Very much.
Are you 18 years or older?:
Very much.
Have you read our rules?:
Yes.
Character Portrait (optional):
Character name:
Dain Seibhall
Character age:
22
Physical description of your character:
Middling height, slim appearance suggesting malnutrition. Dark hair seems to be treated more as an impediment than stylistic decision. Quick to smile despite a relatively rough appearance.
Notable personality traits or skills:
Keen to talk his way out of or into situations and prone to flight.
Where is your character coming from? (write a short paragraph about your character’s background before jail):
Dain hails from Farrow Cove with no great pedigree or profession. He's spent most of his early life in brothel and bar kitchens. Not quite so wretched to be called an urchin, but still a rather pathetic creature who takes whatever wins he can find. Despite what he'd have you believe, he had a loving relationship with his parents before they died of unimpressive natural cause.
How did your character find themselves in jail awaiting trial? (Please write a few short paragraphs describing what poor luck brought your character to this point in their life):
In typical fashion, circumstances had been arranged by an impulsive urge to run his mouth. Dain sat on the floor of the cell recollecting the chain of events that lead to his current predicament. Looking back, it all seemed to obvious.
He'd banked the oven's embers for the night, what passed for dishware had been scoured and stacked, and the last of the punters had been evicted. The extra bit of jangle in his coinpurse tonight was courtesy of a cautiously received promise of extra work the following day to his current employer. Likely, it was the high of the grift that courted him toward ruin. A drink and a few throws of dice sounded mighty find tonight.
What he'd not anticipated was the surprise fortune of winning the deed to a linen mill. The oddity of that loser being so polite as to provide his own solicitor to overlook the deed transfer was overlooked thanks to the coin piling up before his eyes. The following played out like a cheap penny rag morality tale. A dilapidated mill stocked with mouldy and moth-eaten linen. A staff that more resembled residence of the mortuary than tradesmen and books more cooked than his grandmother's famous meat mash.
Least surprising of all, he now sat shaking his head as he remembered, is the deed was a forgery, the insurance had been paid to the loser, and the arson pinned cleanly to auld Dain. Sure as rain felt like he had together there for a moment but that all collapsed as the jailor ushered him from the cell.