Blood of the Dead Gods
“Finch. That’s a strange name for an Eladrin.”
“Well, I’m strange, for an Eladrin. Enough questions, I’m exhausted. Wake me for lunch.”
It’s impossible to imagine a more plain-looking fey, but Finch exudes an effortless charm. He eats constantly, flopped on the floor, legs splayed, eschewing napkins for the hem of his cloak or a pants leg. His pack is filled with odds-and-ends and every kind of tool an adventurer might need. When duty calls, he rises with a groan, propping himself up with a sword that’s nearly as tall as he is.
In combat, however, he is sharp and alert, barking instructions above the din of steel on steel. “Move over there! No, not there. Hit him again! I said hit him, not fan him with your sword!” When frustrated by the pace of the carnage, he leaps into the fray, swinging his blade in sweeping, gleaming arcs.
Finch is reticent about his past. When asked about his training in the magical or military arts, he simply replies, “Yes.” But he seems well-connected, even in Hammerfast, a town he claims never to have visited. “I know people who know people,” is all he’ll say.