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“Blanka, the beastman from Brazil, was introduced as one of the most radical looking characters in the Street Fighter franchise. His green skin and bright orange hair made him an instant favorite, standing out among his human opponents and with feral moves in a punishing playstyle to match. Often misunderstood at first glance, beneath all that savagery is a simple guy who is kind and loyal to those who befriend him, but don't cross him or you're in for a shock (and a bite).”
There's a couple of stories passed around by some of the ex-hunters that used to hunt in the jungles of Brazil. One in particular is of the tall-tale variety you keep in your pocket for a chuckle on a slow day. A few variations of it have made their rounds in the local watering hole over the past few years, but the main points about its subject remain: there's something out there in the bush that hunts you and it isn't an animal, but it's not quite human either. Fast, wild, vicious; the sightings rumor it to be a 'green as a leaf' half-beast half-man abomination with hair the color of flame that would attack hunters who unfortunately wander too far into its territory. Perhaps these 'sightings' are one of those to deter any hunters from illegaly venturing into the jungle looking for sport nowadays. There's also the more superstitious regulars who talk of it as a demon of the jungle as powerful as it is horrible to behold. Able to propel itself through the trees in gravity defying rolls like a devil gone insane. One group of criminals who got caught even claimed it blew out the lights on their rifles one night with golden lightning before giving chase. But some of these types would claim a lot of things when they often chased their own glasses from the well of a bottle at an ol' bar. For a while it seemed like there was a new “incident” every other day. Now though it's been about, oh, two weeks since the last one. The last sighting wasn't from a local that time either, but some wannabe tough guy from the city. Said he was training for a major martial arts tournament or some other. He strutted and crowed around the bar like he was going to be the baddest dude in the world after he won. Carefully unzipping a front pocket on his pants, he gingerly took out what he called an official invitation and started waving it around for everyone to see like it was a proper permit or do-anything pass. He boasted how a pro gave him a special tip to go out there and conquer the harsh jungle to sharpen his skills before the tournament on the invitation started. Wait, was that thing lamenated? Some of the old-timers piped up warning him about the tales of the unknown beast that attacked anyone who ventured too far, but the advice might as well have fallen on a rock - in space. Whipping his long hair behind his shoulder the fighter scoffed, emphasizing his point with that 'almighty invitation' once again, “Please! You old has-beens with your dumb ways trying to spook people. A green beast? You see this? The champ don't EVER feel fear, baby! He puts the fear in EVERYTHING; man OR beast! BAM!" Throwing out a punch at his 'clever' comeback, he then carefully zipped the self-lamenated invitation back in his pocket and marched off like he had springs for feet. Well, the champ was out in the jungle for all of half a night before he made his way back to the old hunting bar. With eyes as big as baseballs and the blood drained from his face he shuffled in with his once long straight hair looking as if he'd stuck his finger in a power outlet. Chuckling at his funky appearance the bar patrons attempted to goad him into reacting just to see what he'd say. But his only reply was some sort of jibberish in a whisper, “Bb-Blana...Buhlanka.... Blanka!” then dramatically screamed before collapsing face first on the dirt floor in a poof. The room busted out into laughter. Then someone pointed to a nasty bitemark on his shoulder and the sound dropped to a dead silence once the rest of the bar saw it. What was funny though, besides the flesh he lost from the bite, the only thing that was missing from his person, after they brought him to the local doctor, was that damn tournament invitation in his front pocket.
"RAWRR!" - Blanka
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