Originally Posted by
InfinityzeN
(OOC: Sister, Rein* - And yes he railroads, that is his personality)
Jean watched the burned girl with growing worry as she swayed on her feet, eyes staring off into space. Straining to hear her words, his left arms reaches out and lightly rest on the unburned edge of her upper arm. He starts to speak, “Noi sha, moi nom…” before stopping and concentrating hard, the slowly and clearly saying “No we haven’t precious, my name is Jean Soileau, but everyone call me T-Boy.”
He flashes that big bright smile again, but concern shows clearly on his face as he tries to calm her down. His hand holding her upper arm tightens slightly as she begins to sway again, shifting slightly closer for a moment before releasing her arm and stepping back. His eyes sweep to the side, making sure the other girl [Rein*] isn’t trying to head back into the building.
His attention snaps back around at the whimper and the next thing the burned girl knows, her sway was arrested by his arms gently and smoothly sweeping her up into them. His touch is careful, keeping one forearm behind her knees and the other mid back. “Noi noi Sha, we can’ let you fal’” [No no precious, we can’t let you fall]
His warm hazel eyes look down into hers as he thinks for a long moment, then nods to himself and begins walking away from the fire. “You’ come ta moi maison, my home. I treat you' burns, cook you a hen sauce piquant…” The cheerful patter of words continues to flow from his mouth, mentioning the weather, the beaches, how beautiful the island is, even seeming to slip in a few comparisons of the beauty of nature found about and her [Tally]. Well, ether that or he is saying something really naughty. It’s kind of hard to do anything but smile in the face of his over whelming wave of cheerfulness.
Suddenly he stops walking and slowly lowers the girl to her feet, keeping a hand on her upper back till she is steady. As she recovers from her daze, she realizes that she is standing next to what has to be the oldest car she has ever come across. The thing has to be at least fifty years old. “Iz 63 years old, everyone ask” he chimes in cheerfully, pulling the door open for her.
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