"Who are you?"

A hand comes in front of his heart, the other tucked neatly behind his back. He bows at the waist, eyes shut while a smile plays on his lips.

“Arseni Ulvwesfv, at your service.”

For all the niceties conveyed by the motion, a coyness tugs at his expression. When he straightens, his chin tilts up, staring down at you from across the bridge of his nose, a hand worrying along the edge of his jaw as he scrutinizes you. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find—his face adopting the plaster of a good man.