The transparent, blue-tinted form of Friedrich Lester's spirit floated across the barren wasteland with his customary disapproving frown on its face. The number of bones he had come across so far was distasteful as far as he could care, but since he had nowhere to go and an eternity to spend he had decided not to rush away just yet. He even held out hope that something, or someone, interesting might turn up even all the way out there in Dori'ba, the Land of the Dead. Looking around once more at the wasteland, seemingly endless in all directions, Lester came to a halt.

Hardly the most appealing of holiday locations. he thought to himself, as there was little point in speaking out loud; who in their right minds would come out here anyway?

Of course, that just rose more questions for the former spymaster. Was he losing his mind? Had he finally cracked? He had hoped that, having survived - metaphorically - the trauma of death, he would not be at risk from breaking down mentally, but his decision to wander alone, even if he was immortal, into Dori'ba had him questioning what had at the time seemed little more than a trifling concern. Was he, even in death, going completely loopy?

Better loopy and aware of it than loopy and ignorant. he reasoned to himself, before carrying on his way.

That was when he heard it; a sound nearby, but not the sort of sound one would expect to hear in what was meant to be a deserted region, inhabited only by the dead, mostly. But this sound was not of the dead, or at least Lester did not think so. It was movement. Some sort of movement. Turning around slowly, hovering there on the spot, he called out,

"Well? Who's there?"

Ah, truly it wasn't all that long ago when the young man, Versant, had last visited one of his most favorite of locales. But as his last efforts to find some sort of- well, pausing there, he really didn't remember what he expected to find on his previous trek, most likely he was just walking by and hoping something would find him. It was his usual style, after all.

His most treasured Staff plodded against the cold, damp ground of Dori'ba, in time with every stamp of his crude leather shoes. It was a pleasant enough walk, the young Necromancer had to think. Cloud cover was heavy enough that he had the pleasure of trekking through the dark, always with the giddy surprise of the next bit of scenery. Bones would have gotten old a while back if not for the splendidly unusual ways some of them were arranged, and all of the deliriously designed tombstones gave cause to stop and examine. Always something familiar but new in this land, and that's one thing Versant loved about it.

It's such a strange night though, he chimed in his mind. He had been walking through the lands for nearly an hour, and not once had he come across anything of the 'dead-but-not-quite' persuasion. Was it just a slow night? Probably not, as the smell of death was still pervasive all around him. That was one thing he could never get into, that dreadful smell which made him bathe so frequently. It was sort of a bitter victory, since he would so like to meet an Undead... And at the same time, he'd like to keep his limbs. The fellow was without much protection, after all.

But, ah, what exactly was he here for this time? Well, he didn't so much have a set reason as a few vague excuses. Actually he had planned to practice channeling his magic through the corpse of another in order to raise them into an undead state, but even if he did intend to do that, he thought of it only after looking for a reason to come back.

A chill wind blew past his bare cheek and caused goosebumps to raise up his arms. Not from fright or displeasure, but just from the temperature contrast. A bit like drinking a cold drink on a Summer's midday. To help smoothen it over faster -the actual sensation of goosebumps he disliked- the young Healer and Necromancer adjusted his tunic's sleeves to a less tight fit. Another, though lighter, breeze blew by, and now Verse had an idea to keep himself warmer. He'd hum. But barely three minutes after repeating a song that a minstrel had played for him at the last village, he heard a voice off in the far reaches of the dark.

"Well? who's there?" It called to him. Or rather, he, because the creator of these vocals was more than obviously male. Much older than Versant himself by the sounds of it. So, that meant another traveler was out in Dori'ba with him? Splendid! He always did love company.

"That would be me, sir!" He called back with due haste, and quickened his pace to match. But as he did, a thought crossed his mind and caused him to stop. As much as he hated to admit it, this traveler could not be of the friendly sort, and indeed might not be a traveler at all. People seemed slow to say it, but the world housed far more dangerous things than the dead, and even then those were pretty dangerous too, if you weren't careful. "But, oh but, who are you?" Yes, that was it, wait for them to come to him. That would do beautifully.

((OOC: So sorry! I didn't realise anybody had replied to this.))

Lester was admittedly cautious, despite having been assured of his own immortality, well, sort of, when he had first died. Out of context, such a statement, 'he was assured of his immortality when he died', could have been both contradictory and embarrassing, but Lester was not concerning with splitting such hairs. The trouble there and now was that there was someone, or something nearby, and as Dori'ba was hardly the most pleasant of places, it did not escape logic that if there was anything in the world that could harm a ghost, it would probably prowl around these lands. Fortunately for the ghost, and he would have breathed a sigh of relief if he had air in his lungs, the voice that replied to his yell was neither a growl nor a roar,

"That would be me, sir!"

The voice sounded warm, almost friendly, and not in the least bit threatening, prompting Lester to relax and adopt his stern, contrastingly cold, custom expression in time for whomever was about to reveal themselves to him. It did not do to reveal fear to a stranger, Lester reasoned, especially in such a place as Dori'ba, the Land of the Dead. Straightening the lapels of his ghostly jacket, the spirit heard footsteps growing closer before stopping and the voice calling out once more,

"But, oh but, who are you?"

Lester raised an eyebrow. If he had still been alive he would have immediately considered the possibility of a trap, but as the voice he was hearing now was definitely humanoid, he surmised that no harm could come to him; he was not aware of any mages or sorcerors who were capable of harming a spirit, though the thought that such a being might exist gave him enough food for thought that when he set off in the direction of the voice, he did so with a considered amount of caution. A drawback of being dead was that, for Lester at least, it was in no way reassuring about danger when compared to the living. Eventually he passed through the trees, bare and rotting as they were, and out into the open where, stood before him, was a young man, staff in hand. With quick glances to the surrounding area to assure himself that there were no others, Lester descended down in front of the man, before speaking, composing himself in a stern and dignified manner, as was customary with anyone he was not familiar, and those he was for that matter,

"Friedrich Lester," he said shortly, by way of introduction, "And you are?"