Herbert isn't nervous. He has a lot more to think about, right now, than whether or not someone he knew from college is going to be difficult to deal with. He doesn't anticipate that he will. Pickman was his friend, after all. Wasn't he? Probably. He liked his company. West just never made any effort to keep in touch.

By the time Pickman shows up at the inn, West is downstairs, like he said he'd be. He looks rather like he did in college, a little older, but that's difficult to tell. He's shed his lab coat, has a laptop bag over one shoulder, and is either reading the pamphlet again, or has found other exciting propaganda to go over while he waits.

He lowers the unfolded paper to look at Pickman, and as can be expected, his gaze goes right to the hooves, and how the man is walking, which is more interesting than the hooves, which alone could be some elaborate costume element. Anatomy and gait are more telling. How is one even supposed to react to that?

"Richard, hello." First establish familiarity, then dive right into the matter at hand. "I'll wait for your explanation."