Idriss Mohamed is a dark and quiet man, the sort who may also be pious. Why he would evoke piousness in the mind is a function of history and the light, gray hairs of his beard. He likes mint and clears his throat from time to time. He loves to smell the minty air of incense done right. No cheap immitations for him, he is a man truly in love with the spice of life.
"Arab" he says, pointing at the man who stands by his side. "Arab" he says again. The man who stands by his side is a sight to behold. Six foot six, if an inch, and dark as the midnight sky. His gray hairs are white, but his eyes are bottomless, seen through the pitch dark blackness of a pair of bottle-sized, diamond shaped glasses. He wears a robe and a hood. His name is Solon.
"The order of all things" he says nodding quietly. You have to get it, for he wields a gun. Idriss, his Master, wields only a ceremonial sword.
"Arab," Idriss smiles as you appreciate the quality of the threat, "he is my son."
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