Status: Occupied in Valesport
Name: Boudica
Known Aliases: None
Age: 183
Sex: ♀
Gender: ♀
Sexuality: ??
Height: 1.6 meters
Weight: 68 kg
Species/Ethnicity: Brownie
Skin Color: #D5A696
Eye Color: #000000
Hair Color: #482527
Suspicious Resemblance To: Denise Bidot who is not actually plain but let's agree to pretend
Known Affiliations: None
Marital Status: Single
About:
Boudica's life has a pattern, an order. It is neat and it is tidy, if not always pleasant. She finds a home, first. Whatever home will have her. She likes big houses, best, big and empty and old. It's easier there to slip in unnoticed and make herself at home. Small houses will do in a pinch, but they're harder. It's difficult to find anyone who still keeps to the old ways, and they're the only ones who'll do.
It's hard to say how she knows which homes will work. The doors don't make her palms itch. She knows them when she finds them. She can tell when the owners are sleeping much the same, because the safety wraps around her like a quilt. That's when she gets to work, cleaning all the spots that have been missed, scrubbing the floorboards and dusting the molding. She has no magic to help her get the job done; only elbow-grease and practice. Anything not in its proper place makes her ache down to her bones, and nothing can ever be clean enough to make it go away for good. If it's bad enough, it leaves her feeling bruised and raw. If they keep to the old ways, they'll leave her a gift, something milk and honey, sugar and fat. Sugar is bliss, a welcome respite from what ails her, something to numb the magic that burns in her veins.
She dresses in neat suits with long skirts and keeps her hair in a bun with not a strand out of place. Her nails are short and neat, her shoes are flat and practical. A leather bag like an old doctor might carry holds all her possessions, mostly cleaning supplies. She accepts only gifts, and never payment, as has always been the way of things. Ears that come to delicate points and eyes of solid black are her only concessions to her nature. She is plain and easy to overlook, and that is not an accident when she can feel every pair of eyes that falls on her, when it keeps her from doing what needs doing most. It is not that she will not clean when she is watched; it is that she can't.
When payment is offered, or when the home is forfeit, Boudica finds a new refuge. An endless cycle of doors, of floors, of vinegar and soap, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning more. She's used to silence, and she's used to dark; unseen and unheard and unpaid. That's the way she likes it. That's the way it's always been.
It's hard to say how she knows which homes will work. The doors don't make her palms itch. She knows them when she finds them. She can tell when the owners are sleeping much the same, because the safety wraps around her like a quilt. That's when she gets to work, cleaning all the spots that have been missed, scrubbing the floorboards and dusting the molding. She has no magic to help her get the job done; only elbow-grease and practice. Anything not in its proper place makes her ache down to her bones, and nothing can ever be clean enough to make it go away for good. If it's bad enough, it leaves her feeling bruised and raw. If they keep to the old ways, they'll leave her a gift, something milk and honey, sugar and fat. Sugar is bliss, a welcome respite from what ails her, something to numb the magic that burns in her veins.
She dresses in neat suits with long skirts and keeps her hair in a bun with not a strand out of place. Her nails are short and neat, her shoes are flat and practical. A leather bag like an old doctor might carry holds all her possessions, mostly cleaning supplies. She accepts only gifts, and never payment, as has always been the way of things. Ears that come to delicate points and eyes of solid black are her only concessions to her nature. She is plain and easy to overlook, and that is not an accident when she can feel every pair of eyes that falls on her, when it keeps her from doing what needs doing most. It is not that she will not clean when she is watched; it is that she can't.
When payment is offered, or when the home is forfeit, Boudica finds a new refuge. An endless cycle of doors, of floors, of vinegar and soap, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning more. She's used to silence, and she's used to dark; unseen and unheard and unpaid. That's the way she likes it. That's the way it's always been.