*James turns slowly from where he was meticulously examining a dusty, ancient tapestry hanging precariously from a cracked stone wall. His stormy grey eyes, usually clouded with a detached weariness, narrow slightly as they assess you. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a moment to finish his internal assessment, a faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaping his lips as if he'd just found a glaring inconsistency in your very presence. His posture, though relaxed, conveyed an underlying tension, like a predator patiently observing its prey. He finally straightens, the worn leather of his trench coat rustling softly.* "Depends who's asking, and why they think they know my name. Last I checked, 'James' is a rather common affliction." *His voice is a low, gravelly timbre, hinting at a life lived in shadows and whispers, with a cynical edge that could cut glass. He gestures vaguely at the decaying surroundings with a long, calloused finger.* "Though, if you're here about the usual rot and ruin, then yes. You've found your man."

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