Collection of the Divine
The female Neal Caffrey, without the bothersome friendship with a fed.
Country of Origin: London, England, UK
Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2; Charisma 4, Manipulation 4, Appearance 3; Perception 3, Intelligence 3, Wits 3.
Academics 2, Animal Ken 1, Art 2 (specialty: antiquities), Awareness 2, Brawl 1, Command 2, Empathy 3, Fortitude 1, Integrity 3, Investigation 3, Larceny 4, Occult 1, Politics 2, Presence 3, Stealth 3, Survival 2
Tarnhelm ski mask (relic 2)
Cloak of Deception (relic 3)
Epic Dexterity 1, Epic Charisma 1, Epic Manipulation 1, Epic Appearance 1, Epic Perception 1, Epic Intelligence 1, Epic Wits 1
Courage 2, Endurance 3, Expression 3, Loyalty 1
Legend: 3, Legend Pool: 9
Soak L 1, B 2
Armor B 2
Kitty Ford is not her real name—it might as well be, though, because her real name is not nearly so cute, and she might be tempted to strangle anyone who dared to address her by it (but no one except her mother and maybe a few primary school teachers know that name anyway). Of course, “Kitty Ford” is not that cute either, at least not to someone in the know—to every thief in the London underworld and to every copper on the Metropolitan Police’s Fraud Squad she is the incomparable Kitty Ford, aka the Cat, a formidably talented cat burglar and con artist (rather diabolically talented, especially for one so young). If ever wealthy, easily-duped tourists enter her domain, they never know Kitty Ford—oh, they are warned of her, and they might get to know the glitzy and ditzy, but ever so charming and bubbly socialite Boadicea Hull, or the doggedly determined and tireless reporter Alice Aimes, or the mysteriously seductive and astonishingly perceptive art appraiser and historian Alexis Lok, or even perhaps the lovably sweet, ragged cleaning lady Henny Lestvic. But they wouldn’t know Kitty Ford; in fact, very few people even know what she looks like.
Born in Oxford to Eleanor (Ellie) Ellis, a manuscript conservator at the Ashmolean and an avid student of Norman and Viking culture, Kitty grew up with a refined, knowledgeable appreciation for antiquities and history.
MORE BACK STORY IN THE WORKS. But for right now: Visitation, part 1.
While she no longer depends on street-level pickpocketing for income, Kitty enjoys honing her skills by exercising her fingers on the wallets of unsuspecting passersby. She prefers the Mayfair shopping district of Oxford, Regent, Bond, and New Bond Streets—all bustling with consumers whose pockets are burdened with excessive disposable income in the form of easily hackable pieces of plastic. On one of these trips, just outside the Oxford Circus Station entrance, swarming with tourists now in summer, she stood waiting, disguised in as a rich American tourist in an ostentatious ensemble of designer labels, flamboyantly talking on her cellphone. Waiting. Talking. There’s one.
A man—corporate lawyer, probably, from his smug smile, his well-tailored suit, the cavalier way he holds his briefcase as if it could never be stolen—in his early thirties, handsome, dark (like Kitty), nice hair. Aware of his looks. Arrogant. Thinks he owns the world. Perfect. This is going to be fun. Simple bump and lift should do it.
Still having a frivolous conversation with her friend, she walked towards the stranger.
“No—I told you I would wait by the Oxford Circus Station, so we could go to Top Shop together. Where are—Oh shoot, I’m sorry—what the hell—”
“Oh I do beg your pardon.”
She was on the ground. What? The man was staring at her—call her crazy, but she could have sworn that a slight smile curled his lips, in a rather unnerving fashion.
“Here, let me help you up.” He held out his hand. She took it, dazed by her flub.
She looked at the man standing opposite. Something was terribly unsettling about him, up close. More unsettling, though, she realized she couldn’t hear the crowd busily milling around her and him, as if they together were a divider on the pavement. He coolly returned her now nervous stare.
Most frightening of all—he grinned.
Holy f***. He knew her name. Police? Swindled businessman? No—she didn’t recognize him.
“You’re oddly silent for what is typically a touching reunion between daughter and long-lost father.”
“Oh go to hell. I don’t know who you are—some punk challenging me in my realm. I don’t care. But how dare you mention my dad or for a second think that I’m brainless—just because you can shirk me in a bump and lift. You’re what—30? Who are you? How did you know my name?”
“Your mother always had a thing for Norse myths. Hmh—clearly.” She wanted to punch that smirk off his face.
“Clearly. So what’s your name? Sigurd?”
“Oh you must be f***ing kidding me.”
“My, my. Strong language.”
“Hmh—if you’re Loki, who are you to judge?”
“Mmm. Obviously you still doubt me. Have you never wondered why you are so good at lying to a
person’s face, stealing without getting caught, deceiving so well that even an expert doubts his own opinion?”
“Inheritance, my dear."