Finn's antsy. For as long as she can remember, there's always been someone telling her to stop fidgeting, to stop running, to settle down. She's never been very good at following those orders. Overfull with restless energy, Finn's always shifting, drumming beats on counters, tippping back in chairs, toying with pens until they fall apart. To look at Finn is to find her fiddling, often with things she shouldn't.

Standing at five foot two and three quarters inches--and that three quarters is more wishful thinking than fact--Finn still manages to take up a hell of a lot of room through sheer force of personality. Despite her stature, every inch of Finn is dense muscle. Her features are angular and highly expressive, bouncing between snarls and shit-eating grins in an instant. Her large eyes are amber and sharp, quick to betray her every thought.

Finn defaults to haphazardly cuffed flannel button downs and high waisted skinny jeans, most of which are torn in the knees and well worn. Finn's shoes are always beat to hell, from wedged sneakers to her high topped Chucks to her small collection of boots, stained or straight up falling apart. She's often found in athletic wear, running to Forest Park and back four nights a week. Her running shoes are in marginally better condition than the rest. No matter the outfit, Finn wears a bracelet of large, crimson beads rimmed in black, the calling card of the South Richmond Hills Rabble.

The scourge of electronics everywhere, Finn's shitty phone has a massive crack through the screen and periodically bricks itself.