The Heartwood i'm a ghost of you, you're a ghost of me

If nothing else, his lack of a voice was a good ice breaker. He wished that people would stop taking such fascination with it but there was no real way to avoid that — so he took the question as he always did, silent and sullen, and tilted his chin so that the pink scar could be seen. Maybe he should spice things up a bit and make up a reason why he's unable to talk? That would at least entertain him in between greetings; perhaps it would even jostle his memory so that Mou could remember the truth as to why he was a near-mute.

Woke up like this. Spat out of the sea. he explained. It wasn't a lie, it wasn't the whole truth, and it wasn't very creative. Whatever. 

He watched the stranger for some sign of understanding, or emotion. Whichever came first. But he had an inkling that the skeletal creature wasn't going to give him much to work with — so far they seemed quite controlled, which both impressed and unnerved Mou. Do you live here? he mouthed carefully, but to be truthful he wasn't sure he wanted to know where this odd specter called home. If not here, perhaps somewhere more sinister — another plane entirely, such as the Void.