Tyche

### Hair

Red, wavy to mid-back (TM), curly and long (SC), wavy and just past shoulders (20s)

### Scars, Tattoos, Etc.

Blindfold over her eyes (TM), thick glasses (SC/TM), scar across palm (SC/20s), golden wings (TM/SC)

### Realationships

Anteros' sister, Hermes' adopted daughter

**Tyche** (*Τύχη*) the goddess of fortune, chance, providence, and fate and the adopted daughter of Hermes. When you think of fortune, you think of sudden windfalls, but in reality, fortune is neither good nor bad, it merely is. Tyche, traditionally shown with her mural crown, blindfold, cornucopia, and rudder, steered the people of Greece by her will alone. In the Titanomachy, her blindfold serves to cut out too many visuals, too many possible futures overlaid atop each other, and reduce the headaches and nausea that comes with all the things her eyes can see. Later, the glasses will serve the same purpose, cutting out cobwebby mists that cling like gossamer to the world. The other gods have falled into disuse, but Tyche is still called on today, all gamblers know their Lady Luck, their bon chance, children cling to lucky pennies, the superstitious have a hundred ways to seek her favor and avoid her displeasure. She's equally at home in the halls of palaces and illegal gambling dens, where so many call on her still. Unlike some of the others, she never really sleeps, a few years here and there. After all, fortune is always in demand. Her aura is like pyrite, gold, glinting, and ever so slightly *off.* Sometimes Nemesis comes to correct Tyche's whims, which bothers her not at all. Fortune comes and fortune goes, judgement is not her purview. The Greek philosophers revered her and heartbroken poets called her a fickle harlot. Neither were wrong to do so.

## Titanomachy

**Tyche** Goddess of Fate and Chance Sometime in her past, Tyche was found wandering by Hermes, her father by either of their accounts, who taught her a few things of gambling and keeping a straight face. Chance requires quick thought and a good poker face is nothing more than an expert lie. They’re immeasurably fond of each other, and Tyche respects her father’s opinions, staying with him rather than her presumed mother, Aphrodite.div style="clear: both">

## Sun Court

**Felice de Beauharnais** is a low-ranking noblewoman. Orléans was the place in France where the Duke had invoked her in 1428, not by her real name, but close enough, to turn the tide of the battle and the Hundred Year War against the English, setting her blessing into the city’s stone walls. The recipient of her blessing had been the now legendary peasant girl, Joan of Arc. Just because Fortune blesses you doesn't mean you'll live a long and healthy life. She works as closely with Death as any aspect of Life. There had been an extremely short marriage that ended in an annulment a few years ago, though no one really remembers who it had been to. Originally, home was in Orléans, but the compulsion to begin cultivating some financial interests quickly re-established itself. It's hard to say how she's not an utterly ruined woman, as she's not married, but keeps company of men and women regularly in her own suites in the palace, gambles inveterately, and has an unwholesome interest in mercenary things such as accumulating money, rather than spending it. But there are relatively few whispers about her, no matter how close she stands to Rumor and Scandal – or perhaps it is because of it. People still seek her company and smile, hoping that she'll help their own agendas. A word or two from her to the right person always seems to work out.

## Roaring 20s

**Moira Faust** Freelance Journalist at City Journal of Commerce and Daily Financial Times (under psyuedonym Tyler Handak), City Globe (under psyeudonym Felix Asher), and The Saturday Post under her own name; Stock Market Player; Owner of the Irishwoman The reset this time is abrupt, nearly shocking. The world is in tumult, economic and political fortune are competing with each other and the discord from the situation manifests as waking up as a teenager – she hadn’t missed that. She has no idea who she is, other than Moira Faust, the name Tyche on her lips, enrolled as a student at Hockaday Girl’s Academy. Something calls to her mind in the back, and when she answers it at a bank, they ask for the password. There’s no way to know what it may be, other than the four Greek letters she always wakes with. It is all she needs, in the end.

She writes about anything that tickles her fancy - mostly local or national politics, though she does occasionally write about luminaries and the wealthy socialites in the City. She is pro-union but also profoundly free-market, a capitalist who believes the governing body ought to redistribute assets downwards. It isn't because she necessarily cares about the people, simply that in this time and place, the masses can only be suppressed for so long before it will have severe consequences for everyone. And that is bad for business.

## Possessions of Note

### Titanomachy

* A blindfold, made for her by the Moirai to block out unnecessary threads of Fate.

### Sun Court

* A blindfold, made by Felice in an attempt to duplicate the one from her youth, spun, woven, and then smeared with her own ichor to reduce the whiplash of regaining too many memories at once.
* A two-headed coin, one that will never warm, no matter how long you hold it.

### Roaring 20s

* A top hat, adorned with two playing cards drawn by Tyche and a single golden feather from **Trixie**.
* A two-headed coin, one that will never warm, no matter how long you hold it.
* An old mahjongg set
* Several mechanical knives, maintained monthly with Ben, typically at the Irishwoman'

## Non-Player Characters

### Sun Court NPCs

* **Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban** is a French military engineer, employing Madame de Beauharnais to teach his daughters to gamble.

#### Odette Aiguille

This is a test mechanism for Odette's output

### Roaring 20s NPCs

* **Samuel "Sam" Hansen** is a detective on the vice squad marked by Moira Faust after being caught cheating in her establishment in an effort to inject funny money into the criminal underworld and track their activities a little closer. In exchange for letting him live and a gun that only hits lucky shots, Moira has a nice little pet in the police force.
* **Toulouse** is Moira's cat, who has adopted a number of gods who are terrible at taking care of themselves in different ways. A ginger tom who thinks he's larger than he is, but with a temper to match his Napolean complex. Formerly taken care of by **Gale** prior to apartment crowding, he's more than happy to boss Moira into taking care of both of them. He sneaks out occasionally, enjoying bossing about the regulars in Rough Trades with the other grumpy ginger - **Peter**.
* **Zoltán Patak** is Moira's neighbor across the hall, married to the snoop, and completely ignorant of the Harry situation.
* **Zsófia Pataki, nee Varga** is Moira's neighbor across the hall, a bit of a snoop, and has a thing for the elevator boy, Harry.
* **Catherine Mallon** is one half of Mallon and Mallon's tailor and seamstress shops. Her dresses are occasionally made with stunning embroideries, these coveted items have a reputation for ensuring the wearer has one of the best nights of their life.
* **Edward Mallon** is one half of Mallon and Mallon's tailor and seamstress shops. He doesn't blink when it comes to making Mo - or anyone else in a company - a suit to her exacting specifications.
* **Benvenuto "Ben" Agosti** is the cashier and presumed owner of the Irishwoman, an older Italian gentleman who is really fronting for Moira.
* **Lucia Agosti** is married to Benvenuto Agosti and self-designated quasi-housekeeper for Moira.

## Locations

### Sun Court Locations

* **Felice's Chambers** are not so grand as that for the King, Queen, or royal children, but there are two rooms, one to receive visitors with a settee, a table, upholstered chairs to match the bed, and a large rug. The other has space for the four post bed and its sumptuous blue damask curtains. Several landscapes hang on the walls - the walls of the city of Orleans among them, but also Greek and French countrysides, and the city of Athens and Rome.

### Roaring 20s Locations

#### Mallon and Mallon

```
**Mallon and Mallon** sits at 3 and 5 Goldsmiths Street, not far from the most glamorous mansions in the City. Technically it is two shops. The proprietor, Edward Mallon, runs an esteemed tailoring business out of number 5, with a reputation for the lines of his creations always being the most fashionable, the seams most precise, the fits the most exquisite.

```

His wife, Catherine, operates out of number 3, producing dresses for Society's Galas and fundraisers guaranteed to draw envious gazes. There are whispers that some of the embroidered creations from her shop will bring the woman wearing them the luckiest evening of their lives. Marigold Voorhan had met a Duke wearing one, and after a whirlwind courtship, now lived in a castle in England. Edith Arnoult's abusive husband had slipped on an unfortunately waxed bit of floor during a fundraising dinner and subsequently died, leaving her in possession of a small fortune and freedom. This meant that Mrs. Mallon had rather a long waiting list. Some women will pay any sum for a chance at a turn in their fortunes, and the richer they are, the bigger the check.

The two have no interest in becoming the next Worths. Instead, they hired a few assistants, moved into a very comfortable living space, and took trips to Europe for fashion shows, bringing back ideas that continued to keep them in front of competitors for those in the know. Everyone has heard of Macy's and Bloomingdale's, of the biggest designers. But only the highest of the upper crust know of the Mallons, and they hold that secret as close as they can.

There are no outfits on hangers for sale when one walks into either shop, merely those waiting to be picked up in cloth bags or on a mannequin to provide inspiration to their clients and bolts of fabric waiting for the sharpest of shears to set them on their journey towards masterpieces.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise that Moira Faust does not sit on any waiting lists in either shop. For she is the one who does the embroidery on those infamous gowns, when the mood takes her, dropping them off as though they are worthless scraps of fabric instead of miracles made with thread. The Mallons do not know more than that, but that's more than enough. Ms. Faust is their favorite customer.

### Inhabitants

Moira Faust (Tyche)

**Moira’s apartment** foyer is whitewashed, no wallpaper in sight, with a cranberry stripe along the crown molding to pull out the red tones in her floor, white ceiling high. A doorway to the left as someone walks in, a coatrack on the right next to the door, holding nothing, perhaps a pair of shoes on the floor, sensible boots or impractical designer heels equally likely, her own coats, shoes, and hats (in their boxes, of course) tucked into the second bedroom’s tiny closet. There’re very few clues to the personality of the woman who lives there in the entranceway.

If one turns left, passing through the small gallery, her living room contains a globe and a wood paneled wall to the left that is more than it appears, mostly because she likes secrets, thinks that the invention of the Murphy bed was delightful. No one has ever used it except her, no one has ever needed to, typically the people who stay the night stay in her room, with a few notable exceptions. Hospitality isn’t her scene, nor is she in the business of out-of-town friends coming to stay. The rest of the walls in the room have the lower half covered in a cream damask with blue and gold flowers, the blue extending towards the white ceiling. The upholstery on the chairs and settee are a deep blue linen, the couch is leather, the same color as the wood paneling and the chair legs and backs. Within the room are a few items of note, hints to who Moira *is*. The end table next to the settee she hooks her legs over some afternoons is piled with newspapers, some in French, another in Russian, a third in Greek, most in English. The business section from each untidily stripped and scrawled on, a notepad covered in further ideas, script as neat as a private-school education could browbeat her into.

Two tall windows, across from the hidden bed, settee partially obscuring it, look out at the City that winks her towards sleep in the early hours of the morning. A large, plush rug on the floor has a few more frequently traced paths in it, showing Moira’s walk from the entrance to the sill, the sill to the couch, the couch to the hidden bed or bookshelves flanking the fireplace, a ship in a bottle on the mantle an homage to a long-forgotten friend and a tribute to the ship’s wheel on her wrist. Occasionally there’s a dressing gown of an equally rich color pooled on the couch, as though the owner simply grew tired of wearing it and never bothered to put it away, a forgotten mug of half-drunk coffee on another end table.

The windowsills are a dark, rich wood, deep enough for a small woman to sit in, curled up, a decorative pillow left there indicating that absolutely occurs. The phone is on a small table next to the couch; Moira likes to be comfortable when she talks, and that extends to conversations over the telephone. On one wall hangs a *cartone* of Bouillon’s L’Enfant et la Fortune, purchased by or gifted to a prior self. Not *her* child, of course. But she’s blessed a few, over the years. The painting, miniaturized and lovely, vibrant greens and ochre jumping off the blue wall. Between the two windows though, is the piece that continually drew Moira’s eye, old-fashioned as it is. *Winding the Skein*, by Sir Leighton. She doesn’t ask why she’s drawn to art of women alone and unbothered by it. Before she had been Awake and known differently, Leighton’s painting had reminded her of a maternal figure in a haze of memory. Now she realizes why, but won’t remove the painting, even if it wasn’t her mother it made her think of.

There’s other art on the walls currently, including a blue and gold *Starry Night Over the Rhone* purchased some time ago from a relatively unknown Dutchman, *A Young Botanist* by a Canadian, but they change on a whim. There’s only two constants in this room. There's no consistency or pattern to the art itself - classical, impressionist, photographs. Simply subjects or styles that appeal to Moira in the moment, diverse and vivid, nearly alive.

To the right of the gallery is the dining room, which is hardly used as such. The table is smaller than the room requires, pushed to the side but still able for the solo occupant to look out the window should she eat at it, a bookshelf that holds books and records for the small gramophone in the room. The records are a mix, whatever grabs her fancy - symphonies, jazz, blues, swing – and older music, dances half-remembered and steps half-practiced alone in the late nights when she can’t sleep and her memory haze is almost dispersed by exhaustion and alcohol – allemandes, courantes, waltzes, minuets. Gershwin’s *Rhapsody in Blue* currently sits waiting for the needle in its groove. The two windows sills have the same pillows, it’s where Moira typically takes her nightcap. The wallpaper is white and gold, the curtains that same cranberry as the entrance and the foyer. Bold colors are to Moira’s taste and she extends that to her home. The same wooden floors run throughout, though the kitchen off the dining room is tiled, the icebox in it generally empty, cabinets with liquor more than food, and plenty of coffee. The room for the maid Moira doesn’t keep is off that, and she keeps Toulouse's litter box in there, after Gale drops him off. The stove has four burners and even that feels excessive for a woman who never chopped a vegetable.

The next door over from the living room is a small water closet, black and white tiles, a sink and toilet, silvery mirror and a cabinet behind. If one had continued straight, the second bedroom is first, forest green wallpaper with chestnut striping that lights up in the evening sun, imbued with warmth, white curtains on the tall windows, white rug on the floor. This is where the portrait of Victory lives, even though it makes Moira chuckle at the inaccuracy of the depiction. Not that she remembers exactly what Victory looks like. The bed is sturdy, the wardrobe empty, the chair slightly worn, a small closet stuffed with Moira’s outerwear and deep inside, an embroidery basket. She doesn’t stitch often, less so now. Her work is surprisingly neat, although it took a few centuries, finished pieces are given to her tailor to convert into some article of clothing or linens, the lines shifting and mesmerizing. Weaving had gone out of style a long while ago. It’s an early evening task, her favorite time to sit in this room and watch the light, when she feels like being still for a moment. When she feels adrift, the measuring and cutting is an anchor.

And now, the final room of the owner of this nearly frugal apartment, given her wealth. The art not necessarily famous yet, the furniture not the newest, most modern that money can buy. Wall colors rich and refreshed, the floors and rugs slightly worn, the space just large enough. A woman in her mid-twenties still living alone; the neighbors agree that she is an unusual girl but charming, even those disinclined to approve of the new night lifestyles. Her doorman, Roberts, worried about her coming home so late until she reassured him that she didn’t take chances and could protect herself. Nothing in the apartment indicates that she’s a natural grifter, comfortable in society as low as the vagrants and as high as the Rockefellers.

But inside her closet is clothing for any occasion, shoes custom-made for her feet, dresses and skirts for any class of woman, blouses of rayon and silk, tans and blacks and colors bright enough to distract anyone from Moira herself. Just outside it is a vanity, more white and gold, the seat upholstered in a dark violet this time, the handles’ gilt worn with use, covered in the prior evening’s primping supplies. Inside are underthings of equal quality variability, nearly transparent silks and wholly comfortable cottons.

The books in the tall shelf in her room give more indication to her interests than the nothings and magazines in the living room, here reside her true thoughts. A copy of the 1920 Census and the statistics around it, modern textbooks and historical musings on chance and probability theory, famous applications of the concepts, economics and the Journal of the American Statistical Association, clippings of articles that she has written. The white furniture is practical, lightening up the rich violets in the wallpaper, white bedspread messy and unmade, a few recently worn outfits on the floor near the door to the bathroom, where indigo ceramic tiles support a clawfoot tub.

Moira Faust lives here and nowhere at all.

* **The Green Pips** is a larger underground gambling facility in a marginally nicer part of town with harder regulars. It has a larger variety of games than the Irishwomanm with actual staff and games beyond simple cards dealt by an agreed upon person or with your own dice. Lately, even the smaller joints have had a cadre of suspicious folks walk through their doors, and Moira is not appreciative of the trend. Tomaso Zatti is the Casa Nostra representative at the head of the joint.
* **The Irishwoman** is a basement gambling den for locals and money laundering operation on the side, secretly owned by Moira Faust.

1. ↑ [1]
2. ↑ Sebastien Le Prestre de Vauban [2]
3. ↑ Wikipedia - Camorra [3]
4. ↑ Wikipedia - Bari [4]