It seemed this little Frenchman  was more insistent than Faolan had anticipated. He sighed as the handkerchief was forced on him, and took it begrudgingly. He'd rather wipe his forehead with the fancy cloth than endure more "advice". Taking the white lace in his huge paw-like hand, he spit on it and rubbed it against his forehead to extricate the blood and filth that had lain there. It came away a dingy brown-gray, and he continued to wipe his hands and face with it as he spoke.

He grunted at the question and smirked knowingly, [color=a36209]"You're small, you're alone, and not so...tough lookin'."[/color] He said, letting his eyes slide out toward the city once more and nodded towards the smog-filled sky. [color=a36209]"It's obvious your rich, or fancy, or some combination of both, from the city."[/color] His eyes then fell to Lucien's feet, [color=a36209]"You don't know your way about a ship, judging by your boots,"[/color] and his eyes moved back up to the young man's chest and arms, [color=a36209]"and you're scrawny. No scars, no callous on the hands, you smell clean, and your hair is freshly washed."[/color] Faolan sniffed the air instinctively, [color=a36209]"And that incense and candle wax wafting off your clothes...You're a church-boy, and they won't like that either."[/color] He finished wiping himself and thrust the handkerchief back toward the boy. Contact with his skin had left a large dingy brownish-gray stain in the center of the cloth, and Faolan hardly looked any cleaner for it.