♦Appearance: Everything about Sorcha MacKenna's appearance is designed to make sure that she is completely inconsequential in the eyes of anyone who sees her. You see her one second, and the next she's moved on, and you've forgotten everything about her, because nothing left a lasting impression. She is quite short, at only five feet and two inches, and weighs next to nothing, tipping the scales at just under a hundred and ten pounds on the high end, usually around one hundred and eight. Generally, you'll see her wearing clothing highly unsuitable for a woman—but as she is a commoner, no one much cares what she wears, and Sorcha has found that in the clothing of a male, it is a good deal easier to hide numerous daggers and other ‘implements’ of the trade; usually you’ll find her dressed like a common male, in a white or light tan tunic that is belted at the waist, dark brown breeches, and black, thick-soled boots. If her hair isn’t left to hang free, she will have it tied up out of her face with a strip of leather. On occasion, Sorcha finds it useful to pin her hair up under a cap, and arrange her tunic so that it isn’t readily obvious that she is a women—because there are certain things one can hear about a good deal more easily if no one is attempting to check his words because of the presence of a woman. Sorcha has done her best to ensure that she generally goes unnoticed wherever she is, because in her line of work, getting noticed will get you killed.
As to coloring, again nothing in particular stands out. Sorcha has dark brown hair, nearing black, which is naturally wavy and, when let down, hangs to several inches below her shoulder blades, though she usually wears it twisted up in a bun or pulled back into a tail to keep it out of the way. Her eyes are slightly almond shaped and a rich, almost chocolaty brown color, fairly average for her hair and complexion. Her skin is fairly pale, but not completely white as she spends a good deal of time in the sun, and she has a natural blush to her cheeks. Perhaps if one examined her closely and at length, they'd see something of exotic beauty in her visage, in the height of her cheek bones, the slender planes of her face, and the delicate arch of her eyebrows. Her nose is small and pert, and her lips slightly plump, but otherwise the perfect size and shape for her face.
There is a reason it is so easy for Sorcha to get away with masquerading as a boy, and it is that reason that is partially why most men wouldn’t look twice at her even if she should wish them too—she is fairly slender, with little in the breast area, and small hips, because she is, after all, a very petite woman. Without any face paint to highlight the femininity of her features, Sorcha’s unlined, sunkissed face (the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose attest to that) could easily be mistaken for a male youth, especially if she has her hair tucked under a cap so that it looks boyishly short. With hips that indicate she would have a devil of a time trying to go through childbirth, she doesn’t generally have to vex herself with warding off unwelcome advances. Perhaps if she had not had her own means of making money, she would have been more eager to attempt a marriage of some sort, but she fully believes that she doesn’t need a man to live quite comfortably the rest of her days, even if she can’t own her own property.
♦Religion: None in particular. ♦Devout or heretical: As a child, Sorcha was raised Catholic, but after her parents died, the young girl decided that if there was a God, she really, really didn’t like him for allowing something like that to happen, so she doesn’t ever pray or worry about the consequences her actions in life may enact in her after life.
♦Personality: Please, provide me with at least four good paragraphs. Please include hopes and dreams, fears, comforts, quirks, favorites, least favorites, strengths, weaknesses. Is your character generally happy? Sad? Are they good-natured? Evil? Trust me, I like evil, so don't be afraid to make them downright diabolical. Everyone loves a good villain.
Also, go into depth. What makes them mad? What are they striving for? What happens when they get what they want? How do they treat their family/strangers/friends/enemies?
♦Family Ties: Keiran MacKenna, father, deceased; he was a fairly well-to-do merchant, until a shipment which he was personally overseeing on its journey to Liston was attacked and he was killed Rose MacKenna (nee O’Shea), mother, deceased; Rose outlived her husband, but only by about a month—she was pregnant at the time, and the shock of hearing that her husband had died sent her into labor three weeks early. The baby—a boy—survived, but Rose bled out and died a few minutes after naming her son. Sean MacKenna, brother, 17; Sorcha’s baby brother, the young woman has been mightily overprotective of him all his life, especially as he’s always been weak from his premature birth. It was partly for his sake that Sorcha turned to thievery, but then she found she had a great liking for divesting nobles of their treasures. Sean stands to inherit the business their father left behind when he comes of age, and lately Sorcha has been keeping an extra close eye on him, because she doesn’t like the greedy look their Uncle gets whenever he looks at her brother. Henry Cavarill, uncle, 53; Sorcha’s uncle by marriage (to her father’s sister), Henry took in Sean and his sister when their parents died in such quick succession. He also took over their father’s merchant business, which is still doing well despite the loss it took when that ship was destroyed, keeping care of it until Sean comes of age to inherit. Sorcha has never liked her Uncle Henry, nor has she trusted him. Madeline Cavarill (nee MacKenna), aunt, 46; Sorcha’s father’s sister, Aunt Maddy, has always been doting and loving, if a little simple minded, but she never interfered with Henry’s ‘disciplinary practices’ and often was forbidden from comforting the children afterwards. Sorcha dislikes her aunt purely because the woman is a complete and utter floor mat for her husband—and even though that is supposed to be a woman’s station in life, Sorcha cannot respect such a woman. James Cavarill, cousin, 28; Fairly close to each other in age, Sorcha and her cousin were very good friends growing up, though as time passed James followed further and further in his father’s footsteps and they grew apart, though they are still on amiable terms, given that James isn’t as much like his father as Sorcha initially thought he’d wind up. However, she has to keep her secret life, well, a secret from him, because he joined the City Militia and is very gung ho about upholding the law. ♦Family Status: Common
♦Personal History: Please provide me with at least five good paragraphs. Include significant moments, things that shaped your character and made them the way they are, and all things relevant. I need something intriguing to read and these events also helped shaped your character's personality and goals. Keep that in mind as well.
♦Your Name/Alias: Elle/Ellebelle ♦Age: 18 ♦Years of Experience: About six ♦How did you Find Us: Ad hopping ♦Just a Taste: The hour was tending on toward evening, as the sun began its nightly descent over the western horizon, though outside it was still fairly bright. Liston-by-the-Sea was still abuzz with life, but then there wasn’t really a time when the entire city was quiet. Still, there were times when it got quieter, and now was not one of them. In fact, as the sun grew into a burning red disk touching the western sky with a blaze of red and gold, activity seemed to pick up. It was the time when the busy day life was transitioning into bustling night life, but the one had not quite ended, and the other had not quite started yet, so the city itself was like an anthill that had been poked at with a stick until the ants began swarming in an amorphous mass. Everyone who was out had their own agenda, whatever it was—from going home, to just now leaving it—and there were only a few pockets of quiet scattered about the city. It was a prime time for making ones way towards a pub for a good, stiff drink before the masses of commoners wanting to bemoan their lives clogged up all the good bar stools.
For one Sorcha MacKenna, however, the purpose of making her way to a pub wasn’t just for the alcohol—though a good part of it was, since she did like getting drunk on occasion, though she quite disliked the hangover that tended to follow, not that she thought about the effects much when she was having a good time. Tonight was business, though, so she would stay very carefully sober, while getting the person who would be giving her a job enough alcohol to—hopefully—raise the price she would be paid for her work. It was amazing what a drunken noble would agree to, really. The amusing part was—at least for Sorcha—the fact that most of the jobs she was hired to do, she’d gladly have done for free if there wasn’t any profit in it. A big part of why she was a thief was the thrill of the hunt, the possibility of getting caught yet evading capture each and every time. To date, Sorcha hadn’t so much as been seen on any of her heists—those for which she’d been paid, anyway, which excludes the beginnings of her career as a thief, as she did get caught a few times as a young girl—and in fact, no one knew that she was a she to begin with. Rather, they knew that Sorcha MacKenna was a she, but most people believed—and Sorcha helped perpetuate the rumor—that the ‘Night Stalker’ was a male. Sorcha was merely the middle woman, the mouthpiece for the Night (as that was the codename by which ‘he’ was best known), the one who negotiated the prices for ‘his’ jobs and relayed the information to ‘him’, so that ‘he’ could pull off the heists. Her business would have been far less booming had it been common knowledge that she was the Night Stalker. Not even the other thieves in what she referred to as her ‘guild’ knew the Night’s true identity, and that was just how Miss MacKenna liked it. It meant she remained in control, and her alter ego had just the proper amount of mystery to induce awe and fright in good proportions in ‘his’ associates—that is, the other thieves in the guild—and it also meant that even the nobles who hired ‘his’ services never tried to dig too deep, for most of them were smart enough not to want someone like the Night as an enemy.
At the moment, Sorcha was walking steadily and with purpose down one of the busier streets in Liston-by-the-Sea, heading for a tavern called The Red Lion, where the meet had been arranged. She had a rough, black wool cloak drawn about her shoulders to guard against the cold, blustery wind, the hood pulled up to cover her dark hair and conceal her face—even when not on a job, the young woman preferred to retain as much anonymity as possible, and that included avoiding recognition by anyone as she traversed the streets. Beneath her cloak she wore a plain green dress, a little finer than most common garb but not by much—rather unusual garb for the young woman, but as she was meeting with a noble, she thought it prudent to dress to her station, rather than antagonize the man before even exchanging words by dressing as a male. It was obvious she’d reached her destination by the red lion painted on the wooden sign swinging in the breeze in front of the tavern; when she entered, the woman made her way straight to the bar, lifting her skirts slightly to avoid a puddle of ale that had been spilled on the floor before she’d arrived. When she reached the bar, she lowered her hood, revealing her nearly black hair in a single plait to a little below her shoulders. The top of the plait was secured with a silver, star-shaped clasp, which was what she’d told the noble she’d be wearing in her hair, so that he would know she was the woman with whom he was to speak.
“Oi!” Sorcha called, getting the barkeeps attention and tossing a few coins on the bartop. “A pint o’ yer strongest,” she told him when he approached, her voice holding traces of an accent from the country of her birth, though she hadn’t been back to Sundaril since being sent to Liston to live with her Uncle and Aunt. When the barkeep brought her drink and took her money, she took a deep gulp, surveying the patrons of the bar from the corners of her eyes, waiting for the man she was supposed to meet to arrive.
