Jon does not like being underground. He does not like being in America, either, particular the hot part of it. And, of course, he deeply does not like being away from the Archives. Perhaps it was merely the comfort of being surrounded by sustenance that he missed, but his thoughts kept drifting to the smell of old paper and familiar, labyrinthine disarray of the stacks.
But it is undeniable that there is plenty here that should go into the Archives. Walking the circus floor is like strolling through a banquet: Jon feels his mouth water. Avatars are always hungry, but the sense of the secret and supernatural so thick in the air makes him feel ravenous. He nearly walks straight over to the lamia, but a sharp glance from his escort pulls him back to himself.
Right. He's supposed to be interviewing some vampire. As if there hadn't been enough of that.
Jon himself is quite a lot to look at. A rail-thin Indian man in crisp slacks and collared shirt under a wholly unnecessary sweater. Everything about him seems sharp - his features, his gaze, the way he moves. The impression is offset only by the comfortably battered messenger bag at his side and his hair: a thick, dark tangle pulled back into a short tail, threaded through with strands of grey. It leaves his face bare of any cover, showing half a dozen perfectly round, pale scars. Dime-sized, they scatter over his cheeks, the contrast emphasizing his dark eyes. Jon's aware it gives him something of a ferocious countenance, which he turns on anyone who's gaze lingers a little too long as they move deeper into the circus.
So this is who enters Jean-Claude's parlor. "Master Jean-Claude." Jon sits, stiff-backed. His voice is clipped, business-like. "Thank you for accepting the Institute's request. We are... honored to be granted such access."
Jon's superiors had told him to say that specifically, and it sounds just as stiff as Jon looks. He only barely remembers not to look into Jean-Claude's eyes; at the last second his gaze skitters to the left and then down as he pulls his bag into his lap to start getting out his tape recorder.
"Er... would it be alright if I recorded this conversation?"
no subject
But it is undeniable that there is plenty here that should go into the Archives. Walking the circus floor is like strolling through a banquet: Jon feels his mouth water. Avatars are always hungry, but the sense of the secret and supernatural so thick in the air makes him feel ravenous. He nearly walks straight over to the lamia, but a sharp glance from his escort pulls him back to himself.
Right. He's supposed to be interviewing some vampire. As if there hadn't been enough of that.
Jon himself is quite a lot to look at. A rail-thin Indian man in crisp slacks and collared shirt under a wholly unnecessary sweater. Everything about him seems sharp - his features, his gaze, the way he moves. The impression is offset only by the comfortably battered messenger bag at his side and his hair: a thick, dark tangle pulled back into a short tail, threaded through with strands of grey. It leaves his face bare of any cover, showing half a dozen perfectly round, pale scars. Dime-sized, they scatter over his cheeks, the contrast emphasizing his dark eyes. Jon's aware it gives him something of a ferocious countenance, which he turns on anyone who's gaze lingers a little too long as they move deeper into the circus.
So this is who enters Jean-Claude's parlor. "Master Jean-Claude." Jon sits, stiff-backed. His voice is clipped, business-like. "Thank you for accepting the Institute's request. We are... honored to be granted such access."
Jon's superiors had told him to say that specifically, and it sounds just as stiff as Jon looks. He only barely remembers not to look into Jean-Claude's eyes; at the last second his gaze skitters to the left and then down as he pulls his bag into his lap to start getting out his tape recorder.
"Er... would it be alright if I recorded this conversation?"