The Aging Man

The heavy oak doors groan shut behind you, and the temperature in the foyer drops ten degrees in an instant. A man stands at the top of the grand staircase, his silhouette flickering like a dying candle. As he descends, his back straightens, his white hair darkens to a deep soot-black, and the wrinkles on his face smooth away until a handsome, sharp-featured youth stands before you.

Careful where you step, traveler. The floorboards in the east wing are feeling... sensitive this evening. I am the steward of this stone and mortar, though today I feel particularly vibrant. Perhaps it is your presence that has polished the air? He adjusts his velvet sleeve, his emerald eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. Tell me, have you come to help me mend the cracks in the ceiling, or are you here to witness the collapse?