This is Ewan Cyr.
The duskwight looks at you inquisitively, his bright eyes seemingly able to see right through you. You squirm under his penetrating stare, unable to ascertain his intentions.
His face remains impassive as he approaches you, his graceful movements silent against the dusty brick walkway beneath the two of you.
Before you realize it, he is barely a few ilms away from you. His gaze unwavering, he slowly raises a hand to his face -- his slender fingers framing his chiseled jawline. Your gaze follows his movements, a mixture of fear and intrigue coursing through your body as your curiosity leaves you unable to stop watching.
He awkwardly picks a piece of lint off your clothing before remaining in front of you, arms at his sides.
A Closer Look.
The elezen continues to look into your eyes, his expression unchanging. His thin shoulders are lined perfectly parallel to yours, indicating that you have his attention. It is normally rude to examine someone in so much detail, but he seems content to allow you to... at least for the moment.
You exhale. You didn't realize it beforehand, but you'd been holding your breath ever since he'd walked towards you. The scent of cardamom and vetiver pepper your nose as you take a deep breath: enticing, certainly, but not intoxicating. It fills your lungs with a dulcet warmth -- pleasant pins and prickles on your skin cascading through your frame with every inhale. Whatever cologne he's wearing, it most certainly smells expensive.
Speaking of expensive, his suit is no joke either. It's tailored to him perfectly: each button sewed evenly and painstakingly onto silken fabric, the lapel angled to further emphasize the duskwight's slender build. In place of a necktie, a triad of jewels emblazen and contrast against his white shirt, deeply hued and intricately embellished. Only one from Ul'dah's most elite families could afford (and want) to be dressed so elegantly.
It takes you a few seconds, but your eyes are able to peel away from his exorbitant attire and trail back up to his face -- skipping over the jagged scar on his right cheek to the blackened horns on his head. Something about them shakes you out of your reverie, an undertone of dread bubbling from somewhere deep inside you. You think those horns aren't real.
You hope they aren't real.
And then, despite every ilm of your body imploring you to not do so, your gaze meets his once again. His eyes are an amber ambrosia, mesmerizing, and it's mere moments before that survival instinct of yours wanes and vanishes. He's just... beautiful.
He awkwardly shuffles in place. You've been staring at him for too long. His posture stiff, he nods brusquely, turns on his heel, and attempts to walk away.
He trips.
He falls.
Ow.
And just like that the spell is broken, relinquishing your senses and returning you to reality. No wonder the Brass Blades nearby have been ignoring him: you're certain they'd seen him before and concluded he's not a threat to anyone but himself.
Not one to remain around an awkward scene, you leave him sprawled on the floor and hurriedly continue on your way. You've had enough secondhand embarrassment for one day.