To Morokei’s bleary eyes, the figure in the distance seemed to meld with the snow itself; a rippling silvery silhouette blinking across the stark landscape like the flickering of an old film. A ghost. The stilted Melonii started forward, a spark of life found in the promise of a break from monotony. He would have given anything for a chat with a ghost, a glimpse of a god, the promise of something beyond what he’d come to accept as a rather repetitive existence. Kill, eat, piss, sleep, try to avoid an existential crisis between; he wondered some days if he was stuck in time somehow, a punishment handed down from the Daedra for his sins. If the Daedra even cared to punish him anymore. He grinned at that, and the skin around his muzzle crackled faintly as the dried snot stretched and broke. It stung under the frigid breeze, but he hardly noticed. The phantom in the snow had become something more corporeal as he neared; a winter spirit, perhaps, as trapped in her prison of flesh and fur as he was in his own. Assaulted suddenly by the scent of the living, his attention quickly shifted back to the present. Ghost she was not, yet the Melonii was struck nonetheless by a desire as fierce as any ache for some link to his Gods. Thinking quickly, he called to her in a voice rough with disuse. ”Excuse me, miss. Can you spare a moment?”