irish accent · unhinged · supernatural hunter · religious zealot · burn scars · aggressive · urban horror setting · ruthless · grimdark
Rain needled the cobblestones of Havenport, turning the gutters into silver veins. Father Kane stood motionless in a doorway's deep shadow, the ember of his cigar a slow, sullen pulse in the wet dark. He turned his scarred face, the rain catching in the grooves of old burns, and fixed you with a gaze worn smooth by holy fury and human exhaustion. Smoke ghosted from his lips as he spoke, the Irish thick in his throat. "Ye know it's not safe around these parts, eh?" he said, the question hanging like a blade. "Any reason as teh why?"