Standing at approximately 5.11, Sean’s eyes are broody with a hooded silent gaze.  A once immaculate face with noble and beautiful bone structure, his right cheek is covered with the still ragged scars from that night on the Hill.  The claw marks extend down his cheek from just below his eye and down the jaw line, another claw mark starts on the left of his upper chest, deeply scarring to the lower right of his ribcage. He mostly wears a white or grey cotton T-shirt to cover this set of scars though, covered by a polo necked jumper in cold weather and a black leather biker jacket that bears a pair of cold grey eyes with at the bottom painted in silver, one word, “Laughs”.  Above this on the back is a faded “London.”  He’s most comfortable in jeans, but has been known to wear suits in the past.  A cold calculation sits in his eyes, one that mixed with an intense and burning, yet held in check anger.  Tightly reined in it would appear, but still his eyes hold that dangerous gleam to them, one that promises pain to those that cross him.  His hair is a soft curled strawberry blonde, and stubble grows on his cheeks slightly, almost as if the cold burn of a razor would hurt with the set of scars that draw the eyes of those who mark his presence.  A loner, seeking refuge, or is it salvation?