I, for one, would definitely be interested in learning about your flondon main, if you're willing to share
Mr. Oversol (or Oversol, as he is commonly referred – he seems rather particular about sharing more than the initials of the rest of his name) is an immensely private individual. Whilst he is semi-commonly present at a variety of high-society events, and, of course, the occasional apocalyptic threat to London, he always seems to subtly direct conversation towards topics related to others rather than himself. This aire of mystique, as some have put it, is only furthered by the bombazine-dark veil he has not been seen without in many a year. ...In fact, one might note, he wears black gloves, too, and a high-collared shirt, and even dark spectacles beneath hat heavy veil... God forbid one foregoes manners enough to ask about all the pomp directly, of course. High society leaves little room for such straightforwardness.
A silverer by trade, his services are peculiarly difficult to obtain. First comes the mere challenge of locating the blasted man, should you not find yourself fortunate enough (or, em, unfortunate enough?) to be inundated with party invites. Oversol's offices lie somewhere in the twisted back-streets set about the foot of the Bazaar, and the longer one searches the clearer it becomes he may not want it to be found. Does he even have clientele? And why, for goodness sake, is a silverer rumoured to turn away all of the Bohemian-and-creative sort?
Truth be told, Oversol is a bit of a hermit – mostly due to a displeasure with rowdy environments, a few too many suitors, and a healthy appreciation for his own privacy. This most certainly has nothing to do with a rising paranoia that has grown steadily over his years in the Neath, and irrational fears over what exactly some unsavory party might do with information on his good self. He makes true companions exceptionally slowly due to this, and finds himself primarily in the company of one Dola Hallowrove, monster hunter (@peliginspeaks), and a Captain-Correspondent Ren Haarsink (@indefinitely-sealed). —Er, perhaps not the latter. Not at current. Not after recent events.
Regardless of the man's paranoid tendencies, and resulting stiff public face, he is exceptionally warm and loyal to those he considers his trusted and beloved few. They, of course, are welcome at his office any time of any day (set just beneath his lodgings, in fact; both are decorated in expensive fashion, yet stay within the line of good taste), aside from the middle of his appointments, and may even be allowed knowledge of his dear young daughte– ahem, feline companion, Boo. Sure, his gifts tend to be inordinately and unnecessarily expensive, and he will most certainly refuse a romp through Prickfinger or any other destination lacking a proper road, but you can always count on him to lend a good ear and as many perfectly-steeped cups of tea as you'd like.
(Oh, ah— One last little thing. You would be well-advised not to allow him inebriation; he's a nasty rash streak with a little alcohol in his system. Last time he took drinks at a bar, he ended up across the zee on Gaider's Mourn daring pirates to most unreasonably dangerous competitions. Ghastly, that hangover was. Ghastly, and awfully zalty.)
