[ at the door in the attic, a man sits perched on the edge, legs hanging, porcelain hands in his lap. there's something.. creepy about him, kind of? he looks harmless--tall, maybe, but slim, and the glance he offers back is surprisingly kind--but there's just something about him that makes most people break out into a cold sweat.

he offers a small, serene smile, and porcelain clicks as he offers up his hand. ]

Is it death or freedom that waits below? [ something about his tone says he already knows. ] You won't be alone.

To the Archivist:

Good afternoon. Somehow, I feel that my patron may be nearer than your own, but isn't that always true? I hope that it's been a respite. Come, bring Martin, I'll make tea if you like.

To all others:

My name is Oliver Banks. I apologise if you find me difficult to be near. Most do. It's a hazard of the job.

[ what it says on the tin. encounter him anywhere. ]