#*greeting

{ There is a smattering of chairs in a library-- one contains a man, seated at his ease with a book well in hand. At a noise in the doorway he glances up, past a pair of glasses snug on his nose. } 

{ Be they of your set or not, beings of a certain sort tend to have a certain scent--a welcoming smile grows fondly onto Death's face, his bearing is nothing short of the definition of polite. If there is a silence, it is simply a gauging silence. The sort a man might undertake while buttoning his cuffs.

When he's finished, he spreads his hands wide at his sides. }