@rapxir sent:
She sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Retired and he still can’t shake his weird Spencer’s Gifts vibe,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.
She’d come out here because it was quiet. Cemeteries were peaceful places. They were quiet. People left flowers everywhere. Usually there was some kind of water nearby so ducks would wander through. It was a good place to find a tree to play her guitar under.
Now instead of unwinding, she was starting to wonder if it was a coincidence that they kept running into each other.
“Usual haunt for you, or can I help you with something?” she asked.
A velvety baritone descends over the headstones and rattles the growing bareness of the trees:
“I heard that.”
Pitch, exceptionally tall and slim, follows his voice, materializing in the shadow of a sycamore, from black nebula to humanoid. His ashen gray features warm to their true, restored hue of healthy olive-tan. Traveling through light’s absence can have odd visual effects.
“I’m actually not often here, no,” he drawls. hands folded behind his back, posture flawless. “People here are, well,” and he chuckles a bit darkly, “past the need for fear. You get the occasional visiting relative who ponders their mortality, but no, I think we’re both here for the same reason tonight.”
He glances down at her instrument, casts a shadow over it, and the shadow, becoming tangible, plucks a string of notes.
“It’s peaceful.”
