04-16-2014, 09:19 AM
Finch was at Temple just before the sun crept up. He had found a place to close his eyes, but the dead quiet of a Vampires daily rest did not come. At least not as quickly or as timely as it always had before. He lay there waiting and waiting and finally things went black. When his eyes open again, he is as he was when he died not quite 20 years ago. His hair is long and befitting the style of Seattle's early 90s grunge culture. His normally clean shaven face bears a hint of a beard. Without grooming and in his crumpled suit, the young Toreador finds a crevasse in the foundation that allows him peek curiously out onto the world beyond the heavy walls surrounding him and he knows instinctively he should not be awake this early. His fangs brush his bottom lip and he stands up with a growl and weaves through passageways until he finds where the others have gathered within the building.
He had the makings of a proper Priest, but he lacked age and the skill that came with it. There are those that quote their black Bible and others that whisper of the raising of The Oldest or maybe even some who hiss about Tremere magic or curses. Finch only listens to each theory, arms crossed loose over his stomach.
The night of the 16th he remains in Temple longer than he ever has, just listening and watching to words and movements.
He had the makings of a proper Priest, but he lacked age and the skill that came with it. There are those that quote their black Bible and others that whisper of the raising of The Oldest or maybe even some who hiss about Tremere magic or curses. Finch only listens to each theory, arms crossed loose over his stomach.
The night of the 16th he remains in Temple longer than he ever has, just listening and watching to words and movements.