Character(s) Moth's Cache

[mothamongwasps]

Catch-all for characters otherwise unfiled.
No particular order imposed.

 

[mothamongwasps]

Moira Clare Soldano

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Height: 5'9"
Weight: 144 lb
Eyes: dark hazel, if you're close enough to clock it.
Hair: reds - the hue shifts, but she'll vehemently deny having met a box of dye.
Complexion: fair, unfreckled - not fond of the city sun.
Age: 37 years

At a Glance: Fine-boned and strong-featured, face always framed in a tumble of curls or wind-combed waves by the end of the night, whether she pins it up or ties it back or not. Despite a penchant for stern scowling, her face isn't showing much for age just yet. Good genes, maybe, or maybe just keeping up on moisturizer. Long fingers, sharp angles; rarely shows much in the way of skin if it can be helped, but lean and toned under the suit jackets makes for being quick in a chase and good in the occasional scrap.

The chip on Moira's shoulder has dug itself in deep - her professional determination is no longer to claw her way out from under her father's shadow, but to grit her teeth and rise from it like the mire it is. Cop begot cop, but where the old man was crooked and stupid and bitter, the daughter is upright and clever and bitter. At the very least, she has determined she has two things he never did in his time on the force: the title of Detective Soldano, and the good sense to hold her tongue in certain company.

She was an only child, primarily raised by the aforementioned father, Ernesto Soldano. He moved her back to Brooklyn just after her 12th birthday and the untimely the murder of her mother, Fidelma Soldano-Braeleigh - nasty shit, to say the least. Fidelma's death was nothing short of a ritual slaighter. It made the papers, the news, the tabloids. The gruesome details lingered in the public eye for far too many months and generated far too many useless leads and invasive commentaries and stomach-turning rumors for both father and daughter to not harden against the onslaught. Ernesto descended into endless, hateful muttering about Vampers and Monsters and Supernat Trash; Moira found silence with an increasingly clenched jaw. She scowled and scoffed under her breath as her father gnashed and snarled and lost his feeble human mind in a city where the non-mortal populous he so loathed (and their rights) were rapidly on the rise. He had long since estranged them from Fidelma's side of the family, spitting and cursing the Braeleighs and their tributaries as Fey-Fuckers and generally useless degenerates in the aftermath of Fidelma's murder. They weren't around to comment on his multiple suspensions over outsized brutality toward supernat offenders. They weren't around to make the forbidden suggestion that Moira herself was the product of their allegedly mingled blood, and perhaps Ernesto should watch his words more closely, lest he ring a bell that couldn't be un-rung.

It wouldn't have mattered, either way.

Acrid years followed; the members of Ernesto's family that he'd permitted anywhere near them (not that they much wanted to be there, past a certain point) would later voice their surprise when Moira joined the NYPD after all of that. In her early adulthood, she'd barely spoken to her surviving parent outside of screaming matches, so for her to follow in his footsteps in regards to her career (in the wake of his laundry list of write-ups, several public lawsuits, and eventually his forced retirement, no less) had not exactly been on their church bingo cards. When the issue of why was pressed by a great auntie across the table at a strained Sunday dinner in her 29th year, she'd twisted a wry curl of her lips down at a forkful of dry roast, shrugged, and answered:"Outta spite, if I'm honest."

She made Detective at 34 - didn't tell her father, but he still managed to leave her a 6-minute-long voicemail full of unintelligibly racist and sexist venom about it later that week. It would prove to be one of his final earthly acts. She would later spit on his freshly-turned grave, but saved the voicemail on her phone. Still has it; never listens to it.

At 37 she lives alone, works alone - prefers it that way after a handful of failed professional partnerships not helped by the rotted-out legacy that still clings to her boots. Her work is flawless on paper, but she has garnered no favors from superiors nor peers within the NYPD. Not a soul on the force seems to know anything about her personal life, nor do any of the remaining non-estranged family members she ever deigns cursory contact with. Any of them would reckon she is probably just a frigid bitch who's obsessed with her career; Moira would probably not disagree.