They can move as quickly as a thought, in theory. There's no flesh weighing them down, no breath to make them slow, and while it takes them awhile to forget the rules and just do it, older ghosts can pour through physical matter like walls and dirt and stone like water through a crack.
In reality, most ghosts simply can't. There's no gizzards left to stop them, but they remember there should be, and forgetting is an art that takes practice. Even Castor drags his feet, sometimes, when he's feeling especially corporeal, and on days like that, you have to dawdle, slowing your steps until they match a blueblood's heavy stride.
Perhaps the fear has made him remember he's dead, though. The walk from the hive to the sewers is a fifteen minute walk, but it only must be five minutes before the room lights with Castor's familiar off-blue as he slips and slides down through the ceiling, heels first.
He's barely corporeal: somewhere between an imprint and a real troll, his features worn away to the impression of eyes, a nasal hole, the gaping mouth. But you can't doubt it's Castor, not when the leash is tied around his waist so firmly, the doubled strand of your maroon psionic aura stretching from him to you.
And you'd recognise Castor's voice anywhere.
"Putain - enfin fini!" he growls. "Vous disparutes! Et j'retourne chez moi, et -" He flings up his hands. "Vous absentâtes! Que? Tu es un gosse à la con: à cause de ça, vous devez être prudent, tu dois rester près de moi!"
Even when he goes off on his crazy gibberish.
"I don't understand you," you snap, keeping your voice low. You knows a few words, enough pidgin to keep track when Castor goes off in one of his fits - but not when he's spitting words like acid, one after another until the pronunciation is slurred. "J.. j'ne parle! Shhh."
It'd be so much easier if you didn't have to speak aloud.
"C'est des conneries!" he snaps. "Vous parlez français, pourquoi tu mens?
"Shhh!"
"Que? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a -- ahh."
Castor follows your gaze to Pheres: at the sound of your piping voice, the maroonblood has started to stir, and pressing yourself flat against the pipe, you try not to breath and draw more attention.
no subject
They can move as quickly as a thought, in theory. There's no flesh weighing them down, no breath to make them slow, and while it takes them awhile to forget the rules and just do it, older ghosts can pour through physical matter like walls and dirt and stone like water through a crack.
In reality, most ghosts simply can't. There's no gizzards left to stop them, but they remember there should be, and forgetting is an art that takes practice. Even Castor drags his feet, sometimes, when he's feeling especially corporeal, and on days like that, you have to dawdle, slowing your steps until they match a blueblood's heavy stride.
Perhaps the fear has made him remember he's dead, though. The walk from the hive to the sewers is a fifteen minute walk, but it only must be five minutes before the room lights with Castor's familiar off-blue as he slips and slides down through the ceiling, heels first.
He's barely corporeal: somewhere between an imprint and a real troll, his features worn away to the impression of eyes, a nasal hole, the gaping mouth. But you can't doubt it's Castor, not when the leash is tied around his waist so firmly, the doubled strand of your maroon psionic aura stretching from him to you.
And you'd recognise Castor's voice anywhere.
"Putain - enfin fini!" he growls. "Vous disparutes! Et j'retourne chez moi, et -" He flings up his hands. "Vous absentâtes! Que? Tu es un gosse à la con: à cause de ça, vous devez être prudent, tu dois rester près de moi!"
Even when he goes off on his crazy gibberish.
"I don't understand you," you snap, keeping your voice low. You knows a few words, enough pidgin to keep track when Castor goes off in one of his fits - but not when he's spitting words like acid, one after another until the pronunciation is slurred. "J.. j'ne parle! Shhh."
It'd be so much easier if you didn't have to speak aloud.
"C'est des conneries!" he snaps. "Vous parlez français, pourquoi tu mens?
"Shhh!"
"Que? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a -- ahh."
Castor follows your gaze to Pheres: at the sound of your piping voice, the maroonblood has started to stir, and pressing yourself flat against the pipe, you try not to breath and draw more attention.