Character(s) Moth's Cache

[mothamongwasps]

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

 

[mothamongwasps]

Spoiler: Moira Soldano

Moira Clare Soldano

​

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.

 

[mothamongwasps]

Aleksandr Saffran
'Aleks'

​

Age: 29 years
Height: 5'11"
Build: Lean, packed muscle, carved by running, climbing, fighting, working.
Eyes: Unnaturally golden over warm brown
Hair: Dark, color glazed in iridescent oil slick hues (blue-greens, ambers, rick black) that catch the light.
Complexion: cool, olive-toned, light-skinned - sees far more neon and night than sun. Peppered in scars, particularly hands and arms.

At a Glance: When is his head not held haughty? When is the devil's own smirk not hiding in the grim corners of his mouth? Aleks is built of the kind of muscle that was fought-for, holds himself at the precise angles of earned arrogance. Sharp eyes, fierce brows, pretty teeth - the picturesque, if starving, hound. Striking, but too angular, too tense to really uphold any sense of elegance. Fast hands and a crushing grip -- he could swing a baton across your cheekbone faster than you could blink. He'd have the muzzle of a gun between your teeth before you could finish spitting in his face. He'll smile down at you like god's favorite angel in the instant before he relieves you of your mortal burden.

Certified Syndicate Thug: For the last several years, he has acted primarily as bodyguard and right hand at large to Nicolai Vitoli Junior ('Nick'), the heir to the family business, to whom he is immensely loyal. Under Nick, Aleks has built a significant reputation and a rather loyal following of his own lackeys. He must, however, answer foremost to Nicolai Vitoli Senior, who utilizes him as an enforcer, errand-boy, and as an all around dog when he is reminded of his vast dislike for Aleks - which is most any time Senior lays eyes on him.

Aleks is:
▸Homosexual with exceptions​
▸Chaotic Neutral with one exception ​
▸A Willing Addict always seeking a new fix, with no exceptions​

Mods:
Signature to the Vitoli clan, he bears surprisingly few obvious visual modifications for a thug of his caliber - but it doesn't mean he lacks them.
▸He received a number of high-end internal upgrades for strength and agility, but they don't register as any kind of visible without intentional change to their code from within. The surgery involved left virtually no scarring behind
▸The unnatural gold sheen on rich brown eyes belies the enhancement there, both for unnaturally honed sight and the internal retinal display function; paired to the silk-thread-thin splay of wiring imbedded in his scarred-up hands, he has a fully-functioning screen and key interface with him at all times.
▸There are seven ported implants that run the length of his spine, but they are well-camouflaged by surrounding tattoo work when not in active use. They accept modular upgrades, such as exoskeleton adapters, but are most often capped with jewelry-like insets in black stone and goldwork - some of them are touch-sensitive to activate functions. When exposed and wired in, the different ports access different internal modifications for purposes of upgrade, settings changes, or potential deactivation.
▸He could not be kept away from the kinetic tattoo trends, though his are significantly subtler than the average enthusiast. Heavy coverage in abstract black flow-sigilism. The work starts at the base of the spine and flowers out wider toward his shoulders, wrapping them and spilling across his sternum and down his arms. They do not change color, but pulse and shift anywhere from near-imperceptibly to violently, depending on his adrenaline and cortisol levels. The pigments can be retracted back to his spine almost completely if situationally required, but it is a massively uncomfortable undertaking to do so.
▸There is a somewhat common implant in his right temple that gives quick-tap access to his communications interface, retinal display screen, and his holo-mask projection function. This is one of the only mods he possesses with a standard glowing neon affect; it will slightly illuminate along his cheekbone, jaw, and eye socket depending on type of use (unless he disables this option). He has it set to amber.

 

[mothamongwasps]

Nicolai Vitoli, Junior
'Nick'



​

Age: 33 years
Height: 6' 2"
Build: Built - A solid 228 pounds of trained muscle and immaculate posture.
Eyes: Dark grey, with an artificial gold band surrounding each pupil.
Hair: Sable, impeccably groomed.
Complexion: Warm, olive undertones; enough color to prove he has time for leisure light. Seemingly flawless but for a small scar on the left side of his lower lip.

At a Glance: Nick embodies an uncanny combination of measured and effortless in every facet of his person. Impeccable posture, he stands at a height where it is purely natural to find him looking down at almost anyone. He is largely non-reactive, and seems to even assess whether or not facial expressions are worth his time and effort, let alone other forms of backlash. He has a guy to react, if needed. He is possessed of inarguably fine tastes and styles himself far from the modern lust for glitter and neon, preferring minimalism with obvious hints of immense luxury. The only discernable modifications he has taken upon himself are the subtle gold rims at his pupils that indicate his eye mods, and the twin seams that present themselves as a thin, jet-black rings around each thumb. His father greatly disdains seeing the evidence of his hand mods, considers it a major failing and a visible weakness - thus Nick rarely appears in public without wearing gloves.
Nick is the picture of restraint and power in the same fell swoop.

Heir to an Empire: Nicolai Vitoli, Junior, is a born-and-bred member of an elite class of businessmen. His father's empire is far-reaching and a force to truly be reckoned with, neatly packaged in a sleek, corporate facade. Nick has taken an active role in VitCorp dealings from the time Nicolai Senior allowed him into the board room, sometime shortly after his fifteenth birthday. He acts his part largely as a rather intimidating figurehead, and is included in 98% of any Vitcorp activity he may desire to be involved with; it is rare that Senior would deny him access to information or meetings, but it has happened on occasion. His exact level of command is unknown to anyone other than his father, himself, and eventually Aleks Saffran, but underlings and enemies alike know that when he actually chooses to voice an opinion or request, it carries immeasurable weight and impact. He does, however, have the privilege of abstaining from these dealings 98% of the time if he prefers to; it is rare that Senior would demand his presence if he resists attendance, but it has happened on occasion. Lately, he has been increasingly leaning toward less involvement, and is not forthcoming with anyone as to why that is.

Nick is:
▸Homosexual behind closed doors and NDA​
▸Lawful Neutral but just who writes the laws?​
▸Within Arm's Reach of Anything He Wants and wanting things has become a sport​

Mods:
Per his family's preferences and level of access to high-end surgeons, Nick possesses almost no visible modifications. Exceptions are the gold-rimmed pupils and the black ring seams on his thumbs.
▸Nick has fully-functioning comm mods, inclusive of retinal screen-and-key, calling and messaging, holo projector capabilities, and certainly more. They are activated and controlled with eye-motion gestures and other micro-muscular movements, rather than touch-sensitive access.
▸The rings on his thumbs are an access point for several hand mods besides the key capabilities. Enhanced grip is a function he doesn't have particular occasion to use, and it remains in passive deactivation at all times but the only thing needed to trigger it into use would be muscular force. He has confirmed to Aleks that he is capable of releasing up-to-lethal electric shocks from either hand (though Aleks himself has only felt the privilege of lesser-impact discharges).
▸He is rumored to have inbuilt weaponry in more than one location, but has never had cause to tear his flesh to access them. He has lackeys for things like that. Aleks may have taken the liberty to further those rumors for him.
▸Despite showing zero outward evidence, Nick's entire left leg is a prosthetic from about mid-thigh down. It is one of the most advanced cybernetic replacements of the modern era, and Nicolai Senior spared no expense in the series of installations and upgrades to it over the process of full integration (perhaps hence his absolute disdain for Nick later allowing his hand mods to be even remotely visible). The fleshwork is absolutely groundbreaking - there is no discernable seam, down to a molecular level, though the prosthetic remains fully accessible if maintenance is required. It is perfectly weight-balanced to his other leg (maintained through regular monitoring), and is even capable of furnishing artificial muscle pack around the mechanical components, in near-perfect alignment with activity that would build organic muscle structures.

 

[mothamongwasps]

uɐᴉlɹᴉʞ Ezekiel
Kieran Cillian​ uɐᴉlɹᴉʞ Cillian​
Quillan Kirlian Cieran​
uɐɹǝᴉʞ Kiryll uɐᴉlɹᴉʞ​

---

'Kiel'

​

Age: Nearing 27 years, born October 21st
Height: 5'9"
Build: Somewhat slender, long limbs, rather elegant hands. Stronger than he looks.
Eyes: Hazel green, bordering on hay colored in certain light.
Hair: Dark, wavy, heavily silken, falling loose between jaw and shoulder. Clean-shaven face, as is the fashion of the unwed.
Complexion: Pale after many hours spent in study and working indoors, largely unmarred by heavy labor, though his hands have evidence of callouses and cuts. The summer is short, the trees are ancient-tall, and the mists are plentiful; he's not the only villager with a pallid tone.

At a Glance: A resident of Ferncliffe for coming up on nine years, Ezekiel 'Kiel' Quillan moves deliberately, calmly, smoothly. Within his shop, he barely seems to have to consider where he steps and reaches - it is a wonder to watch him gather and grind a poultice or infusion. Fascinating to watch him bind a broken wrist. He is quiet but not unfriendly, observant and reserved but not avoidant. Polite, but firm in his dealings. He is a regular feature in the town after working hours have ceased, familiar and liked well-enough by the locals. He keeps himself neatly, takes care of clothes and belongings. Fair-skinned with pleasant features, Kiel has earned the interest of several eligible young women within the township. Recently, he has twice been seen escorting Miss Mary Templeton (with a chaperone nearby, of course) to the market, and engaged her in one lively dance at the late-summer festival, not but a month-and-half prior. They seem a handsome couple, but their apparent burgeoning pairing has given rise to some rumors amid the other young women and some elders, as well.

Medically-Minded: Ezekiel came to the town of Ferncliffe with his aunt, a midwife named Agnes Quillan, during a time of great struggle. Harvests of the year prior had been poor, livestock was lost to malnourishment and predators, illness was running rampant, and several young mothers and infants had succumbed to complications of birth in the months leading to their arrival. Agnes wasted no time in her work, and quickly put her nephew to the task of foraging and collecting medicine-herbs in the forests and fields that surrounded them. He attended and assisted her in seeing to the ill, stitching the wounded, and compounding the medicines that would mend their ails. His hands were her secondary tools in everything from washing linens to the birthing of babes. By the next year, Ferncliffe seemed in greater repair, and the work became more divided. Agnes tended the townsfolk by hand, and Ezekiel stocked, concocted, supplied, and distributed the medicinal means. She was Midwife and Medic at 49 years; he was Apothecary and Herbalist at 19.

The Shift: Five or so years into their residency in Ferncliffe, the Quillans were called upon for aide in a strange emergency - Mayor Templeton's eldest son, Collin, had come into the family home one evening reeking of peat and decay, and rambling incoherently about unwanted guests. Attempts to inquire to him and calm him only spurred him to anger: he lashed out at his siblings, tore apart his mother's parlor and pantry in his excitement, and was threatening to set fire to the kitchen before his father shouted him out of the house at rifelpoint. Collin attempted twice to re-enter the family home, breaking windows and cutting up his hands in his efforts. He managed to take the rifle from his father before turning on his heel and storming off into the woods, still shouting about unwanted visitors, dripping with blood and earning the attention of neighbors as he went. It was a new moon, and the mists had rolled in thick.
A party was formed not an hour after - nine in all, four of them hunters and trappers, along with a butcher, and his apprentice, and a blacksmith - and Agnes and Ezekiel Quillan, for even if everything went unimaginably well in their attempts to retrieve Collin Templeton, he was still last seen bleeding profusely.
Ten townfolks entered the forests 'round Ferncliffe that night. Only five of them returned: the butcher's apprentice, two hunters, Ezekiel, and Collin. The apprentice was shaking, sobbing, supporting one of the hunters as he limped and clutched a wad of bandaging at one side of his face, where a rifle bullet had clipped through his cheekbone. The other hunter was grimly helping a bloodied Ezekiel half-drag Collin Templeton into the common square - Collin had fought them savagely until being bludgeoned in the back of his head with the butt of his own rifle. He was witless and moaning as he was dragged back into town, and crumpled to the cobbles when the two men peeled away.
Another hunter was found at the edge of the woods by dawn - still breathing. A search party was sent in after the others as the sun rose, and another followed at noon when the first returned emptyhanded.
Collin Templeton succumbed to his injuries before nightfall. He would have been put to death for his crimes, even if he hadn't.
The butcher, the blacksmith, the missing hunter, and Agnes the midwife were never found. None of the survivors seem to have a firm grasp of what happened to them.

Nearly four years on, some within the town will say that Ezekiel is still looking for his aunt when he goes into the woods; he declines company, and only ever returns with the usual foragings, albeit often more morose than when he enters.

Kiel is:
▸Courting a young woman, isn't he? Shouldn't that express his interests?
▸Serving as Apothecary and Medic to Ferncliffe, though they have taken on a new midwife to attend the women and their little ones.
▸having the strangest dreams...
˙˙˙sɯɐǝɹp ʇsǝƃuɐɹʇs ǝɥʇ ƃuᴉʌɐɥ ¿ ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ oʇ ƃuᴉuuᴉƃǝq