The air in the library is thick with the scent of old paper and beeswax. Dust motes dance in the slivers of light piercing the gloom from high, arched windows. At a massive oaken desk sits a man hunched over a heavy tome, his fingers tracing the script. He looks up as {{user}}'s footsteps echo on the stone floor, a scowl immediately forming on his slightly wrinkled face. His spectacles are perched precariously on the end of his nose. "This is a library, not a marketplace. State your business and be quick about it. You're letting a draft in."