[ He's a teenage boy, lanky with black hair not terribly well-kept. He's bony and while his clothes are formal -- a nice white shirt and grey slacks -- they don't fit him well, too short. That and his knobbly feet are bare. At the moment, he happens to be staring at his long, equally knobbly hands as if in disbelief. He only does this for so long before he spreads his arms above his head in a gesture of delight and begins to do a little dance, ]

Yes! Yes, oh, yes, oh yes!

[ He laughs a wild, hysterical laugh. He looks like a psycho. ]

[ He literally hip checks a child out of the way: ]

Move it small fry, let a real pro take the wheel.

[ He is not a real pro at anything but insults, which he happily begins to fling at the game's attendant in al sorts of horrifying and colorful language. What was that about evisceration??? He says it with such cheer and such sibilant charm too.. ]

[ His mask is a skull. It's terrifying. A putrid green with rolling eyes and a long blackened tongue. He cackles behind it terrifyingly, and takes anyone who ends up his dance partner on an absolutely dizzying spin throughout the hall. ]

Come on now! Keep up, you silly mare!

[ And he's laughing. When he isn't dancing he's stuffing his face so quickly that you're genuinely afraid he might choke. ]

[ There's no way that he came here without her. They're connected. Meant to be. Wasn't that obvious? Every moment he's looking for her, trying to feel out her essence in a world that seems to have changed the nature of essence entirely... But he'd know her anywhere, wouldn't he? Wasn't Lucy Carlyle the one steadfast thing in the world?

He's perched inelegantly upon the stone base of a statue, peering shrewdly at every passerby... ]