Gerald Haris

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   <default>Gerald Haris</default>
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Garald Haris is an elderly Witch Hunter that works for the Light House.

Personality

He has an instinct for self preservation.<ref name=":0" />

Often thinks about ways he can better train his fellow Witch Hunters.<ref>Haris had been injured more as he’d gotten older, and it was Samaniego’s style to keep them useful, so he’d put the injured to work as trainers if they were experienced enough, and paper pushers if they weren’t.  Haris had taught a lot of these guys individually, and as time went on he found himself thinking more about what they’d need to learn and what kind of exercises would get that across.  He saw stubborn, quiet Clint pushing the car too hard, and he started thinking about things that would teach the guy gentleness.- Excerpt from False Moves 12.a</ref>

He's very religious and think that much of their good fortune is due to divine intervention.<ref>“They’ll burn.  The universe cleans up pretty nice after us.  Just like the universe is keeping the neighbors from getting up in our hair about the gunshots.  We get that little perk.”

“It’s not the Universe, Elise,” Haris said.  “It’s God.  Don’t disrespect Him.”

“Do you want me to shove my god down your throat, Haris?  Because we’ve been down this road.” - Excerpt from False Moves 12.a</ref>

Relationships

He gave Clint an opportunity to gather some possessions before burning down his house.

He constantly get into arguments with Elise Norwood about religion.<ref>- Excerpt from False Moves 12.9</ref>

Appearance

He is a grizzled, broad shouldered old man that wears a long coat, standing 6 feet and six inches tall.<ref name=":0">The grizzled old guy with the long coat, Haris, was carrying most of the guns, holding them inside the coat, a large hand holding them as a bundle, barrels pointed at the ground.
[...]
Meanwhile, Gerald Haris was six foot six, broad in the shoulder, and long in the tooth at fifty-six.

Not many Witch Hunters made it to fifty-six, he knew.  That kind of instinct was usually an instinct for self preservation, and it conferred a sort of seniority.  The ones who had an instinct for killing scary shit that got them all the way to fifty-six got conferred a whole lot of other things, seniority included. - Excerpt from False Moves 12.a</ref>

Abilities

He has a supernatural sense of smell and is able to use it to pick up information about his environment and enemies,<ref>Harris brought his hand to his nose, and he sniffed, hard.

It smelled like sunshine and blood, but everything here smelled like blood.  It smelled like blood without smelling like gunpowder and that offended him.

At least this one smelled a bit like steel, under the sunshine.  Smelled like honey and wine and fucking flowers. - Excerpt from False Moves 12.a</ref> this actually applies to all his senses.<ref>Last and certainly not least was the older guy with a dense white beard and shoulders as broad as anyone she’d seen.  He wasn’t fat or even a bodybuilder sort of muscular, but was instead built like someone who’d been built wiry and lanky and then put two hundred percent into the muscles he did have.  He dressed in a black shirt and jeans, but he didn’t look heavy metal- the hair and beard looked a bit more Amish.  Even from a block away, she could see the veins on hairy arms as he heaved that massive gun around, sliding it back into the back of the car he’d ridden in on.  It was so long it looked like it had to run all the way up to the dashboard, down the middle of the vehicle, with the end sitting in the trunk.

They didn’t even seem to care about the people around them, who were smiling and quietly giggling to themselves  That little patch of Kennet had stopped entirely, and people who were going about their business and who got close to that area were succumbing to the effect.  It created a kind of border, a higher density to the number of people at the edges, as they gathered, or looked to see what was going on and then fell victim to the giggling fits.

When he straightened, hand at his back, stretching a bit, he turned his head.

The older guy looked at her.

She was far enough away she couldn’t make out his eyes, but just like Raph, this was a guy who could find them.  With a gun like that, she wasn’t sure she could even dodge if he decided to carry that gun, point it in her direction, and pull the trigger.
[...]
“The old guy looked at me and Snow,” Avery told the others, to change the topic.

“That’s Haris.  We called him the old dog of the group,” Lucy said.  “He has a really sharp sense of smell, and he was paying close attention to what Musser’s group was saying despite them being across the parking lot, he didn’t even seem to accept it was weird that he heard that sharply.” - Excerpt from False Moves 12.8</ref>

Knows how to use an eight foot long Punt gun, and had familiarity with a large number of other firearms.

Chronology

He was present when Clint was rescued.

Was part of the team that investigated Kennet after Raphael disappeared.

He died when Abraham Musser used a demesne he'd stolen to appear behind him and stab him in the back with a magical sickle.<ref>The old man with the beard, the black clothing, and the gun stumbled, slapping at his shoulder.

Behind him, shrouded in the demesne of the serial killer, a doorway to a black and degraded place around him, Reid’s father held a sickle-like knife in one hand, and left his other empty, wearing the glove.  He turned his head, stepped through the doorway he carried with him, and into the darkness there.

...

“Fuck!” the old man shouted.  “How bad?”

Elise looked.

From Elise’s vantage point, it was impossible to see, but the old man’s shirt split, and was followed soon after by a line of blood.  The cut dragged itself from the back of his shoulder to the top, to the front, down his chest, tracing a lazy, traveling line.  The older parts of the cut got deeper, as the line lengthened.

“Alcohol, or salt!  Cleanse this!” the old man barked.

Both sides of the line continued to extend, a cut that got longer, like someone was being playful, flirting with the most vulnerable destinations.  Neck and crotch, curving toward, then pulling away.

Then, probably because his father had asserted his will, the playfulness ceased.  One end of the line struck a sharp, straight path to the side of the old man’s neck.  The other to the inside of his thigh.  Blood welled out at first, then poured out, spurted briefly, then resumed pouring out.

“Haris,” Elise said.

“All written down, don’ nee- geintoit,” he said, before collapsing.- Excerpt from False Moves 12.z</ref>

References

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