Panther

Some might call him pretty.  Others, too, might call him dangerous.  Whatever the words used, his deep purple eyes with the epicanthic folds seem sharp, his smile almost predatory.  He is almost tanned, and definitely Slavic, at the very least.  The way he walks is with ease, as if he is used to the movement.  His grace is uncanny, like one might shove him and he would just push back up again.  One might expect one who would travel as much as he to be a bit messier, but it is clear, he grooms himself.  His boots are free from travel dust that might show the weary world.  His shirt matches his skin tone perfectly, and well-pressed, and his pants have been cleared of every loose hair or tear.  His hair, too, is perfectly placed, like he spent some time on it.