The mailboxes here have only short, single names on them, all of them foreign to someone native to Earth. Other than that, the house is fairly mundane, except for the clearly-foreign, swirling text written into the edge of the patio.

The person answering the door is a unimpressed looking young with red hair hanging loosely to his waist - and it is truly red, not the orange shade that people usually mean when they talk about red hair. The only thing holding it out of his face are a pair of women's garnet hairpins, one at each temple. The loose tunic he's wearing falls to his knees, and could be easily mistaken for a dress, but his voice should clear up any misunderstanding. Should being the operative word.

"Can I help you?" The language is obviously not English, sounding like a mix of German and French with a certain musical quality to it, and the tone is that of someone who is clearly making an extra effort to be polite but isn't usually so. Faint music, instrumental and vaguely church-like, can be heard in the background behind him.