Foyer, near the stairs
As soon as he entered through the doors, he knew he shouldn't be here, yet as he ventured further the feeling shifted and rippled to become less specific and more vague, an all-encompassing sensation of not belonging anywhere rather than in this specific place. Even in the midst of creatures who were unlike anything that should be capable of existing, he stood out, a bright spot in the dark-- or, conversely, a mass of inky blackness within blinding light. His appearance was fickle and ever-changing, never content with allowing him to blend in; for now, however, he was clad in a tattered black robe that stopped just short of touching the ground, enough to reveal the tips of worn sneakers beneath. A plastic death's head mask covered his face, hardly the sort to be intimidating to anyone over the age of five, and the gloves he wore were painted to appear as though his hands and fingers were nothing but white bone.
His reaper's scythe was slung over his shoulders, but even that appeared to be plastic and nothing that could cause any true harm. The only thing worth noting about him, it seemed, was (aside from the fact that he was very much like a puzzle piece continually being forced into a space he did not fit into) the aura of unease that followed him wherever he tread. For some, it may have been a mere tug on the back of their minds, resulting in nothing more than a double-take, but for others it might have been a genuine sense of discontent that had them keeping their distance as he passed. Only a select few, perhaps less, would suspect that there was more to the harmless costumed figure than met the eye.
He found himself a spot by the grand staircase, a little circle of isolation that few were careless enough to cross. A drink was held in one gloved hand, though it appeared untouched, and one could only guess where his gaze was as he watched; the mask offered no hints.