, but she found her calling in the skies, flying missions for their airborne division. She found good people there, good enough to give up that first dream and chase her second. By then, she'd worked out that there was way more to the world than she originally thought. Her commander, for example, told war stories that were at least a century old. She caught her copilot sneaking off during a full moon. She'd have to be fucking blind to miss the strange shit she saw around the world and it wasn't long before she worked it out and the people in the know let her in on a world of secrets. She learned it all. Half-bloods, shifters, undead, the Exchange, the Codes of Conduct. She learned about magic, and things from other worlds. It made her a better soldier. Sure, she was mundane, but the knowledge was power by itself. She could cut a deal with a vampire, and talk a werewolf down from a shift. Change a rune or two in a ritual and you've got trouble on your hands. Then, her arm got blown off while the regiment was hunting down a rogue arcanist in Germany. A stray bullet, a broken circle, and everything went up in smoke. The army put her back together. Stitched up her arm, surgery, pins and plates. But she couldn't fly anymore. Couldn't fight. Good thing she'd served her sentence and then some. She was discharged with honors, something her parents would probably be proud of if they hadn't washed their hands of her. At loose ends, Dune went back to America. For a few months, she wandered, traveled. Did the things she always said she'd do if she got a furlough. It was alright. She mostly drank in seedy bars all across Midwest. Then she learned that the Exchange existed in America too. A bit different than the one she met in Europe, but hell, she had the skillset, she had the knowledge. In Easthaven, MA, she walked into a little brownstone that said it was a PI and asked for the Inquisitor. No, really, the Inquisitor, the head honcho, the boss with the sauce. The guy who's gonna be twisting vampire ears and pulling wolf tails. That guy. That fast-tracked her right into the man's office. She didn't really slap down her resume--she hadn't expected a walk-in to work, honestly--but by the time she walked out, her name was on the roster and she was looking for an apartment somewhere cheap. That was a year ago. Honestly, she's a bit of a desk jockey with only a few field assignments while she works out her physical therapy. It doesn't help that she's totally mundane. She knows what she's doing but the execution leaves something to be desired. That said, just like with the Rangers, she's out to prove something. She's not sure what yet--human solidarity, yay?--but she's the kind of person who always shot for the moon and landed in the stars.