Image Credits: frame Bethesda/Arkane; Doll Meiker Embergeist's Opera Ghost

Name: Thornton Powall

Gender/Preference: Male, straight, very picky

Age/DOB: 40 in 1855

Faction: Citizen / Black Marketeer / Would-Be Importer

Family: all dead, last of the Powall line in Dunwall; from a long line of market sellers and art dealers, patrons of the arts in fact. But they're long gone.

Height/Build: 6'2" / more skinny than lean these days, but can put enough muscle back on his bones if he has the means

Hair: faded brick red, with stylish and reasonably attractive wihte at both temples; full and fluffy when it's clean, kept short

Eyes: very pale grey-blue, almost icy blue; with heavy bags now, under concerned and annoyed brows

Appearance: light skin with small scars, not an unattractive man but he's too gaunt to look it any more; dresses as cleanly as possible, in the leftover fineries of whoever owned this shop before he got to it - yes, they're a dead-man's clothes... Voice is weaker than it was in his youth, but still resonant enough that he could easily call for guards if a ruckus starts outside the shop

"What compells a man to drink and dance; what compells others to steal and corrupt?"

Skills and Occupation: takes no sides because that's dangerous, but it is painfully obvious that he's just ‘in it for himself' anyway. The way he treats goods that have been given to him in trade by the ‘lesser' of the street urchins or gang members is very clearly different from the eagerness he shows toward ‘proper' people's items. He is very well educated but more in the ways of merchantry and society, and not in any academic field or in a dreadful physical skill. He gambles and appraises art with equal gusto. Thornton will grudgingly clean his shop and clothing, but does make appointments with the hair stylist and tooth cleaners every month or so to make sure he is presentable to customers.

Residence: Upper Cyria District, with a shop tucked under the apartments backing the canal and just near a busy carriage intersection. Of course it's dark and dreary in there, and smells of the canal and engine exhaust, and there are a lot of accidents on that road. But sometimes they bring in new customers. His home is... currently... a cot in the back of the shop, for ... reasons. He will not talk about them.

Notable Possessions: few are his own original belongings, so now he is making the most out of this little hole in the wall shop.

Personality: Snooty and arrogant, but down on his luck, he'll take what he can get. That's pretty much all, he's very, very shallow and he knows it. It served him well in the past, maybe it will give him an edge in the years to come. Obviously he's an ‘optimist' in that regard, he doesn't believe that he will go any farther down into the depths, surely the gutter is better than nothing...

Likes and Dislikes: Art, fine wine, fancy company, those are his desires and his flair. He won't scoff at a good swig of local liquor, but he will choke on anything less than clean glasses. Though he doesn't often show ‘love' for anything, at least love in the conventional sense, he goes goo-goo eyed at rare art by important people, he knows just where to put it for the best effect - or, sell it for the right price of course. He dislikes getting dirty, and is fastidious, he'd much rather have an apprentice in the shop to clean it, than having to do it himself.

Fears or Interruptions: hates? Well. There's a gang member that swindled him back in Dunwall, who put him in this position in the first place, at the bottom of the market sellers heap in a foreign city. At least the city is beautiful. If he's learned anything from this, it's to not drink and carouse with the wrong people.

Originally from Dunwall, from a line of market sellers and art dealers, patrons of the arts in fact. But they're long gone and he's the last of the Powall line, he is trying to make the most of what he's got. He wound up on a boat, unconscious and penniless, headed to Karnaca, after a drunken night of ‘fun' at the Golden Cat. That gang member he lost everything there to, is probably dead himself, by now, at least he tells himself that to make it easier to tolerate sleeping on a lumpy cot in a dingy basement. Still, Thornton knows better than to cross any other powerful people, he's greedy and snooty but he isn't actually stupid. He easily recognized who to hobnob with, making up stories about his travel from Dunwall - mostly true, but thrown in with enough to tug the heartstrings like a good play or opera, and bent the ear of a local merchant who hooked him up with this place, recently vacated. He has his eye on bigger, brighter things, like an apartment with windows that aren't crusted with piss and dirt.