Chimney Swift

Real Name: Finnigan Ward
Renegade Name: 'Chimney Swift'
Title: The Silent Flight, 'Peeper'
Alignment: Soft Chaotic Neutral to True Neutral
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Race: Metahuman
Hair: Black
Eyes: Eerie Yellow
Height: 6'5"
Weight: 122
Blood type: O-





Art by Sleepylildruid on Twitter!

Long, lanky, and frail, the first impression one can get when looking on this miserable pile of feathers is 'Sad', which is likely why he tends to stay to the shadows and rafters, if he can manage it. His hair comes down just barely to his shoulders in perpetually moppish looking pieces that often serve to somewhat mask his eerily yellow-hued eyes, large and very active as they are in pupilary dilation. High cheekbones and a beakish nose make the bird motif really shine through, even his thin lips seem a bit... Pointed, a faint tinge of black discoloring the center of them.

Malnutrition was not kind to Swift before his mutation, and it's certainly taking its toll now; His neck is thin, collarbone sharply hollow even though he's managed to build a moderate amount of whipcord musculature around his chest, arms, and back. A bit more muscle can be found at his thighs and calves, equally as tightly adhered to an entirely too-thin and fragile looking form. The entirety of his arms and along each scapula have been laden with long, stiff, glossy black feathers. At mid-tricep, both of Swift's arms clearly have mutated to take on more of a birdlike physiology, elongated to better suit the wings they've become. With thin, blackened skin and faintly clawed fingernails, only his thumb, index, and middle fingers remain on each hand- the rest of which melds neatly into wing. Stretching his arms out to his sides, feathers tip to tip would span 23 feet. They fold together well, but the toll of moving through narrow human-designed hallways clearly has scuffed and chipped the lengthy feathers some.

What clothing he wears is clearly donated, scuffed and patched from a hard life of resourcefulness where resources are scarce, and usually oversized for his frame. If he's to carry supplies, he keeps them light, and worn close to his chest to better manage the weight in flight, and his shirts are side-fastened to accommodate his sizeable wingspan.



Few get to know Swift, but those that do can find in him a frightfully devoted friend. He is introverted to the extreme, rarely opening up without days of prodding, and would vastly rather listen than try to fill the void with his own quiet, slow-spoken voice. Never speaking unless he considers his words to be of value, he spends significant time mulling over the best possible comment to provide... And by then, someone else has likely said it. That's fine with him. There's an undercurrent of justice in his mind, it fuels his actions with his newfound power, but it's colored by the perceptions of his surroundings; Deeply downtrodden and oft forgotten. This lends to something of an extremist view out of sheer desperation, which may change as time goes on. Though Swift would be hard-pressed to say anything good about human nature as a whole, he still strongly believes in attempting to subvert society's cruelty by doing as much good as he can, though often in shortsighted ways.



Growing up in the slums of Chicago was hard- Doing it with a modicum of sense with an alcoholic father, absentee mother, and 6 younger siblings was harder.

From an entirely too young age, Finnigan took up whatever work he could find in order to support his siblings. From yardwork to begging to theft, none of it was beneath what he'd resort to in order to support his family. Luck seemed to finally shine on him as some measure of comfort was found in a janitorial position for a local laboratory, he was well paid for his unobtrusive presence and professional behavior... Meaning, he wasn't one to ask questions about what kind of activities occurred down in the lab.

He shouldn't have expected fate to keep shining down on him so kindly.

Three years ago, his task was simply to enter a chamber that opened to a series of chimneys and clean it up. When most of the settled debris had been shoveled free, he looked up to realize that chimney swifts, fragile birds that made spit nests adhered to the walls, had taken up residence. As he was knocking down the old, mud-stuck hollows, a particularly sharp bang tripped the power and activated the chamber. At least, that's what he assumes.
An unholy swell of light and pain knocked Finnigan senseless, punctuated with blackout phases and 'dreams' of beeping machines and shadowed faces until some measure of clarity had him sprawled out in a dump with needles scattered around him, and some truly grotesque pinfeathers beginning to emerge from his arms and back.

So that was it, a work accident, a psychotic break, and a binge of drug abuse that he has absolutely no recollection of ever -beginning- that nearly got his siblings killed when their father refused to step up in his absence. Finnigan doesn't like to think about what would have happened if he were gone longer. All he knows is that he'd failed, somehow, and it was his duty to resume the best possible level of care for his siblings. The guilt is real and it's solidly overshadowed the horror of the slow transformation his body has undertaken. He didn't ask questions, all he proceeded to do is to utilize it to the best of his ability... Just another asset to try to alleviate the pain of poverty.

And so he haunts, swooping the streets and refining his flight, only having first truly gained altitude a year ago. Sometimes he reports on the whereabouts of criminals for bounty money, sometimes it's him doing the heists to sell off to the pawn shops, never from individuals but large companies are fair game.

Light as a Feather - His body has changed incredibly in order to sustain flight. He breathes with much higher efficiency and his musculature is powerful yet lean. Low weight means a quiet presence, and the down padding his feathers prevents them from clattering against one another when he sneaks.

Flight capable - Though laborious, the skies are not out of Chimney Swift's reaches. His wings function well enough for him to fully fly. Dive bombing is his most effective utilization of the ability.

Enhanced Eyesight - Swift's eyes are supremely keen and can focus great distances, even adapting well to bright flashes of light thanks to the dark feathers around them.

Adhesive Spit- Among his radical transformations, his saliva has changed to have a strong adhesive property to it when allowed a moment to cure.


Bird Physiology - His bones have morphed to become brittle and nearly hollow, and his skin has grown rather thin. Powerful punches could really devastate him.

A Frail Thing - High intensity motion tires him out greatly, if he's not successful in finding buildings to glide from or updrafts to ride then he's prone to fatigue very quickly.

Focusing... - Like a camera operating with a zoom function, it takes Swift precious moments to fully focus his eyes on keen details, especially those further away. Were he to watch you type your password in through your window from 1000ft away, he'd need to be still and make a fully concerted effort of it.

Hydro Homies What's Up - ...dude can only spit so much before he's gonna get horrible dry mouth and need to swing by 711 for a slurpee.

Crippling Claustrophobia - This bird would highly like to not be caged, thanks! Something about smooth silo walls too just... Oof. Spicy memories. If he cannot see the sky, he'll be more than a bit anxious.

Home-crafted ordnance in the form of nested water balloons filled with bleach and vinegar, pvc pipes with snap sections fashioned into peroxide bombs, and aluminum scrap based flashbombs.

Climbing gear in the form of taloned scrap-metal claws that fit over his boots and grappling hooks with rope.

None!

The Bird's Got Pipes - Though typically soft-spoken and raspy, when Swift uses his voice, he can produce melodic sound, and is working on his skills in mimicry...

Friends in Low Places -  Deep poverty has a way of bringing people together; Swift invests in the downtrodden people around him (often to his detriment) and can sometimes count on a favor or two back!

Even at three in the morning.. Even in a city as odd as Chicago, tired eyes nonetheless warily trailed after a bulky man in a trench coat, parka, and hat. He could have been any manner of villain, and the gods only knew what was stuffed in that draping fabric--... Maybe something like.. Feathers? Long ones faintly swished at the heels of his boots as he trodded through the aisles, snatching up rice, spam, canned tuna, macaroni...

The checkout clerk wasn't so much of a stranger to this odd man and his stiff, nervous smiles, his utter lack of speaking even as she tiredly drawled out the usual. 'Find everythin' okay, hun?'

Beep by beep, the total climbed, and his odd yellow eyes honed on the digital numbers with an acuity that left Michaela the Night Clerk feeling a little small, but... Few things phased her anymore. And just as they'd usually done in their usual song and dance, the total reached a threshold that had this odd man's chest swelling in visible apprehension until it again dipped by 25%, and the clerk smiled. "You look like a veteran who works here t'me..."

The sleeves of the trench coat didn't move, yet oddly enough, his wallet was plopped down on the counter from under the parka. Encouraging nods told her the same thing she'd always known- Go ahead, take out the cash, and she did without comment. Even when there were a great deal of $1s, even when the billfold held a bunch of checks in different names cut from the same business. They had an understanding, Michaela and him, and as he bowed his head in thanks, retrieved the wallet with an eerily black, spindly digit, and departed, the handful of glossy black feathers deliberately placed on her counter was all that was left. Michaela smiled, thinking about what she'd make for her Etsy shop with those, this time around.

He never left from the front, either. The back of the store's fire alarms had long been disabled for being 'faulty', and Finnigan pushed through the fire doors without concern. A few smoking employees gave him a glance and little more, though the newer of the set widened his eyes when that trenchcoat came off.

Bundling the fabric tightly, Finnigan's feathers rustled as he moved politely out of full view of the two-- to the other side of a dumpster-- and he began to pack away the cloth, then to cram every plastic bag of goods that he could into the shoulder-mounted duffel. Weighty, but he could manage it- One terribly bright yellow eye flashed at the young clerk who gawked brazenly at the long, ruffled feathers poking out from behind the dumpster, and that was enough to startle the boy backward with a surprised cry, landing with a thud on uneven blacktop and stagnant water.

All Finnigan did was wave.. As well as he could with three fingers, before splaying his arms-- wings?-- feathers wide, fanning them some. The fire escape hanging down the other side of the alley was easy to snatch, easier to scale as he worked his way higher and higher into the enveloping darkness... And then with a great beat of feathered wings, he was gone.

The befuddled bagger took a moment to adjust his apron when he stood, readjusting the fixed pin reading 'HELLO my name is GERALD', and only when he had his shaking sorts about him did he slowly pad back to his spot at the wall, staring at his elder with wide eyes. Walter still puffed at his nicotine.

"... What the -fuck- was that?"

"Think 'e calls 'mself House Finch or some'n. Some bird name. Not real creative, is it? He still brought m'cat down from the roof. Nice lad."

"O-- Okay but-- What WAS that?" Emphasis creeped into Gerald's tone as he pushed his shaking hand through his ringlet curls.

"You ain' normally on th' night shift, are y' boy?" Walter drawled, still not sparing Gerald a glance as he puffed.