Oooookay.
This is still a little rough, but I am, as ever, terribly busy. I may edit some more (In fact I certainly will) but for now, I think this needs to go up or I'll lose my mind and our GM will lose their patience. I still kind of can't believe I went with this, but...well. I made myself smile, which is really my test. *laughs*
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Birth Name: Shearra Whitlock Statholme Haimes
Other Names: Virtually everyone who knows her, including her parents, calls her Shay.
Gender: Female
Age: 30
Rank/Titles/Social Class:
Shay comes from a line of minor English nobility, though being the youngest daughter of the family, has no titles or expectation to such of her own. Her family, through shrewd investments, careful guidance, and the good luck to avoid having an uncle who drank the family’s fortunes away, has remained quietly prosperous. Through their lands and business dealings, the family provides quite a comfortable life for even the most wayward of their children. Despite the burden on her to appear publicly, Shay rarely does - though her family are adept at providing reasons as to why. Most of Society understands that she very likely does something that’s not entirely ladylike, but as those same people both have no idea what that might be, and have never gotten word of any verifiable scandal, few aspersions are cast on the missing daughter. In a roundabout and almost underground way, however, Shay’s talents have made quiet inroads, and those who know how to find her, do - or, at least, they have a need, and they find their way to the one person who can help them. They very often don’t know who that person is until she opens the door. Thus far, none of those stories have percolated into the gossip-driven taffeta-and-lace crowd - but that day may be coming.
Appearance:
Shay is tall for a woman, though still not six feet even in quite striking heels. While she is slender, very little about her build, even with what little can be seen beneath traditional Victorian attire, suggests the sort of willowy, consumptive waifness so in fashion in some parts of the world. She moves with a quickness and surety that occasionally finds her at odds with societal expectation, though her every motion still carries the grace a lady is expected to have. Like many Britons, Shay has fair skin, but with none of the pallor associated with spending all of one’s time indoors. Her hair falls in a rich, dark tumble just below her shoulders, with most of her locks tied, pinned, or braided behind her and a few left loose to frame her face. Large, intelligent, and bright blue eyes look out at the world from beneath long lashes, constantly flickering from place to place, absorbing detail in the tiniest fraction of a moment before moving on. Despite her best efforts, Shay’s hands are often stained with ink or some other pigment, and she will sometimes wears gloves to avoid having to explain herself. Beneath those gloves, he hands are long, quick, delicate, with surprising strength. She has no visible scars and no tattoos, though she wears a certain amount of jewelry.
When in public, or in society’s view (The two are not always the same), Shay will comport herself as expected, dressed fashionably and in colors that flatter her. She doesn’t even really mind, as her dressmaker is impeccable and has discovered how to incorporate subtle seams and reliefs to allow comparative freedom of movement, even when wearing half a dozen layers of clothing. In private, or when on an adventure where petticoats have no place, that same dressmaker has furnished her with shirts, trousers, boots, coats, gloves, and belts of hard-wearing material, close-fitting and expertly tailored. She has some choice words for those who appear surprised at the fact that, indeed, under all those layers, women have legs.
Personality:
Ferociously intelligent, almost pathologically analytical, occasionally obsessive, and, perhaps most importantly, deeply self-aware of these facets of her own personality, Shay is a study in contrasts, camouflage, and restraint. There are times - most often in private, though with some of Ianus Manor’s other inhabitants - where her pacing, loquacious, nearly frenzied examinations are appropriate, but for the most part, she’s very aware of the truth of things. She is curious about virtually everything, with an understanding of the world around her to one level or another marked with deep wells of devoted, meticulous, systematic study. One could say, and not be terribly far off the mark, that Shay is something of an intellectual magpie, though there is some method to her curious pattern of study. She doesn’t exactly disdain high society, but very often finds the gatherings intensely dull, free of intellectual challenge and being uninterested in the social gauntlet beyond ensuring her peers find nothing of interest. With those she finds vapid and empty-headed, Shay is pleasant but forgettable company; with those of more advanced intellects she is brilliant, challenging, articulate, forthright, and perhaps more than a little bit of a show-off.
Shay also possesses a streak of nearly-fearless practicality, engaging in moonlight chases, subterranean adventures, and horseback shooting matches, knowing that not only does she know how to do all of these things, but that in many cases she’s the only one around who does. She has a wide streak of belief in justice and fairness, and believes strongly in the Society’s drive to unmask and discredit those charlatans who would prey on people with false psychic talents. All the same, she retains a certain exasperation with how regularly people are taken in by even the simplest schemes. While she certainly is aware of societal norms and requirements, she uses them only as method of camouflage - for herself, Shay has no time for what ladies should or should not do, instead being vastly more interested in what she can do.
Psychic Talent:
When you look into someone’s eyes, you feel a connection, maybe for a second, or maybe for the rest of your life. For Shay, that contact opens a pathway for her abilities as a Mesmerist - not in the orgiastic ecstasies of Franz Mesmer, but of imprinting colour and texture to another’s perception and memory, from the subtle to the extreme. She can cause another to pull long-locked memories from their deepest, darkest wells, or put subtle spin on others’ perception of her, making Shay seem the way she wants a person to see her.
For example, if Shay were at a party, and one of the other guests - let’s assume a busybody or gossiper - had heard something about Shay’s exploits either on her own or with the Society, during the course of their conversation Shay could steer not just the conversation, but her partner’s very perception of the conversation. Without anything meaningful having been discussed, that person might walk away completely satisfied in Shay’s utter innocence of any untoward behavior - and, perhaps, even defend her should the subject arise later. She might also use this talent to manipulate the master of a college who, under other circumstances, might believe a woman had no place in the chemistry lab, and certainly not in anatomy theatre. There are very likely other extreme Mesmeric suggestions she could make to a person, or even place them entirely under her spell - but that is not something she’s ever tried, nor does she want to.
Skills:
Observation and Deduction - Shay is adept at gathering, organizing, and synthesizing vast quantities of information rapidly. This is most obvious in a party trick that she sometimes acquiesces to perform, but is useful for a dizzying array of tasks. Her only problem is that in many cases she can’t avoid collecting that information, even when the inevitable conclusions aren’t things she wants to know.
Scientific Achievement - As a dedicated student of various scientific disciplines (Including chemistry, anatomy, and poisons), Shay has developed a keen scientific mind. She believes strongly in experimentation, data recording, and tries to keep as many of her own biases away from her work. When appropriate, she’s even published several papers and monographs - though under a thorough pseudonym.
Crack Shot - Shay is an excellent shot with a variety of firearms, and would put her own skills against any of William Cody’s trick shooters any day of the week.
Polyglot - For reasons of her own, Shay speaks Arabic and German in addition to her native tongue, but struggles with the local Czech.
Violin - Shay plays the violin. Rather well, too!
Weapons/Fighting:
As mentioned above, Shay is an excellent shot, though this does not necessarily always translate into being a useful gunfighter or, indeed, that firearms are the correct tool for all situations. She has a certain skill with simple hand to hand combat, but any formal student of a martial art would be likely to best her two out of three. She has no skill at, or interest in, fencing.
History:
London, 1887
——
Snow fell in bright, fluffy puffs out of an iron-grey sky, already grubby with ash by the time they melted on cobblestones. The British Empire may have conquered half the world, but it had no control over the endless, greasy grime that coated every structure in sight. Shay Haimes trudged through the slush, her steps quick despite the uncertain footing, her back straight, fists clenched, each step splashing down through half-frozen slurry like a tiny cannonball. She looked up at a building number and turned sharply, yanking the door open, the heels of her boots banging up a flight of stairs. A door stood closed but unlocked at the landing, and she pulled it open with enough force to make it recoil off the wall as she stepped through, bumping into her back. Undaunted, she strode forward, pulling something out of her bag.
“What the hell is this? Shay said, slapping a magazine down on the man’s desk. Across the top, in black letters on a yellow banner, read “Beeton’s Christmas Annual.”
“And a merry Christmas to you as well, Miss Haimes,” the man said, picking the magazine up and looking at the cover, “And as for that, it’s twenty-five pounds I didn’t have before. Now sit down and shut the door, you’ll let worse things than the cold in. I’ll get us some tea, shall I?”
“Art,” Shay said, spinning the magazine back toward herself, then glowering at the man’s retreating back, “I told you these things in confidence. I didn’t expect you to remember them, let alone write them down. What if someone traces them back to me? To my family? My god, my sister would-”
“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you mean,” the man, Art, said, as he came back in with two mugs of steaming tea, perfuming the air with bergamot and oranges, “Here. A lovely blend from a new shop on the Queensway.”
“You’ll not distract me with tea,” Shay said, taking a sip, “…Though this may come close.”
“I thought it might,” Art said, taking a sip of his own, “Now, about the stories - they’re fluff, penny dreadfuls, something for the masses to enjoy while they shirk more productive tasks. There’s no substance there, an evening’s entertainment, nothing more.” He smiled, his voice jovial, playful.
Shay’s eyes narrowed.
“Come now, Miss Haines,” Art said, “I admit, I may have taken some liberties-“
“Couldn’t you have at least based the character on me?” Shay said with a sigh, “That would have at least been flattering.”
“A woman?” Art said, “Miss Haimes, you are aware I am trying to be paid for this work. Besides,” he said, forestalling a volcanic response, “I did.”
“You did no such thing!” Shay replied, “Unless you mean that he’s tall and thin and has dark hair, like every third person on the street. And the man is simply dreadful. He’s arrogant, condescending, has no care for the opinions of others, and insults those who think he’s remarkable. And this other fellow, he simply follow along like some sort of lost puppy. And these things he does, that he knows, they’re poppycock.”
“Miss Haimes,” Art said, his voice careful, “Do you recall the anatomists’ conference a couple of years ago?”
“Of course,” Shay said, confused.
“I seem to recall,” Art continued, “That a certain young lady, who had not been invited but nevertheless everyone was utterly convinced should be there, got into a rather heated debate with the keynote speaker on the subject of cyanide detection in cadavers or some such. I further recall that young lady being escorted from the premises, though no official censures ever appeared in the broadsheets.”
“His position was utter nonsense,” Shay said, leaning forward, setting her tea on the desk, “He had no real science, nothing but skill with a pointing stick. And he argued with me about whether or not it was going to rain.”
“His theories sounded perfectly sensible to me,” Art said mildly.
“That’s because you wouldn’t know methanol from marmalade,” Shay said, her tone a quick, harsh snap.
Art opened his mouth, then swallowed down is reply as a thoughtful look stole over him, “Wait, how did you know it would rain later that day?”
“Two men in the audience had new-ish boots,” Shay said.
“Boots.” Art said, “I see.”
Shay sighed, “They were older men sitting in the aisle across from me, both with slightly reddened knuckles. One kept rubbing his knee, and both were wearing boots - not completely new, but the leather hadn’t been stressed enough to be broken in. Rarely worn, then, but not kept in a closet and forgotten. Not fancy enough to be for special occasions, and listening to a lecture isn’t that kind of occasion to begin with. So, why would they have boots with little wear but still be on their mind enough to put them on? They were made by a very high-end manufacturer, lots of padding and hidden bracing, very comfortable for people who have sore joints, but also very expensive - not the kind of boots you would wear every day unless you were expansively wealthy. So now we know that the men were wearing those boots because their feet hurt, and we also know that pain isn’t constant because if it were, the boots would be more worn-in. So, what would make two different men’s feet and knees hurt in the same way at the same time? Clearly, the answer has to be dropping barometric pressure brought on by rain coming in, aggravating the men’s chronic arthritis, making their joints hurt and having them pull those boots out of the closet. Perfectly sensible.”
Art looked at Shay over his mug, took a long, slow sip. “Perfectly.”
Shay cleared her throat, “And that doesn’t change the fact that…” She rummaged on the table, flipped the magazine open, “Look, this one even takes place in Lauriston Gardens.”
“Nobody from Scotland Yard was involved with that, though,” Art said, “That was a purely private matter. A consultation, you could say.”
Shay sighed, “Why didn’t you at least tell me, Art?”
“I rather expected you would have, in your own eloquent and scathing way, told me not to,” Art replied, “Besides, look on the bright side of this. People are finally being interested in science, in the truth of things. They want hard reality, not fairy stories or folk cures. They want to believe in justice, to know that we can catch people who prey on those weaker than they are. These stories let them have that, make them believe that the world isn’t as dark and mysterious as they were raised to think. They want to believe, and things like this,” he tapped the magazine, “Are how they’ll get there.”
“So you’re taking the stories I told you and…giving people hope?” Shay said, “I don’t think you’re quite so high-minded as that.”
“Of course not,” Art said, “I’m also being well-compensated. They’ve already commissioned another of these, apparently this is selling quite well.”
“Surely you don’t mean to continue this,” Shay said, arching one eyebrow.
“I believe I’ve made my position sufficiently clear,” Art said, “Besides, I really don’t know why you’re so concerned about someone tracing these things back. As far as anyone knows, these are pure fiction. By the time I’m done with them, that’s damn close to the truth.”
“Art,” Shay said, her voice flat, “You put my name on the first page of the story.”
“I did no such thing,” Art said, and laid his hand over his heart.
Shay watched Art for a moment, then reached inside her jacket and pulled out a small, silver calling-card case. With a few deft motions, she withdrew a card, snapped the case closed, returned it to her pocket. She picked up one of Art’s pencils, underlined a few letters on the card, then slid the stiff paper rectangle over to him.
Art picked the card up, looked at the underlining, “Miss Haimes, do you have any idea what it’s like not to be as smart as you?” He leaned forward, “I’m reasonably clever, and you’re something else, something far beyond all the people who are going to read these stories. Nobody knows your connection. Nobody ever will. These will just be thrilling stories about a man and his chronicler,” Art paused, “Making people safer. And that reminds me.”
“Reminds you?” Shay said, suddenly nonplussed.
“I have a contact, over in Prague, by the name of Ware. He heads an…unorthodox collection of like-minded individuals who…how to put this delicately, investigate the paranormal. Root out fraudsters, find what the read dangers are. They…keep people safe. I was going to tell you over Christmas puddings, but I expect now is as good a time as any.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Shay said.
“Well,” Art said, “They’re always on the lookout for new people to induct into their ranks. We both know the world is getting a little more strange, a little less civilized than we’d like it to be. They want to help with that. They want to solve the mysteries. Ah, here we are.” He pulled a letter out of a drawer, handed it over to Shay.
She pulled thick vellum out of a heavy, wax-sealed envelope, her eye running over heavy-lettered words.
“They want to meet you, Ms. Haimes,” Art said, “And I think that you’d do much for one another. Go, be part of something bigger, something important. Let him solve the little mysteries” and Art tapped the magazine, “And you’ll solve the ones that matter.”
Random:
I’m using “Mesmerism” in the same broad usage as “hypnotism,” though I think that usage really came about in the early 20th century. Still, I love the way “Mesmerism” looks, as a word. :3
