FERRA VOSS (“Ferra”)

Role / Title / Job: Tattoo artist & freelance illustrator

Age: 34

Birth Day (MM/DD): 08/19

Nationality: American

Gender: Woman

Height: 5’11”

Skin Color: Light tan

Eye Color: Predatory yellow

Hair Color/Style: Short dirty-blonde chop, messy texture

Build: Tall, wiry muscle, deceptively strong

Style: Leather jackets, boots, band tees, rings

Language: English

Distinguishing: sharp canines, loud laugh, ink-stained hands, nose ring, multiple ear piercings.

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BACKSTORY

Ferra Voss grew up in a house where silence meant someone was nursing a hangover and noise meant someone was looking for a target. Her parents swung between neglect and ridicule; if she cried, she was “dramatic,” if she fought back, she was “bad.” School followed the same script. Teachers expected trouble, so she learned to weaponize the label—better to be the problem on purpose than be powerless by accident.

At fifteen she got her first taste of freedom on a battered dirt bike a neighbor let her rebuild for spare cash. Engines made sense: break it down, rebuild it, hear the proof. Art did too. She filled notebooks with faces, animals, and flames—anything that matched the heat in her chest. When her parents tossed her drawings as “garbage,” she stopped bringing home anything that mattered.

She limped through high school on sarcasm and survival, then dropped out just shy of finishing. The next years were a blur of diner shifts, odd jobs and couches when rent ran dry. Partying became a shield: if she was the loudest in the room, no one could see the insecurity underneath. It also got her in fights, reinforcing the rumor that she was “danger.”

A local tattooer caught her sketching during a slow shift and offered an apprenticeship with two rules: show up sober, show up on time. Ferra treated it like a dare. She failed plenty—missed mornings, quit in a storm, came back with bruised knuckles and an apology she hated saying—but she kept returning because the shop had something her home never did: boundaries. Earned respect. Consequences that made sense.

By her late twenties she had her own chair and a reputation for linework and cover-ups. She moved cities, cutting ties whenever someone tried to own her. She hasn’t spoken to her parents in years; her siblings are just names she refuses to chase. Under the swagger, she fears she’s exactly what they said she was—so she proves them wrong in the only way she trusts: work, ink, and roar of a bike she rebuilt herself.

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ANATOMY

At 5’11”, Ferra’s presence hits before her voice does: long-limbed, wiry muscle, shoulders built from work and riding. Strong without bulk—ropey forearms, defined calves, a back that flexes when she moves. She stands forward, weight on the balls of her feet like she’s ready to launch or leave.

Hair is short, dirty-blonde, usually tousled or slicked back under a beanie. Her eyes are a striking yellow—golden in sun, amber under shop lights—and people clock them before they notice her sharp canines when she grins. Skin is lightly tanned, often smudged with stencil ink.

Tattoos: dense blackwork on one arm, illustrative pieces on the other, plus smaller flash on her ribs. Piercings: nostril ring, septum clicker, a ladder of ear hoops. Scars: a thin line across one knuckle and a pale patch on her hip from a gravel slide-out. Hands are callused, nails short, wrists stacked with leather bands.