Cerulean Cape raised hands

the bear looked at the preacher as if they were the sun.

that is, by squinting.

if they were an actor who took to a persona of earnest goodwill so easily, the undead could only guess at the depths of their depravity.

( the thought brought a twinge of unseen discomfort, for which it chided itself. 

the dead have nothing to fear. )

with a sigh the bear begun to with lumbering step scale the slight rise from atop of which the preacher-pretender shone down on its dark and compact smallness. as it rose it rumbled rhetoricals, punctuated by dragged-out, breathy silences awaiting the continuation of the sentence.

"will the feast entail... myself? will the private abode... be... where what remains... will be stashed away?"

it chuckled darkly to itself, deriving more entertainment from bluntly airing out its miserable thoughts than what it imagined the preacher could say in response.