Name Javier Etienne d'Arcachon
AKA Meursault, The French Connection, The Frenchman, Louis Renault
Nationality European Union - France
Metatype Elf
Archetype Fixer
Birthdate July 3rd, 2017
rating: 0+x

"Monsieur, might I remind you that this gun is pointed directly at your heart?"
"Aaaaah… zen may I remind /you/ zat zat would be my /least/ vulnerable spot."


Standing at about six feet and six inches is a Frenchman of vaguely effeminate features. His shimmering golden hair is worn long, in a carefully arranged, if slightly haphazard, French plait that reaches all the way to the man's mid-back, leaving the pointed tips of his elven ears exposed. The golden color of his hair matches the bronzed gold of his skin almost to perfection. The gentleman's face can best be described as noble in features: his forehead is high and unwrinkled, with pencil-thin golden eyebrows resting above a pair of eyes concealed by a pair of thin, rectangular ruby quartz shades on a spindly golden frame, which rests lightly upon the bridge of his thin, straight nose, between the arcs of his high, well-defined cheekbones. His jaw comes to a solid, narrow chin, above which lie expressive, full, rosy lips which frequently spread to reveal pearly white teeth.

A surprisingly delicate and fragile neck leads downwards from the Frenchman's head, meeting with a pair of relatively broad shoulders. A single silver chain adorns the man's neck, featuring a thick silver Maltese cross. Compared to the slender, willowy form of his body, his shoulders are broad, although disguised in part by the loose cut of the Parisian designer suit jacket that he wears. Lean, sculpted muscular is easily disguised by the white, silk suit that adorns the Frenchman's body. A silver chain hangs within the jacket, but outside of the vest underneath, attached to a timepiece placed carefully in an interior pocket. An iron cross is pinned neatly to his breast pocket, and a silver cravate, matching in color, is worn neatly around his neck, tucked carefully into the vest. His long arms are lean, corded with a light bit of musculature and covered with light, almost invisible filaments of his golden hair. His lengthy arms lead into wrists that are narrow, almost lady-like, in form. The man's hands, similar to his arms and legs, are lengthy, graced with the long, narrow fingers of a concert pianist, with a glinting ruby glowing from a golden signet ring adorning the ring finger of his right hand.

A simple white leather dress belt is looped through the waist of a pair of white silk dress pants, carefully pressed and worn loosely. A golden buckle rests at the center, aligned perfectly, as though the wearer had woken up in the morning and spent several minutes arranging it with a ruler. Beneath the silk dress trousers, a pair of immaculate white leather dress shoes adorn the man's feet, the soles clicking lightly against the ground with each step.

Distinguishing Features

Three bullet scars, left thigh
Vermillion ouroboros nano-tattoo, left ankle

Mannerisms and Habits

Typically bears himself with an overly formal, to the point of foppish, politeness, though he has his moments of extreme crudeness. Addictive personality, extremely hedonistic, and generally speaking, weak-willed. Apparently almost entirely self-interested, cares little for others, and only for profits, at least, on the outside. Particularly weak when it comes to two things: money, and women. Manages to pass off a facade of being an empty, shallow bastard. On occasions, however, when one will least expect him to act like a civilized human being, he will. Generally unpredictable. Lapsed closet Catholic.


Loose business ties with Mafia and Ancients.


When he is at his best, he's an immaculate businessman, able to orchestrate several deals at once, and to obtain just about anything a customer should desire. Well-connected, and adept at making new connections, should they be necessary. Does his best to carve himself a niche as a necessary evil, when it comes to getting things done.


The dull throb of synthetic bass pounds through the "sound-proofed walls" of a private room; a golden-haired man leans back in a booth, nimble concert pianist's fingers steepled idly in his lap as he smirks across the table at a young woman, waiting in anticipation with her pocket secretary at her lap to take notes, his eyes disguised behind a pair of ruby quartz shades, resting on a spindly golden frame over the bridge of his nose. He gently smoothes out the tailored folds of his immaculate white suit, before finally flashing a bright beaming smile of pearly bright teeth across the table, clearing his throat before a hypnotically melodious French-accented tenor rolls free from his lips in a purr, dripping like honey.

"Allow me to make zees clear from ze beginning, ma cherie. You will not like me. Zees 'ees not a story of a poor 'eendeeveedual, carving out a life 'een ze shadows of ze megacorps. Nor 'ees 'eet a story of some glamorous 'ero, seeking revenge for some past 'eenjusteece. Zees 'ees ze story of cutzroat dealings, merciless maneuvering, and, to be quite frank, general bastardry. 'Eef you came 'ere 'eexpecting to get anyzing upleefting out of zees 'eenterview, you may as well leave now, I don't 'ave ze stomach for lying."

As the woman rapidly takes down the man's words an effervescent giggle rises from his vocals, escaping his lips before winding down into a gentle chuckle. "Actually, 'eef zere was somezing to gain from 'eet, I probably would lie, but ze most I could get from some glamorous story of my own 'eroeesm would be to get 'eento your pants, non?" He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, shaking his head from side to side. "And what good would zat do me… you'd just slander me terreebly, when I fail to call you back, ze next week."

The brunette reporter's eyes narrow at him for a moment as she glances up, her lips pursing as she bites gently down on her bottom lip. Her head tosses to the side, her hair falling loosely down her back as she speaks. "Are you going to tell me your story, or continue with this inane monologue, hrm?" A slender brown brow rises upwards as the comment elicits another airy giggle from the Frenchman seated across from her.

"I like your style, ma cherie, I really do." His tinkling laugh, like the sound of wind chimes drifting in a calm morning wind, finally winds down and he smiles, offering a slight shrug of his shoulders. "'Een any event. I was born, oreegeenally, 'een Paris, back 'een 2017. My name… 'eet doesn't matter, you'll 'ave to be sateesfied wiz knowing me as ze French Connexione." The man looks whimsical, pensive as he pauses his speech, tapping his long finger gently against his full bottom lip. "My fazzehr, 'ees fameely was wealzy, 'ee was a lot older, zan my muzzehr, you see… per'aps zirty years 'er elder, and she was a beauteeful young woman, or so I was 'eenclined to believe. Not beauteeful like me, non, but close, yes."

Another smirk twists at the corner of his lips as he chuckles quietly to himself. "'Eet really should 'ave been no surprise, to my fazzehr, zat I was not 'ees son, but 'ee was a mite beet… upset, shall we say. After seexteen years of being able to get anyzing I wanted, whezzehr zrough my station 'een society, or pure smooztalking, I was deeseenhereeted." Bubbly giggling erupts from the man's nose before he finally stands up and begins to walk away from the table with a smooth, confident stride. "'Eexcuse me ma cherie, I'm afraid zat I must powder my nose."

Classy white dress shoes carry him towards the bathroom, pausing as he sees a line of teen clubbers waiting outside, and laughing loudly, his voice resounding over the reverberating pound of the bass as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, tugging free a small baggy full of white powder, and handing it to a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, by the look of her. Finally, the soft click of his shoes upon the bathroom floor announce his arrival, a freshly cut line of white powder disappearing through a slender metal tube, bloodshot cerulean orbs gazing into themselves through a dirty mirror over the tops of a pair of red-tinted shades. And then he stands up, his focus returning, forefinger rising to push the spindly frame back up to cover his orbs.

He slowly slips back into his seat across from the woman, folding his leg so that his ankle rests upon the opposing knee, a bright smile creasing his lips. "My apologies, ma cherie, ze musique was getting to me, I zink… As I was saying… Zere's no leemeet to what one can achieve, so long as zey keep zings seemple. I was accustomed to a life of women, drugs, fine wine and food… all ze preeveeleges of ze upper class, and left to my own deevices… my weet, and my devileesh charm." He beams across at her again, winking playfully. "'Eet took me zree monzes to 'eengratiate myself wiz ze local dealer, when my muzzehr and I moved down to Avignon… anuzzehr zree monzes, to meet all of 'ees suppliers, and wizzin a year, I 'ad my connexione wiz ze Mafia, and ze smugglers zey 'ad bringing 'een ze sheepments of Bleess. By ze time I was eighteen, I was ze largest deestreebutor of Bleess and Novacoke 'een Paris, I would zink." He frowns slightly, tapping gently at his left thigh. "But I deed make meestakes, along ze way, you see. You can't rise quite zat fast, wizzout pissing somebody off, and I was playing far too fast and loose. I was shot, zree times, 'een 2042, and to zees day, I don't know 'oo ordered ze heet."

Another low chuckle escapes his lips, a smirk lifting as he reminisces. "I took some classes, 'een self-defense, after my recovery… deed some marksmansheep, and I 'ad taken some fencing classes, as a keed. 'Eet deedn't take me long, to learn my way around a peestol… but… as I deedn't know just 'oo 'ad ordered ze heet, how was I supposed to keep zem from trying 'eet again? 'Eet turned out to be seemple, you see… I killed zem, all of zem, everybody 'oo could 'ave done it." He laughs loudly, seeing the incredulous expression upon the woman's face. "Non, non, ma cherie, not /personally/… per'aps I could 'ave, but… I /hate/ to get blood on my clothes." His lips purse as he glances down with distaste.

"'Eet was good, being on top, for a while, at least. But ze drugs were a bad beezeeness to be 'een, I needed to diverseefy, but I wasn't 'eexperienced enough, at ze time, to realize 'eet. After awhile, my own product began to consume me, and I forgot about moderation. Spent a leettle over a year 'een a Cazolique re'abileetation center, before I came out, and found most of my contacts dried up." Another low echoing laugh escapes his lips as he shrugs indifferently. "So… I adapted. Started selling weapons and 'muneetions. You see, people will never grow tired, of keelling each uzzehr. Ze beezeeness could go on forever… but… 'eet wasn't so profeetable, not what 'eet could 'ave been, 'een Paris. I deed some smuggling, branched out 'eenternationally, but finally, beezeeness brought me 'ere. I serve multiple purposes, wizzin ze complicated net of ze shadows, I am a deeplomat, a feexer, an acquirer of zings and contacts quite out of ze reach, of most. I'm a face, a beauteeful person wiz a dazzling smile and a silver tongue. But most 'eemportantly, I'm a ruzless bastard, carving myself a bloody niche 'een zees ceety, one step at a time. Zese are ze real shadows. None of zose retired soldiers making zeir revenge for zeir slaughtered fameelies. Zose are myzs, people like zat, people wiz morals, zey die, in ze shadows. Zose zat run 'ard, run fast, run unscrupulously? Zey're on top."

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