Giles T. Priestly scanned the tombstones around him, searching calculatingly for his current project. He was a holy man, by trade; he held a rosary and cross at the ready, and his simple white shirt and pressed slacks called to mind images of missionaries. The way he moved was almost comical; he held the artifacts as though they were loaded pistols, and took great care not to step on any leaves.
But of course, this was all very necessary. Exorcism was a precise business, and he hadn't let one get away yet; much to his disappointment, his success hadn't gotten him a nickname any cooler than the usual "Priestly", but it had helped him to earn a living.
Footsteps cut through the crisp fall air. Smiling like a child on Christmas day, he dashed toward the source of the noise. If he hurried, he could make it home in time to entertain some company; the implication of such phrasing was enough to make his eyebrows waggle.
But of course, this was all very necessary. Exorcism was a precise business, and he hadn't let one get away yet; much to his disappointment, his success hadn't gotten him a nickname any cooler than the usual "Priestly", but it had helped him to earn a living.
Footsteps cut through the crisp fall air. Smiling like a child on Christmas day, he dashed toward the source of the noise. If he hurried, he could make it home in time to entertain some company; the implication of such phrasing was enough to make his eyebrows waggle.