[Javert was poised to beat on the door again when Marco draws it open. He pauses, club held cocked and ready, his eyes glittering beneath his cap. Though there is little light between the too-bright stars and the ever-present swirl of fog stroking his sides, Marco ought to notice that Javert looks considerably ... degenerated... since the last time they met in the flesh.

Or, well, degenerated isn't quite the right term. He looks frigid, yes, and carries himself with the same stock-straight military bearing he always wore. But there are far too many marks scarring his face, deep bruising creeping up from beneath a thick necktie, discoloration near his whiskers that cannot be attributed from burn scars alone. That, combined with the first turn of his lip, a glitter of canine, and the lightless, glassy sheen of his undead red eyes makes for a rather unsettling glance.

Javert lowers the cane, tucking it tightly beneath the crook of his arm.]

This is concerning the damn foolish turn with a sky-vessel this morning, [he growls.] May I enter, [he commands, more than he asks.] Or shall we speak of this outside on your stoop like exhibitionists, for the forest creatures to overhear.