Blaze, previous descriptions:

General description: Blaze stands about five foot ten; he's a little slender, but more likely due to exercise than to lack of substance. He has an odd air of innocence and gentleness, without a hint of naivete; he could be anywhere between twenty and thirty, really, and quite attractive depending on tastes. The most noticeable thing about him is his long auburn hair, which spills out over his shoulders and flows down his back; it tends to move in the lightest breeze. Somehow, wherever he stands the light seems to flicker over him and take on a slight reddish tinge, giving the impression of a fire somewhere about.

Previous visit:

The door opens, tentatively at first, then more decidedly as the man on the other side recognises the interior. Behind him, dim indoor lighting; something soft is playing, like Enya with a darker edge.

It's Blaze, although dressed somewhat differently from the last time he was here. The black jeans are about the only conventional part of his attire. The long red hair is twisted in three strands like a rope, and neatly tied off at the end. The long-sleeved white shirt would be eminently respectable - were it not for the design printed on it, which prominently features a rope-and-people motif. Exquisitely tailored black leather boots come up to his thigh. Over his shoulder he carries a dubious-looking bag of green suede.

Inside, he carefully shuts the door behind him - a whiff of some curious perfume lingers on the threshold of perception, then vanishes before it can ever be resolved. He looks, not exactly tired or stressed, but somewhere between exasperated and amused, and he greets the bar like an old friend.

"There are days," he remarks to nobody in particular, "when I wish I'd joined a nice quiet Tradition like the Sons of Ether."

(No formal exit; last posting Nov. 30, 2002.)

Visit before that:

It's cold outside, and the windows have frosted up, making it hard to see out. Indistinct shapes move, perhaps people, perhaps animals, perhaps trees moving in the wind which blows cold and sharp outside. It dies down for a moment, and the shadows stop moving; when it starts again one of the shadows, near the door, does not move again with the rest.

For some time - a couple of minutes, perhaps - it is motionless, and then the door opens and a man quickly and noiselessly slides inside. He is clad from head to toe in arctic camouflage, encrusted with twigs and scrapes of snow and dirt; a huge dark stain has spattered across his upper body and covers half of the balaclava that masks his face. He cradles a rifle in his hands, and although he is careful not to point it at anybody he looks to be very ready to use it; he looks over the Pub warily, before lowering the weapon and turning back to the doorway. He beckons to whoever's out there, and calls in a hushed voice.

"Clear. Come."

His stance relaxes slightly, and he flicks the safety on his rifle before setting it down on a tabletop and sitting down. The rifle is something compact and modern-looking, with several odd-looking attachments; gun buffs would recognise these as a telescopic sight, a flash/noise- suppressor, a C-mag, and an under-barrel grenade launcher. He has a pistol holstered at one hip, and a large knife on the other side; his battledress bulges, suggesting body armour and more ammunition. After disentangling himself from the lanyard that secures the rifle to his body, he pulls off his gloves and then the balaclava to reveal a familiar face. It's Blaze, although a little older than last time he was here; he looks thirtysomething, and weary. "Sorry," he announces to nobody in particular. "It's ugly out there."

(Entered Jan. 27, 2001; departed Nov. 1, 2001)

Before that:

And a couple of minutes later, Blaze walks in. He's in a flannel shirt, jeans, heavy boots, looking a little cautious. He settles down in a stool at the bar, a polite distance from the Sibyl, visible but not overtly watching her.

And before that:

The door swings open, and Blaze walks in. He's in casual clothes, and the only thing out of place is a large bandage on his left arm. "Evening all. Place still standing, I see." He looks over the patrons, and perks up as he notices the somewhat immolated Sibyl.

"That look really suits you, you know. Er, is it deliberate?" He wanders over and pulls up a chair.