As the sun rises over the clouds, dispelling the darkness of Longnight away and welcoming the painted flush of a brightly colored sky, Finch treads through the abandoned scene of a successful party and looks for the spoils of war. The lithe thief's feet tread silently as ever on the soft ground, dancing easily between smears of abandoned desserts, scattered chairs, and overturned wine glasses. It brings to mind the image of an archeologist unearthing remnants of an ancient civilization, painstakingly reconstructing how these flashes of half-faded images once constituted a people, a place, a feeling. If In Finch's professional opinion, it looks like evidence of a fabulously roaring night.
He feels more like a carrion bird than a lively finch as he combs through what's left. It's the end of his night, rather than the start of his morning, but his profession has always demanded unusual hours of its disciples. The truly dedicated masters of their craft build their circadian rhythms around the ebb and flow of the people they steal and swindle from, and Finch, who claims he stole his way out of his mother's womb with a set of lockpicks in hand, is no different. He'll sleep later, stealing a nap in the shade with a dagger clutched ready in his hand, before embarking on the long journey home. After a lifetime of sleeping in strange places, he truly resembles his namesake in his ability to perch anywhere and doze.
A grand party makes for sloppy guests, and Finch has collected a pearl necklace, a set of nice leather gloves, a loose earring, and one singular heeled shoe. A prouder man may be embarrassed to pick at the corpse of an occasion like this, but Finch much prefers not dying of starvation to his pride. A feral tomcat eats any prey, and Finch, with his crooked nose, scarred face, and prowling silent grace, is far too aware of their resemblance to pass on any advice. He's reaching down to examine something that could either be an abandoned gem or a cool-looking rock when he sees a body splayed out on the floor, deep in what can only be a hungover slumber.
He furrows his brow and slips closer. Is that...? He recognizes the lovely face, recalling twinkling eyes and a blow-for-blow matching of his game. Finch nudges the girl gently with his foot. He'd liked her the night before; he'd do her the favor of making sure she was still alive.
"Are you alive?" He asks, to achieve this end. Just to be annoying, he slips a hand into her pocket and wiggles it around, hoping to rouse her rather than anticipating finding anything.
He feels more like a carrion bird than a lively finch as he combs through what's left. It's the end of his night, rather than the start of his morning, but his profession has always demanded unusual hours of its disciples. The truly dedicated masters of their craft build their circadian rhythms around the ebb and flow of the people they steal and swindle from, and Finch, who claims he stole his way out of his mother's womb with a set of lockpicks in hand, is no different. He'll sleep later, stealing a nap in the shade with a dagger clutched ready in his hand, before embarking on the long journey home. After a lifetime of sleeping in strange places, he truly resembles his namesake in his ability to perch anywhere and doze.
A grand party makes for sloppy guests, and Finch has collected a pearl necklace, a set of nice leather gloves, a loose earring, and one singular heeled shoe. A prouder man may be embarrassed to pick at the corpse of an occasion like this, but Finch much prefers not dying of starvation to his pride. A feral tomcat eats any prey, and Finch, with his crooked nose, scarred face, and prowling silent grace, is far too aware of their resemblance to pass on any advice. He's reaching down to examine something that could either be an abandoned gem or a cool-looking rock when he sees a body splayed out on the floor, deep in what can only be a hungover slumber.
He furrows his brow and slips closer. Is that...? He recognizes the lovely face, recalling twinkling eyes and a blow-for-blow matching of his game. Finch nudges the girl gently with his foot. He'd liked her the night before; he'd do her the favor of making sure she was still alive.
"Are you alive?" He asks, to achieve this end. Just to be annoying, he slips a hand into her pocket and wiggles it around, hoping to rouse her rather than anticipating finding anything.
