The poor priest didn't seem capable of hurting a fly, accident or not. Finn didn't bother even attempting to pick a fight seeing as Eli would probably break in half at the slightest shove. Maybe a life of prayer and modesty did suit some people best, considering he couldn't imagine the man in a laborious profession spent under a harsh sun nor as a hardened man such as his judge nor the men who'd finally succeeded in his capture. No, the priesthood was becoming of a man his stature and demeanor out of any other man he'd met in his life. And Finn had met many on his path. Which made it all the more pathetic to imagine himself harming Eli in any way other than a good spook and some nasty language. He was too timid when approached to even bother laying a hand on and the argument about being able to defend himself was as reliable as a bucket full of holes. In fact, it would be downright painful to imagine Eli in the middle of some of the more loathsome men he'd crossed in the past and was lucky enough to slide past with his life. Which was why Finn didn't feel it necessary to hurt a single wispy hair on his head nor did he feel the need to prove his own strength. 

“I believe you. I bet you fight your sheets mighty hard when you get all tangled up in 'em in the morning,” Finn snickered and found himself comfortable enough to go snooping in Eli's pantries. It wasn't as though any decent food was offered to him during his week long stay in his cell. Stale bread and dusty water wasn't the most palatable and it wasn't as if he could get his fix off of tobacco behind bars. He was a thin man himself, albeit thicker than Eli in muscle tone and was more on the lithe side than he was skinny. But that didn't mean he couldn't conjure up a wicked appetite when the chance for food presented itself. He sorted past the jellies and breads, dried and salted meats and settled easily on a single peach. He palmed the fruit, rolling it about his hands before jerking out one of the dining chairs and planting himself beside where Eli stood. 

“Fighting ain't about just muscle. That's the first thing folks're wrong 'bout.” Finn took a moment to pause and sink his teeth into the fruit like some kind of hungry dog. With his cheeks full and his brow ruffled, swallowing far too much for a single bite, he continued. Finn carried on as though he weren't talking to a priest at all but a mentor to a young pupil. Perhaps Finn got a bit too excited, but how often did he get to brag about his best brawls and ramble to willing ears? “See, if you got a straight shot then you'll survive. Hop'fully. But you've gotta be quick more than anything else. Don't be afraid to take cheap shots – a man's got 'em for a reason.” He then, out of all his grand gestures, motioned to various areas. He pointed to both of his eyes as if to prod them, the heel of his palm hooking upwards against the underside of his nose, and finally a swift but loving pat on his groin followed by a cheeky grin. “Anythin' and everythin' is a weapon if you're creative 'nuff.”