[To have been dead in a locked room for thirty years and then to have a stranger with suspicious flecks of blood on his person say that it's impolite to refer so openly to death is—well. Not many things can make Octavian laugh anymore; he's dead, for one, and maintaining the integrity of his own semitangible form takes a focus too demanding for things like having a little chuckle. But he still does, the sound almost crackling and strange, and the edges of him seem to wisp a bit harder and lose that much more color before he stops again.
Whew. Big day for emotions.]
There is another spectre. Young. Whimsical. That is all of us.
[At least, he thinks so—no one has mentioned another literal ghost besides himself and Charles, and since all ghosts must know each other according to the living, they surely would have. He cants his head, considering.]
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Whew. Big day for emotions.]
There is another spectre. Young. Whimsical. That is all of us.
[At least, he thinks so—no one has mentioned another literal ghost besides himself and Charles, and since all ghosts must know each other according to the living, they surely would have. He cants his head, considering.]
Who is this semi-permeable being.