Hercules stands as tall as can be, looking down at the sentry with a mild expression. Not amusement, not aggression, merely the casual regard for another person that he'd show anyone who was not obviously threatening. The blade he dismisses out of hand, since she has yet to draw and in a show of good faith he lets the Golden Mace drop to the floor.

"I am at that," he says in a gentle voice, a smile forming as he spots the book. A good one, if a touch morbid.

"I am Hercules. Who might you be, lovely one?"