A smokey twisting ladder climbed it's way toward the rafters through the over head lights. If one were to look from the right angle, you could see the loosest spiral, as if trapped in an unnatural orbit around the source. With enough study one could easily divulge that Theo was a chain smoker. Whether it was a habit he retained from life, or something he picked up after knowing the leisure of undeath; was uncertain. Even to him. Regardless, the specters vicinity was quickly flooded with it's own layer of musky fog. That of which was hardly disturbed by the bright white fabric in passing. Whoever she was, the stark haired blood sucker didn't even notice until her voice cut through the noise of his muddled thoughts.<br/><br/>[“You look like one’a those old plastic bags ya see on the highway. Always in a state’a disrepair but goin’ somewhere. Gets me thinkin’ about where the hell you might’a blown in from. Better yet- where ya headin’?” Her voice was a whip crack of Bronx-esque spitfire, strung together tight and fast.<br/><br/>“Also, ain’ too positive ya realized, bub, but ya stink.”]<br/><br/>Her analogy of the discarded plastic bag painted an all too surreal picture for the spirit. If not for multiple life times of steeling himself against such comments, that might have cut a bit deeper than a stranger might permit. Not that it was her fault, she was just hitting too close to home for a lucky guess. Funny thing was that Theo probably wouldn't have even responded if not for the last comment. Not at the expense of offense of course, but only because perhaps some useful information might be gleaned.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">"Like cigarettes, or sulfur?"<br/>​</div>His last memory was of an army of hands holding him back. Like a proverbial ocean of tormented zombies in a sprawling pile. Accompanied by the worst smell of sulfur. The mountain of dead was far too large to be measured, yet in some ways it seemed to be alive. The way they all greedily grabbed and pulled and bit and clawed simultaneously. The only thing worse then the feeling of those hands ripping away at his being was their moans and screams smothering the senses. That was right before the loudest explosion he'd ever heard in his life. Louder than the one that ended his undeath even.... Someone he knew all too well. Someone he actually cared for- yet he couldn't place a name to the face. The beast of a man exploded into his dream and grabbed Theo and pulled him from the grasp of the horde... The memory/dream was painful to reflect on. Yet it was the last point he could re-call as 'Tangible' and 'Real'... It was probably not so jarring for the initiated, but for a human it would have been most unsettling. The way this monster so casually wore the flesh of a human yet so clearly did not fit into it. The light seemed to illuminate unnatural colors hiding just beneath that pale paraffin flesh. The anatomy was all in the right place, and yet this individual fell noticeably into the uncanny valley all too quickly. There was no rhyme or reason to the various 'oddities' of his persons. From those seering eyes, to the stark white dangerous looking fingernails, to those unabashedly violent interlocking teeth; Theobaud made no attempt to hide his 'True Nature' despite all the tools available to him. The fact of the matter would only become more apparent once that visage fixated on the pink haired girl. Two seats were simply not enough space to keep her from feeling that intense danger wafting off this man.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">"or was that some kind of dig?"<br/>​</div>If she was offended by the smoke, it could be forgiven. Where as if she had some kind of extra-sensory going on, Count Graves would be most interested in trying to tap and trap that knowledge to better supplement his own... Not that he was overly confident in his abilities to peacefully negotiate. Realistically, he was just emerging from the fog of Re-Birth, rightly more confused than a bat in a wind tunnel. All the same, the ghost did little more than drag on his cigarette while he sat there. The glass of rum was all but forgotten at this point despite still sitting on the counter top in front of his position. A supernatural read of this creature would divulge some very interesting facts. Firstly: This was a specter. In more or less words this ghost currently had a body, and apparently commanded some form of element to manifest and maintain a physical form. How he was managing such a convincing vessel was a whole other mystery. Secondly: This creature appeared to have all the tell tale signs of being a vampire, even in double death. More specifically: The body he had manifested reactively to hitting the flesh lands was not functioning or built in the manner of a living mortal. Thirdly: In order for each of the first two facts to be true, this monster had to retain a certain portion of his original soul. As farfetched as that would be; all things considered. However, if someone could discern all that from a glance of the third eye- they would definitely understand why the ghost had taken to smoking and drinking...<br/><br/>Most spirits revert to their worst habits from life when not pursuing the final works of their spiritual release in death...Usually because they haven't figure that out yet.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="634" data-username="@Villains" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/634/">@Villains</a><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2FGOn96jv.jpg&amp;hash=d89c7b7b1b57ea459ed06980a46c7c0e" title="GOn96jv.jpg">
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