The room swells with the inviting smell of warm tobacco, and with each deep pull of breath, old and comforting memories fill your chest. His presence at the heart of this rich cloud is like gravity, something inescapable, and you are drawn to him. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly, raises his eyebrow, both appraisal and invitation. The tip of his tail sways gently from side to side, marking the moment like some metronome, and your heartbeat sounds the tick of this phantom clock. He tugs on his cigar and the tip surges orange and red, then the smoke coils slowly out of his nostrils, like a dragon.

"Welp," he growls low, "best git to it, then..."