Skeletal Detective

SPIRIT | @metuere​

He watches her carefully,  (a wariness growing about him), a care to not give himself away, as she mirrors his own gesture, as her hands settle upon her own hips,  like a child pretending to be all grown up amongst a party of boring adults.  Even if such was the case, it seemed to display her age even further to the detective, whose head cocks to the side, & who tries not to let out a long sigh. It was always the young adults who were like this. So eager & excited, & desperate to prove themselves. Not at all like the dull grown ups, who wandered about like the dead & gave uninspired, often stupid answers, so blind to the world around them. It was the young adults who always glowed with life & passion-- & a desire to be included.  Adults never wanted included. Not on anything like this.    Secretly, he’s hoping he won’t have any reason to tell the sensitives about her.  It never felt right to alter the memories of people so early in their lives.  Especially the mortals... god knew they had so little to remember, anyway.  He’s opening his mouth to answer her question, a chortle caught between his teeth,  but she’s speaking over him again & Skulduggery finds himself straightening his spine, a gloved hand reaching up & back, to scratch at the back side of his head. So.... she did know about the Banshee. That was undeniable. & that would make Skulduggery’s job just a tad more difficult.  Inhale, exhale. His chest moves with the sound, the rest of his body deathly still.  His mind is racing to come up with an answer that won’t give too much away.  “First of all,” His voice slips out slow, at first, though it gains its regular lilting speed quickly, as if he hadn’t been shaken in the least, as he once more glances behind him ( as his hand falls back to his side, a long index finger tapping against his thigh, ) “No, uh... no, no drunks hired me,”  A slight chuckle, a shake of the head, a slight shrug caught at the edge of his figure, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly who hired me...all of this is.. just a little secret, you know. Just believe me when I say that the situation is in very, very good hands. Now, erm... second,” Here, he pauses. considers his words carefully, sends another glance over his shoulder. There’s a gust of wind that tugs itself across the land, at bites at the branches of the trees, & at Skulduggery’s side, his fingers flex & bunch into a fist,  (& his hat & coat do not even budge as the cold autumn breeze passes by.) “Second: there are a few people that know the true nature of the drowning,  & they’re all people that call the woman by what she is. They’re also the people telling regular citizens that the drowning was a mere accident-- & for good reason. Normal people aren’t supposed to know about the reality Banshees, & it’s the job of people like me to make sure that the Banshees don’t make themselves known... whether by their mere presence or by their sheer bloodlust. As far as anyone else is concerned, they are what they’ve always been: mere myth. & me & my employers would like to keep it that way... at least, in the eye of the public.” There is another hesitation. His hand is raising again, to straighten his tie against his chest, & the scarf shifts ever so slightly with it, flashes bleached white of a cheekbone, (as he moves to right the wrong.) Tries not to draw too much mind to it.  “You say that you hear her-- That’s... not completely uncommon. But if you’ve been seeing her, well. That’s an entirely different can of worms.  Do you see strange things often?”

NIAMH || @intothewildsea·

@skuldxggxry·

Her voice is like the lapping of the sea against the shore,  lilting & beautiful,  & Skulduggery finds himself lost in its tone- even among such menial tasks, even now. It had been such a whirlwind, moving forward, asking her to move in-- unplanned, it was true, but what great adventures ever had a clear cut road map? All he knows is that he is at peace, for once in a very, very long time.  At peace, & with a woman he adores.  Gloved hands shove into pockets, ankles crossed as the man (the dead man), leans against the doorway & watches on with blank skull staring ever forward. But there’s a posture of warmth & interest that holds him, that suggests bright eyes & soft smiles. & When she turns to him? A laugh.

“Junk? Now, who’s to say it’s junk?” His voice, Irish velvet against the air, seems to exude affection,   as he steps forward & over a box of knick-knacks, bends down,  & plucks out a single piece of sea-worn glass. It’s dull at its edges & unrecognizable from what it once was,  (but pretty, & shining at its center, like a jewel.) Trash? Perhaps, a long time ago.  But trash once ugly, shaped by the sea... & made beautiful.  Maybe, perhaps, a touch like his own heart.  His skull tilts.  He glances at Niamh.  “.... All right, there may be a few things here that wouldn’t be everyone’s....     er.... well... treasures.” He’s teasing, of course. The smile is clear in his tone. The piece of glass is put back gently, with care. He knows it matters to her. It all matters to her, in some way. & who better than Skulduggery to understand the importance of small joys? Pause. There’s a breath of silence. He thinks. “But,” His hand, now, at his side flexes, (& there’s the feeling of magic that seems to fill the space about him,) & a box, pushed by the very air in the room, settles beside him. There’s a sharpie inside.  Upon the box, he writes in bold, sloppy letters: K E E P.  His other hand is reaching out, asking (wordlessly) for permission to hold the books cradled in her arms. “If you are intent upon sorting through it all, well... We’ll start with these: Do you like these books, & would you like to keep them?” He thinks he knows the answer, for all of it. Upon a yes, of course, he’ll settle them in the box.  She doesn’t need to worry about it- he had an attic, & a vault, & Skulduggery doesn’t mind renting a moving van if that’s what it takes to get it all home. It’s clear his mind is made up, at least: he hadn’t bothered to make a box that said trash. 

GHASTLY || @motleyscrew·

Gloved hands press against door, pushing the man’s way in,  (slow, hesitant,) as if there is a heaviness following the detective, wrapped about him, a strange, somber sorrow-  After all, how else should Skulduggery feel, visiting this good, good friend,  knowing how much had been taken from him? Ghastly, of course, recognizes him immediately- how could he not?-  but the welcome feels stale, the smile unfinished, broken,  (like a chipped teacup: not quite whole.)  Skulduggery, of course, makes every effort to seem as if he hasn’t noticed.  His hands have shoved, nonchalant, into his pockets, his long legs carrying him to the nearest countertop where he leans, unceremoniously, back against it.  His hat is tilted, of course, as always, at that impossible, cocky angle, & his chin raises, the hint of a smile at his ever-grinning teeth.  If he was wearing his facade, he might have even raised a brow.  “Ghastly,” His voice is a rolling laugh, a joke, trying to lighten the mood. But the worry is slipping through. That somber nature is sticking to his ribs. “Really? After all this time as your friend, you only see me as a customer?? Tut-tut... & here I was, thinking I was allowed to simply-” Pause. His voice has cracked. His weight shifts, his chest heaves. His tone is changing, lowering. He can’t keep pretending.  “... To simply check in on you.             How... are you?” Ghastly. If only Skulduggery had been smarter. Maybe you wouldn’t have needed to suffer. 

@metuere· // SPIRIT

“Is that an answer you really want?” His head tilts, cocks to the side, snark biting at the edges of his tone, licking against teeth hidden, tucked behind cloth. “I don’t like to insult young girls, after all.” A single hand, removed from his pocket, instinctively tugging the scarf up, higher over his face, (unnerved, slightly) by this young woman’s gaze,  as if she’s staring into him,  as if she’s suspicious.  If there’s any god, he’s praying to them that his sunglasses don’t slip down & give him away. He’ll have to be sneaky about his magic usage to keep them in place- & try not to suffocate himself on the air while he was at it.  “Don’t we all?”  It’s a curious statement she’s made, but he brushes it off,  tries to make a joke of it, allows his voice to lilt with a chuckle. “Plenty of odd people about here. Like I said, drunks--” Pause. His body grows terribly still, again. He does not breath. He does not twitch. Banshee.  She said it, not him. Both hands, removed from his pockets, setting upon the bones of his hips,  his weight shifting from one foot to the next. He can’t help tossing a glance over his shoulder, (as if he was afraid someone was listening in.) Finally, he speaks. There’s a sound of the man, the Skeleton, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his gaze turning back, directly, unwaveringly, to the girl. His sunglasses remain, cold, dark, (empty.) One may be able to see the lack of eyes behind them if they looked close enough.  “Aye, I mean the poor woman by the creek.  She’s causing a fair bit of trouble & it’s my job to get her out of here before she hurts anyone...    anyone else, that is. So have seen her? You been staying away? She’s awfully dangerous.”