WITH ALL THE DEAD WORDS
WE CARRY AND CANNOT USE
Dune turns and lifts the torch and sees- to his surprise- a woman. A unicorn, tall and pale and decidedly pretty, eyes fierce and bright in the glow of the firelight. He sniffs. She smells rich. Like jellied toast and tea, perfumed baths and other luxuries. But not Solterran rich, . Deluminian, if he had to guess, or maybe Terrastellan.
“Were I ghost, what would you say?”
A noble foreigner, playing tourist in the catacombs of Solterra… asking about ghosts. Dune’s brow raises in scepticism. Who the hell is this woman, and is she pulling his leg? The question is asinine- ghosts don’t show themselves to nobodies like him. And even if they did, he wouldn’t waste any time talking to them. Bad luck that.
Despite the disdain that runs through his thoughts, Dune replies smart and slick- he had always been quick on his feet. “I’d say you’re the prettiest ghost I’ve ever seen.”
“And the only one,” he bites off with a tart smile. It was best to play nice with nobles; their favor could get a man far. But gods it could be hard sometimes. There is something decidedly eerie about her, something spiderlike in the way she looks at him, but he brushes this off as a trick of the light or a product of the circumstance. It’s not exactly a friendly atmosphere, meeting someone under the earth and all.
He smiles wryly when she speaks of being alone, certain she has no idea what life was like for someone like him. How many times he had stood in a crowded room and felt more alone than he did down here among the dead. “Ah, well. Good thing I’m not alone anymore. What brings you down here?” He swings back around and beckons her to join him as he walks deeper into the catacombs.
