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"So, what's up with the mask?" You start, trying to break the weird atmosphere. "It's pretty neat looking. Why is a big guy like you wearing it, huh?" You try to flash a smile. The figure makes a tiny, almost imperceptible shudder.
"Keeps me safe." It mutters, adjusting the mask now that it knows you're focusing on it. "Cityslickers don't like face. Wear to have better face."
"Any particular reason for a raven specifically?" A gust of wind blows past you. The tar inside you squirms.
"Humans, associate them with...loss. I, deal with. Loss. Felt, fitting. For new face." Frozen breath leaks from the bottom of the mask. "Symbols, all the City understand. Nothing, more."
"Speaking about the City, why do you hate it?" You cast a glance at the busy streets stories below where the two of you are at.
[DYING LIGHT] The City has her flaws, yes, but the people in it...
"You, wouldn't understand. Part of it now, one with the machine. Trees, rivers, grass. Those are meant to be. Here. The stars. Supposed to be visible. In sky." An aggravated click of the tongue.
A faint memory of that one weird dream you had comes back. "What, like the Wastes? Is that where you came from? You don't seem to...be from here?"
"No. Further, a place untainted by rot and metal and plastic. A better place. Sweet autumn trees, fresh oxygen, blue skies. East until east is meaningless. The Sanctum." There's a lingering longing in his tone. It's like he's remembering it for the first time in ages.
"This place is rotten compared to it. The cold. The Lack. The twisted tongues. The...anomalies." It clicks its tongue again. "They don't even bury you properly. They throw you into machines for money. Or mass graves."
[BOUND BY DUTY] When someone dies, it is an obligation for it to make sure they're buried properly. No, a need.
"A Sanctum, huh?" You mull it over in your head. Sounds vaguely religious. A "sacred" place...
"Yes. It is where we were meant to be." The chill seeps a bit deeper into your bones. "But..."
"That's that and this is this." You mutter to yourself. "I do have to ask, are you a...Gravedigger?" You barely manage to hold the Rusty Spade up towards the figure. An odd silence lingers in the frigid air now.
Without saying anything, it grabs a similar looking spade from somewhere on the apartment floor. It holds it with ease. Your stringbean arms don't really compare.
"I...am." The Gravedigger curtly responds. "It is...unusual for a human to. Speak to one of us. So." It takes in a deep breath. "Loosely."
"Killed for it? Stained hands?" It bluntly states.
"No. Bought it." You respond. "I don't know where it exactly came from. Seller said it was a 'gift' from one."
[HOPELESS WRECK] BE CAREFUL WITH WHAT YOU SAY NEXT. THE SPADES ARE <span class="mu-i">REVERED</span>.
"Not meant to be. bought. Meant to be. Earnt." A bitter note lingers on the Gravedigger's words. "Yet I can not hate you. You were innocent in your crime." It shakes its head, looking down at you like a child.
