Erik can only inhale other people's smoke for so long before he must relent to the temptation to light one of his own—he's not made of stone, you know, despite what his estranged future relatives might say—but thus far he's resisted. Similarly, he's gone without a beverage, and neither has he touched any of the books, although he does make the obligatory meandering pass. Contemplating rows and rows of spines. His eyes move, or his head tilts, his hands always unoccupied.

It's not that he seems out of place—this is a fitting environment, in fact, more so than many others in the city. The haze and the intimacy and the mingling scents of old liquor and older leather suit him very well. He's merely in no big hurry to socialize. But then, he's not about to turn anyone away, either.