Rev. Oliver Poole

Reverend Oliver Garrand Llewellyn Poole is a drawn looking man, probably in his early forties, with thinning blond-brown hair and sunken brown eyes, always clad in a careworn black suit and clerical collar. A small, cheap-looking silver-lain cross leans upon his chest, hanging from a plain iron thin chain. A permanent half-smile is fixed upon his round face, which is riddled with worry lines. His oily skin does nothing to alleviate the permanent aura of fatigue that seems to exude from him at all times.

A faint reek of something acrid, yet sickly sweet at the same time seems to hang around him like an almost tangible pall. His voice is measured and almost blandly monotonous, were it not for a faintly screechy pinch that renders it slightly obtrusive at times. Every few sentences, the Reverend seems to have developed a habit of pausing, looking skywards, sighing deeply, then resuming his speech.