Graven Fel
A lean, white-haired male in black clothes strode down the streets of New York, his black-gloved hands holding a thick book while his white collar denoted him as a man of the cloth. Of course, the steely gaze of a veteran combatant greeted those who cared to look past the friendly smile, and he was surrounded by an aura of power. Coming upon the house that he was looking for, he gently nudged by an addict walking the other direction, discouraging any argument with a simple look.
Walking up to the door and knocking politely, the priest would wait for the occupant to answer before speaking in a soft bass, tinted by a Norwegian accent. "Hello, miss. My name is Father Shane Wolfe, and I was vondering if you'd like to join me for confession."
The particular resident of this house would be able to tell immediately that this was a cover. After all...Why would one Quincy visit the house of another on accident?
Walking up to the door and knocking politely, the priest would wait for the occupant to answer before speaking in a soft bass, tinted by a Norwegian accent. "Hello, miss. My name is Father Shane Wolfe, and I was vondering if you'd like to join me for confession."
The particular resident of this house would be able to tell immediately that this was a cover. After all...Why would one Quincy visit the house of another on accident?