Old Man Diedeth, The Most Familiar

"You don't recognize me?" He chuckles, his cold, graying eyes moving up to glance over the rim of his spectacles. There was something about the piercing grey eyes that indicates a peaked curiosity, as if his sight hadn't gazed through that tint in quite some time. There is something...old, about it. Much older than he appears. "How silly."

The age in his voice, the way that he speaks. The room's temperature drops noticeably. For a moment, his gaze focuses upon on a spec of lint that had landed from some unknown place in the room, and invaded the rim of his glasses. It's odd, how delicately he plucks it away with a hand that shrivels and twists in odd ways, and even becoming a charred skeletal form for a brief blink of a second.

A fly lands on the arm of his chair, and he drops the piece of lint towards it. The fly didn't move. And the moment it was touched by the grey dust, it dies.

The man smiles. "Come now. Everyone knows me. Some more personal than others."