| Scarlett A. Holmes | |
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| Background information | |
| Creator | Kittyluvver |
| Main Attribute | Logic |
| Elemental Attribute | Smoke |
| Theme Animal | Benedict Cumberbatch |
| Theme Color | Black, gray, crimson red |
| Theme Song | Secrets - One Republic |
| Personal information | |
| Age | 19 (dragon years)
28 (Human years) |
| Gender | Female |
| Occupation | Consulting detective |
| Tribe | NightWing |
| Goal | To solve interesting cases, to bring down Professor Moriarty |
| Residence | Mountia |
| Relatives | Brother |
| Allies | James Q. Watson |
| Enemies | Professor Grayson Moriarty |
| Powers and abilities | Normal NightWing abilities |
| Weapons | Riding crop |
| Ships | Watson, Moriarty |
| Quote | "It is my business to know what other dragons do not." |
Scarlett A. Holmes belongs to Kittyluvver.
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Scarlett A. Holmes was a famous female NightWing detective of historic Pyrrhia, companion of James Q. Watson and archrival of Professor G. Moriarty.
Description
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Shall we consider this smoke-gray NightWing, this one Miss S. Holmes, solver of mysteries and yet a mystery herself? You would do well to expect no safe haven for secrets beneath Scarlett’s jaded eye. But no matter, now the game is afoot - what may we deduce from her appearance?
Let us start with her clothes; though fine in make, they are all but a study in austerity for her bygone era. No feathered frippery - bloody Moons, no time for that, Watson! - no frills or flourishes mar the aristocracy of a fine satin tailcoat, accented only by sleek white gloves and the bobbin-lace gossamer of a cravat knotted at her neck and secured with delicate pearl throat-work. The sleek braces on her hind legs - simple, almost elementary in their design - are of plain steel built for economy of movement rather than ornamentation. Her myopic ruby eyes require the cooperation of a pair of spectacles in order to read, and they can always be found perched on the brim of an equally solemn black hat. Indeed, the sheer monotony of her form - gray, then white, more black - is broken only by the silken length of a blood-crimson scarf draped twice about her neck.
Yet for all the stark simplicity of her dress there is hubris here, arrogance riding lioness-proud in the ridge of sleek brow and shrewd eye - in the space of a single measured vermilion glance you find yourself seen, studied, found wanting, and dismissed. She is possessed of an expressive face that vacillates fluidly between casual insouciance and feverish intensity, grating sarcasm and genuine feeling. No less eloquent are the strident tones of her voice, highbrow and incurably haughty, given to the most meticulous enunciation and the silent intolerance of anything less.
There is something unmistakably feline in the gray tabby dappling of her scales, something quietly dangerous in the aquiline crest of snout and chin; she is cold gunmetal steel wrapped beneath the refinement of black silk. She is night-watcher, truth-seeker, huntress of the midnight streets; she lingers forever smoke-veiled in the shadows beyond the lamplight’s touch.