Somewhere in a certain government department that may or may not exist, Scathach has a personnel file. She performs duties on behalf of Her Royal Majesty and a recent transfer to the Lothian region represents an advancement in a career stellar for being under the radar. Her work for the UK Border Agency grants her access to privileged locations and an excuse to show up anywhere, at any time, for the good of crown and country. The scope of her duties is known to few.
The Supernal truth is much the same. Certain Anglesey mages believed she did not exist at all, but was merely another facet of the notorious warlock, Gwydion. A figure of dubious repute and bleak legend, Gwydion is said to be under an ancient curse, in league with demons, or immortal and using a woman as his latest vessel. Like any good Guardian, she leaves the matter -- and why she is in Edinburgh -- open to speculation.
Guardians know her for another reason altogether. Scathach holds some sway over the owner of the acclaimed Witchery, a hotel in the heart of Old Town. She has been known to extend invitations for short-term stays and safe haven to a privileged few.
› RP HOOKS
- Guardian: Need a stealthy assistant or help from someone who knows how to keep her mouth shut? Scathach is an excellent operative for below-the-radar missions and dealing with "problems" like Abyssal monsters, snooping Sleeper agents, and Seers of the Throne.
- Lodgings: She has contacts inside the Witchery, one of Edinburgh's finest boutique hotels. Need a room, a place to stash your treasure or a private suite for a clandestine meeting?
- Secrets: Of course she cares for hidden knowledge, juicy details, and information that could be filed away and used to blackmail someone else later. Unearthing details, especially social dirt and gossip, is her specialty. Why else would she be affiliated with a hotel?
- Wine: Her tipple of choice is as good a place to start enjoying herself as any.
She might fade away if given the chance, a spectre spun of shadow and slanted looks. Dark hair, more ebonwood than mahogany, falls in a careless shroud over features too sharply angled and carved to be anything but northern European. A grey Harris tweed cloche cap makes an effort to civilise her bangs, but achieves only casting her pale face into shadow. Rectangular glasses dim almond eyes treated with just enough mascara and liner to obscure their actual shade. The slimness of her proportioned body lends an air of fragility; long, almost coltish limbs suggest height. No rings decorate her slender hands, but her neat copper manicure glitters under a sparkled finish.
- Gwyllgi: I have no illusions about your real master.
- Inga: Your choice of profession leaves questions I can't answer.
- Invidia: Oil and water are bound to produce sparks, but will you burn us down?
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