Bonesplinter Ravine who thought she was a nightingale

scarab does not expect to find another living soul amidst the graveyard of the unfortunate; such unfortunate souls! she drifts closer; smelling of warmth and woman, not a lost spectre come to haunt him. he hesitates, almost receding back into the shadows of the cavern, to his moss covered skull, to the gold veined rock — never mind that he has no idea how he's going to transport both things out of here ...

her lips part and her question shivers in the air between them, drawing golden filigree ears forth. she thinks he is a phantom of this place. though, perhaps, not an entirely wrong assumption, at least in some way, scarab almost laughs. the stirrings of it chirrs in the base of his throat, black nostrils flaring as he scents after her again.

he lets out a breath and prowls from the mouth of the cavern as if to prove that he is solid muscle and bone. that life and blood still rush hot thru his veins. a throaty, noise beckons and invites. i am no ghost. the sound of his voice very nearly startles him. he has forgotten what it sounds like; perplexed even further what it is about her — a perfect stranger! — that draws it from its desolate and ironlocked chamber within. it sounds like it belongs to a stranger; too deep to be the lilting treble of his childhood.

though i have held death in my arms. rather, it was the other way around but what was the deathreaver without a bit of pomp?