Date: 2009-08-24 01:35 pm (UTC)
The note Teatime had been on died slowly, dropping it's pitch the way some people's voices sounded when they dropped through windows. Such a way he associated things, so charming.

He looked at her, the glassy, black left eye reflecting her face, the right with it's pin-dot pupil widening only slightly, giving Maia an innocent, boyish look. He almost wasted precious thoughts on where his knives were, before reminding himself that there was no need for such things in the afterlife. That was unfortunate. He would like to see if a woman whistling through a hole in her larynx would sound better than what he had put such hard work into.

He supposed he'd have to exercise more politeness, being dead. He'd studied politeness enough to know he was better at it than whistling.
"Ah, that is a shame," he said. "I have practiced so hard to make it sound... right. But thank you ever so much, I do so love to be corrected, Miss...?"
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