time frame: august 10th, morning
setting: the lake museum of natural history
status: open to all
There’s something about the phantom that seems best acquainted with the darkness and small spaces, the thick curtains of the theater that allow for no light or the passages beneath the stage itself where a hand on the wall is the best way to navigate, and yet, here he stands in the light of an open room, looking out of place at best: a forgotten relic of some long gone exhibit, one that should quickly and quietly be put away into storage as not to frighten the patrons. Before they start asking about what lurks behind the face covering. Before they ask is that supposed to be blood or dirt beneath his fingernails?
Unlike an exhibit though, he moves – his feet echoing coldly against the marble floor. Still, he feels at home here (despite his appearance) among the preserved, the not quite dead but the certainly not living. A museum is a purgatory of thoughts and things. His own thoughts seem to be haunting him, distracting him from the rest of the world, allowing him to take that corner a bit too quickly and a bit too short. When he rounds it and finds himself close to a face he was not expecting, he is drawn partially from his reverie, enough to accusingly ask the other about their presence.
“What are you doing?” he poses the question, seemingly startled by something living in his halls of the undead.
