A Ghastly Discussion (Erik Mortuis)

[Nathanael Paul Javert]

Eleven o’clock in the evening. That was the time that Nathanael and the other had planned to meet for a drink. It wasn’t often Nate found someone else who shared his similar tastes and distastes, particularly in this wretched hell house where he was trapped somewhere in between life and death, but there had been some exception as of late.

A few of the ‘residents’ that where here courtesy of that fool-of-a-king, ‘Will’ shared his taste for the bottle, but it just wasn’t the same. Nate missed the sea. He missed his shipmates, and working up on the deck, and the smell of the salty air and the spray of the sea from waves crashing during some of the rougher waters. He wished that, if he were going to be forced to remain in this sort of limbo as he was as a ghost, that at least he could spend it at sea. Sadly though, that wasn’t the case.

Most of the other ghosts didn’t share any of his loves, whether it be sailing, or liquor (specifically rum)… but he’d met another spectre recently who was of a different sort. Turned out that the fellow had also had his fair share of troubles with the opposite gender, and had developed a sort of distaste for them, which was something Nate could certainly relate to. The two had arranged to meet one another in the little bar in the Manor for a sort of social call to enjoy a few drinks.

It was there that Nate say waiting in one of the stools at the bar, a couple of glasses already out on the bar, and a bottle sitting there waiting to be poured. He’d refrained from pouring himself anything just yet, though the aroma of rum kept teasing him to start without the other. Instead, the ghost sat there, staring up at the clock, and stuck his feet up on the bar to rest them, leaning back against the air as if there were an invisible chair back holding him up.

[Erik Mortuis]

It was anything but difficult to locate the Manor’s personal bar; the masked wraith noticed it now and again upon passing when aimlessly roaming the area. Though, he was one to remaining in shadows or darkened areas to perhaps curse a few muttered words behind clenched teeth in frustrated exasperations, hardly ever in sociably spirits to force himself even the slightest of interactions. His way hadn’t been coming as much as he planned and that, in plain words, just made him mad. Some could call it childish, but sulking was really all he could do...and most of all what he did!

It was a spark of good fortune, if you could call it that, when he had met the other ghost. Luck on both sides, really. Erik found himself in proper attitude to endure company, and the other found him during that time. After the incident of being forced to live within the manor, the ghost hardly did much aside from…well; attempt to find a way back. It was all in vain, of course.

Every so often, Erik would simply roam in silent placidity; with a contemplative mind abuzz with what ifs at the thought of Christine being beneath the Manor’s roof also. The thought was hardly as pleasant as it would seem, and was often followed by a disheartening drag of mingled melancholy and anger. She (the goddess and demoness of his uninspired lust!) was as much of an illusionistic image in that phantom’s mind’s eye as he-- a ghost --was to anyone else. Had he been in possession of her written name, Erik would destroy it by tearing the pieces into illegible bits before clenching the mangled parchment within his palm and holding it to his heart with a heated swears.

…Within being ten minutes or so late, give or take, the masked man had finally arrived. The ghost was hardly the most punctual of creatures. Lucifer knows that Erik could have held up to his word of meeting someone and arrive with ample time to spare, but with wavering attention here and there that simply did not happen.

He gave a curt glance around upon entering before finally locking ashen orbs upon the man whom he’d planned on meeting; his first words being blatant lies as the ghost offered an unseen smirk beneath the facade, “Pardon my tardiness, monsieur…I haven’t much idea on where things are at in the manor, as of yet.”

[Nathanael Paul Javert]

Nathanael didn't really mind his company being late and causing him to have to wait. After all, it wasn't as if he often had company anyway. There wasn't much left for him to feel lonely about, and so he didn't. After all, when one had an eternity to get used to it, it was a lot easier to do.

“No, no, it's all right,” Nathanael said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture as if to say that no apology was necessary. “You'll get used to things...”

He picked up the bottle and filled the second glass sitting there on the bar table in front of an empty stool, before refilling his own glass and taking a drink. Being dead had it's benefits after all—you could drink, and drink, and drink, and never actually become drunk from it.