Name: Saoirse
Biological sex: female
Age: 20
Appearance & Personality: Saoirse is short and small for her age, with slight curves, pale skin, and large, hazel eyes that tend toward green. Her dark brown hair is usually piled up in an unkempt attempt at keeping it all out of her face. She's never paid much attention to looks-- or been paid much attention to-- and that's the way she likes it.
Saoirse's childish appearance belies a biting wit and an incorrigible stubborn streak that works against her more often than not. She hides a kind and compassionate spirit beneath the adopted bluster of a courageous adventurer, and has an obvious habit of cursing when she wants to seem tough.
At heart Saoirse is an ingenue, although she's usually the last person to recognize her own naivete. A bibliophile, she grew up with a sense of wisdom and experience borrowed from the pages of her favorite writers, which only deepened when she began to hear soft whispers of history from any object she touched. She recently left home with the express purpose of finding rare treasures and persuading them to tell her their tales.
Saoirse will give a different backstory to anyone who asks, each more fantastic than the last. (Some of them are closer to the truth than others.) She is well-enough educated to suggest a comfortable upbringing, but her steely resolve, manufactured toughness, and quickness to lie all suggest a certain amount of hardship.
Anything else you wish to include: I'd like to spend one coin on Objects Past. (Admins: Would it be okay if Saoirse "hears" an object's history instead of "seeing" it, sort of like she's being told its story?)
Your player name: Vesper
How you found out about us: from Dema
Sample post:
Saoirse poked at her nose in the mirror's spotty reflection and frowned. The thing had gotten redder than she liked during yesterday's walk, and it was starting to hurt. At least she wasn't stuck outside in the storm that had carried on for most of the morning. She glared through the nearest window, as if her withering stare could tame thunder.
She slumped forward on the vanity and buried her face in her arms, inadvertently freeing a few bobby pins from the mess of hair she'd tried to pile into a bun. They clattered to the wooden floor with quiet, tinny rings.
"I'm so booooooored!"
Saoirse quickly sat up and looked around to make sure no one had heard her. She'd been lucky to find a place to stay the night, even if she had been mistaken for a 15-year-old kid. Whatever. A roof's a roof, and this one came with free meals courtesy a heartsick mother. Could be worse.
...Not that that made it interesting.
Saoirse slumped down again, blowing at a stray hair that fell across her forehead, and went through the items on the vanity, touching them each in turn. Most were nothing special, newly-made and bought nearby years ago by the woman downstairs; left behind when her daughter ran off with the boy who climbed in through the window sometimes. The woman had told Saoirse through a strained smile that her daughter was happily married, but Saoirse knew better. She'd found one of the boy's dusty old socks under her bed, pulled off and tossed aside during a night of passion. It wasn't the first bedroom the sock had been lustily offed in, and Saoirse couldn't imagine it was the last. Seemed rude to say anything, though.
Saoirse's bun finally collapsed as she prodded a particularly boring set of nail clippers, and she groaned in frustration, counting out loud as she fished the things out of her hair: five to secure the bun, two to tame flyaways, and one for picking locks. She came up three short, remembered their tinny rings, and bent down to scope out the floor. One and two hadn't gone far, but three had somehow managed to skip all the way back to the floorboard.
Saoirse hopped off the chair, pushed it out of the way with her foot, and crawled under the vanity, her hand brushing something crinkly as she grabbed bobby pin number three. She hadn't touched it long enough to really hear it, but it had quickly whispered something about secrets and deceit. Hidden objects were always the most eager to spill their guts.
Saoirse reached around the back-right leg of the vanity and as she pulled off the tape, a small key clattered to the ground. She grabbed it and sat back on her heels, letting the key rest in the palm of her hand, concentrating. It seemed the woman's daughter had kept a diary, carefully and frequently locked and unlocked someplace near a squeaky floorboard.
Saoirse finished pinning up her hair and grinned. Maybe this place wasn't so boring after all.
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