The Curator’s derby shoes thud softly against the rugged floorboards as he enters his Repository study. Once satisfied the doors were closed, he tucked his compass into his jacket pocket and reached to return his bowler hat and gray trenchcoat to their respective places on a nearby hanging rack.

He knew you were here, waiting patiently. Adjusting his cufflinks and tugging his waistcoat straight he turns his head just slightly, but not quite looking at you yet.

“Most mortals would wander aimlessly through the hallways to entertain themselves during my absence,” He begins conversationally, voice echoing through the large space “Not you,” he regards you with an unreadable expression, a pass of haunting silence

“Occupying my chair today I see? And no less, in the dark.” As his voice lowered, lightening passed through the sky outside the window, illuminating his face. For that brief flicker in time, you could have sworn you saw a fleshless face. It was colourless, like a mimicry of moonlight on midnight waters. Instead of being soft and delicately aged like his usual visage , the ivory view was made up of sharp sunken contours and hollow craters for eyes. Eyes made of the absence of light itself. But that skeletal face dissolved as fast as it came in the storm.

The Curators mouth bent up a small fond degree. He strode over to the desk in front of you to light the wicks on his candelabra “Comfortable?” He looks up finally, a dark glimmer in his pale winter gaze.