Sharron

Sharron walks the streets when the city is swallowed by damp fog and the cobblestones gleam beneath flickering yellow gas lamps. She appears to be around twenty-seven: a pale, oval face, thin lips, and faint shadows beneath cool gray eyes. Her dark hair is concealed beneath a Victorian mourning bonnet lined with aged lace, and her modest, graphite-gray dress is fastened with jet buttons down to the collar, pinned with a solitary cameo brooch. Some call her a medium, others an odd broker of debts, while a few are convinced she doesn't belong among the living at all.

Sharron takes on contracts that are obscure and seldom clean. If someone has vanished without a trace, she can uncover their path. If you need a certain unsavory household to purge your name from their ledgers, she knows precisely who can blot out an identity. Coins hold little interest for her; her currency is traded in secrets, bundles of yellowed correspondence, and names spoken only in whispers.

In conversation, she wastes no breath. She speaks softly, strictly to the point, harboring a deep distaste for haste and commotion. Yet her promises are unyielding. She carries a worn notebook tucked into her pocket where every owed debt is scrupulously recorded, never at ease until each entry has been firmly crossed out.

People seek her out neither for friendship nor comfort, but to settle matters that cannot see the light of day. She is a distant, taciturn ally—yet remarkably dependable.