Identity:  Delilah Moore  Level: 1
Side: Pinkerton                 Sex: Female
Age:   27                             Training: Charisma
Experience:                       Occupation: Barkeep
Powers:                              Clearance:            

Persuasion
Charm
Tumble
Alertness
Sleight of Hand

Equipment:
Concealed small pistol bustier holster
Double barreled shotgun


Weight:    135   Basic Hits:   2.6     Agility Mod:
Strength: 12                                      Intelligence: 17
Endurance: 15                                  Agility: 16
Charisma: 20                                    Will: 13
Hit Mods: (1.2)x(1.8)x(1.2)x(1.6)x(1.1)= 4.6             Hits: 12
Healing:  1                                          Power: 73
Inventing: 1.7, 54%                          Movement:  43
Carrying: 210                                    HTH: 1d4
Damage Mod: +3                               Accuracy: +3


Det. Hidden: 13                               Det. Danger:  17
Height: 5’6”                                            Wealth: 17
Knowledge Areas:



“Oh honey, you look tired.  Pull up a stool and tell me your troubles, I’ll see if I can’t find something to take the edge off.”

Blarney Rose is a respectable establishment, as far as bars in Manhattan go for the time, full of piano music and comfortable seating, strong drinks and stronger personalities.  Not the least of those personalities resides behind the bar, Delilah Moore just about as much of a fixture to the place as the bar’s actual fixtures.  This place is her baby, her second home (even though her first is just upstairs anyway), and she works hard to make sure that warmth and welcome extends to all her patrons. 

“Here’s that then, on the house.  You look like you need it.”

She has a gift with people, always able to make it seem like you’ve got her undivided attention even while she handles the rest of the bar, teasing out more to the story in easy conversation in true honor of the place’s namesake.   Truly, that hearkening to the Irish legend of Blarney, the stone that imparts the gift of gab, may be more evidence of her heritage than her flame-red hair and long-faded brogue.  She may never have laid eyes on the relic in question let alone kissed it, but it certainly seems like she’s wielding every ounce of that blessing, keeping her current best friend of the moment at ease and engaged even through –

CRASH.

“Oh, not again.  A moment, love.  HEY!  Take that outside!”

Matron of the bar both in care and discipline, Delilah has never stood for brawling on the premises.  In most cases, a sharp word honed to a razor’s edge and the advance of a few of her regulars is enough to keep things moving along and civil.  In some cases, the small pistol she conceals in her bustier is needed to convince them that she’s quite serious while still being ladylike enough.

The double-barreled shotgun strapped under the lip of the bar is for when ladylike isn’t going to cut it.

“Ugh, sorry dear, going to have to go clean that up.  Here, let me introduce you to a friend of mine.”

And there, simple as that, the mark is passed off to another one of her Pinkerton peers.  She’ll compare notes with him later after the truth serum in his drink has run its course, but for the moment there’s a brawl to mop up after, and drinks to fill for the rest of the uninvolved world.

Pinkertons never run a tab.

Adding picture reference for her too!

http://imgur.com/a/HlSwW