Name: Jakob Larkin
Age: somewhere around 16
Occupation: Pickpocket Messenger/street runner
Appearance
Somewhat square-jawed with a heavy chin and eyebrows that are heavier still, in several years, Jakob could be an attractive man -- assuming, of course, that he managed to eat a bit better. As it is, he is worn lean and sharp, with narrow eyes and an emboldened, challenging edge to his posture. Most days he is wind-chapped and cold, frequently sporting a bloodied lip or a black eye. Dark hair is kept cropped short and ragged, up off of his face. Dark eyes are bright and attentive.
Though orphaned teenager he might be, dressed in ragged and patched clothing under a fairly-fresh coat, one-on-one it's hard for Jakob to garner sympathy, due to the cocky tone of his voice and his obvious unwillingness to indulge in pity. This only fades away when he's trying to milk something out of a stranger.
Personality
Under no circumstance could one really call Jakob naive, but in his way, he is something of a dreamer. Capable of taking care of himself [mostly], slipping through the cracks of the city and finding enough food and shelter to keep him alive and under cover, he quietly and inwardly burns with frustration, impotently furious when he sees the rich bandying around their goods, as if they deserve them merely from having been born into them.
He is irreverent and sly, cocky and unapologetic, frequently charismatic, balanced with a healthy dose of something vulnerable and fragile. He has easily wounded pride, and a sharp tongue.
Skills
Alas, Jakob lacks certain skills that could aid in getting him ahead in life. He can't read, can't write, has no inheritance to any kind of useful skills. He can only sew enough to crudely patch his own clothing, to remove monograms from delicate handkerchiefs. Can only cook enough to warm what he finds over hot stones.
He does, however, have skills enough to keep him alive. He knows the city like the back of his hand, alleyways and shortcuts, pubs likely to throw out perfectly good food that he could steal. He knows names and faces of shop owners likely to help him out in the heat of trouble.
Add to this nimble fingers, quick legs, and sharp eyes, and his chosen 'profession' comes into clear light. He is an excellent pickpocket.
Of course, this isn't how he bills himself. No. He bills himself on his clear voice and memory, his ability to learn messages and deliver them by voice -- and, of course, the fact that he couldn't read written messages if he wanted to. Message delivered within the hour, two at most. He'll collect his tip at the other end.
Or maybe out of your pocket while you're not paying attention.
History
The workhouse waits for young men out on the streets without any kind of guardians: a home that sets them to mindless labor, that milks them of whatever spirit they might have leaves them battered, worn, and pliable.
Jakob doesn't fit in, there.
He's been on the streets as long as he can remember -- only able to draw up faint images of a filthy aunt who had once taught him the skills to begging, thieving, and hiding the evidence. She is long gone, and in her absence, the city seeks to put him back where he would be safe, shoveled into one of those homes with countless other young boys out of their luck.
Three times, he's been caught, and three times he's found his way out again. He prefers life on the streets, even when it's cold, even when it's dangerous, even when he's hungry. He doesn't do well under someone else's control.
So, generally, his life is lived alone -- except for odd jobs done for a certain pawnbroker, now and then, and what work he can pick up, while retaining his certain degree of freedom...
