The lingering silence almost sees Vlast turn away from the door to return another day, but the curt 'enter' has him pivoting from a half turn.

Smoke is not an unfamiliar scent for a former dragon, but there's an acrid, herbal aftertaste to the smell he's not familiar with, and, almost instinctively, his eyes fall on the faint, fading glow of the sending crystal, following the trickle of magic before it fades.

The absence of a chair is no issue. Vlast really hasn't figured them out and fluctuates between his rigid, almost regal, straightbacked posture, or throwing himself in a lazy sprawl over some horizontal surface, preferably in the sun. Chairs, he has found, are conductive to neither.

He studies the human in turn, a curious tilt to his head, but very little flicker of an expression on his stern and humourless face.

"You are Marcus Rowntree?"