Jean (Jean-Baptiste d'Chantrain)In pads someone stranger, black tailored slacks, a black turtleneck sweater, no gloves, no shoes, scarred hands, scarred feet. His sleek black mane of hair is touselled from the breeze outside, though the fine Parisian day leaks no sunlight into the pub. Bright blue eyes glitter with good humour - black bile, possibly, though really the man does seem to be in a pleasant mood. His skin is golden brown, marked in the odd place near his throat and hairline by more white scars. The hands, already marked once each with deep, old scars through the center, are further and finely scratched.
Scent, aura, these things give as little information as they ever have, being a tumbled-up-down-back-to-front melange that traces half the compass points and still refuses to find rest.
"Hello, hello, hello," he says, accent no more restful than any other side of him, part French, part Canadian, mostly merely mixed "Bonjour."
(Left August 13, 2002.)