"Yeah, not sure where they pulled Atticus out of, my parents didn't come with fancy names so maybe they wanted to change things up." It was the handshake that did it. He thought he could ignore the little fucker, but it is there, it always is. Well, Almost always. The serpent, the wolf, the beast, all the names it’s called, either way, he feels it in nearly every kindred he meets. Maybe one day he will get used to it. As the sheriff sits, Atticus sits, and it is a heavy sit. He forgets sometimes that he doesn’t have to sit heavy on land, the cushy carpet isn’t going to pitch and slide his chair around like the deck of a boat.
“So, where to start. I work with the Order. I have the blood of Clan Gangrel.” He says these facts with no real reverence, after all, people don’t say Hey I’m Human, with any kind of magic in their voice.
“Originally from Washington, the state not the city, traveled around a bunch. I was a fisherman by trade, still do when I need to make some extra money. You’d think that working on a boat would be hard for our people, but volunteering to work the night shift tends to keep me safe,” Atticus explains how he plies his trade as he instinctively rubs his right thumb into the scarred palm of his left hand, forever cracked and worn from doing the work of his trade. The fisherman probably doesn't realize he's doing it. “Most recently, I came from Alaska. Was working with a charity up there, helping vets get jobs on boats.”
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