Alicia Blackbolt, Infamous Thief

Biographical information

Birthplace Alliria Born Died Age 23 Home Alliria Sexuality Pronouns

Physical description

Race Human Sub-Race Gender Female Height 5,5 Mass Light Hair color Dark-brown Eye color Iron gray Skin color Fair

Political information

Affiliation(s) Occupation Burglar / Thief Clan(s) Caste Domain Masters Apprentices Alias(es)

Out-of-character information

Writer Darkweaver Created on Avatar ChatGPT

Alicia's Theme

The worst sort of thief is the one you can't control. Fortunately, everyone's got a weakness.

- Velin Deal

Alicia Svenson is known in the streets of Alliria as "Blackbolt," usually for leaving behind a quivering shaft of a crossbow bolt with her trademark black feathers. She is what is known as a footpad or house-breaker - a professional burglar, who has made it to the next tier beyond a humble pickpocket.

In the world of thieves, a complex hierarchy exists, as convoluted and intricate as any noble court. Alicia happens to be beholden to an arch rogue, a pimper pamper, a real prince prig and one pious pilferer by the name of Velin Deal.

Alicia has made a name for herself as a daring thief under his tutelage, stealing with expertise from the upper crust of society - but her real fame came about when she was caught. She broke out from prison twice, and once caught for the third time, stapled and manacled to the floor of a dank prison cell, she managed to escape again with nothing but a broken nail between her teeth.

When she was imprisoned for the third time, a royal painter, amongst other significant figures, visited her cell, interrogating her to satisfy their curiousity, most of which she replied to with jest and impetuous humour, keeping earnesty at far bay. Unfortunately for her, it means her face has been captured on canvas, marking a youthful face marred by pock-marks and old blisters of a strange disease.

Indeed, it is this very disease that keeps her in her unsavoury profession. The only preventative that can keep her from stepping foot in the grave from her chronic disease belongs to the Velin, who charges absurd amounts for every drop as a fence.


Thief 4 Art

Standing at a fairly short stature, Alicia doesn't cut a remarkable figure. Out of her "profession calle and pang" (referring to her cloak and gear) and without her "chicken slicer and feathers" (her crossbow and coloured bolts), she looks as common as common can be. She could be mistaken for a poor, young victim of disease, attempting to hide her scars with a wimple or hood - a mousy figure with brown, tousled hair and not a copper to her name, soon to depart the living. Certainly, Alicia can play up to this role when daylight catches her, pretending to be the helpless orphan in distress, begging for assistance.

Nothing could be further from the truth. At night, her true colours emerge - for those with the wit to spot her, that is. To most people, she is a mere shadow on the wall, a brief scurry of rat paws retreating behind a corner, a single, creaking tile on a distant rooftop, or a torch that mysteriously snuffs out, drowning the corridor in darkness.

Should you manage to catch a glimpse of her, you would see a crouching form draped in a long cloak and hood, matching the dark colour of the city walls and cobbles at night, and a scowling mouth below angry boils twisting with dissatisfaction at your discovery. The eye might be distracted by a curious leather garb and a closed quiver-case, along with a crossbow sporting strange appendages, marred by alien technology the same way her skin is invaded by some foreign force. Then, she would be gone - or the sap would come crashing down to say goodnight.

+ A right sage o' shadows, sticking to them nightshields like a tick.

+ She hits those marks and moon pigs like a right pimper pamper with her chicken slicer, innit?

+ All the flash and pang of the black market, better to moogle some gulls and pidgeons. Maybe the odd ink-bleeder or oak too.

+ Speedy little vixen, now ain't she?

+ Speaks gibberish and Crook Cant like a true academy knight.

+ A real dapper hand at bilking and cloying for her keep.

- Spot of Lickshine keeps her regular, but it takes a lot of duke's faces.

- Don't want no dances with the moon pigs, lest they crash her a gentle rub or bring her to dangle in the sheriff's picture frame.

- Coughing up a mighty storm of choleric spirits, both in words and spittle.

- Never would have a chance as a laced mutton. Skin's cracked like an overcooked sausage, eh?

Alicia has been inflicted with her sickness for as long as she cares to remember. As a child, it introduced her to the concept of mortality early on, granting her an acute sense of danger mixed with daredevil behaviour. Perfect qualities for a thief.

It has made her somewhat callous to the plight of others. Never expecting to live this long herself, she doesn't take longevity for granted for anyone. Having something of a grumpy and cynical disposition, Alicia tends to think in a shorter span than others. She doesn't plan in years, months, hardly even in weeks. Her schedule runs on daily survival.

That means when she cuts loose, she carouses with complete abandon - her days of strict caution bottling up into a frustrated need for freedom, then exploding into a wild cavalcade of debauchery and heedless partying. The common folk might know her for her daring escapes, while the underworld knows her for her insane escapades, subverting her street name to Boozer Bolt.

Ever since her notoriety or fame (depending who you ask), Alicia's mood has only soured. All she is interested in is paying her upkeep and fencing for the week - she doesn't need all this damn attention! Although, at daylight, when wandering the streets and hearing tales of her own exploits, she can't help but to stop and listen, perhaps even ask a question or two...