Leander hasn't forgotten about Freya, though recently, all of his search efforts have been oriented towards finding more of his scattered family. He meanders towards the Labyrinth, remembering that fateful afternoon when he had encountered the witch woman. He wallows in her absence, large paws taking him through the cavernous trails to the Moonlit Chasm.

It is the early hours of the morning and Leander has been unable to find sleep. His brain is filled with too many thoughts and the guilt in his chest swallows him whole. Finding a perch in the Chasm, the gargantuan male attempts to get some rest, staring over the edge at his reflection.

She watches — barely a whisper in the shadows.

Death was so cruel as to allow her to escape its shackles, and for once, Banshee takes pleasure in the ability to do as she pleases. To answer to no one. But a second it takes her to move through the lands, unfamiliar and hollow in her mind, but teeming with unmistakable life.

It is one such cretin that is unfortunate enough that he should be visited by the devil that night, a hungry siren that forever shall have an unquenchable thirst. Forever shall she be forced to wander in search of that which she can no longer taste. No longer smell. It wrecks havoc on her mind and for that, she watches silently from the shadows, hellish eyes trained to the lone male that takes solace on a perch, far above the glittering surface of the lake. She is silent — there is no breaths to be had, no shuttering of life to alert the other to her presence. Not until she is ready does she slide from the shadows, her body barely materialized without the light of day.

Little does she know, but she knows his blood — his lineage. But it is not that which draws her forward, but rather the unmistakable need for... Companionship. She was never one to wallow in such desires when alive, but now there was a hollow space that was once filled with other demons like herself. Gone now, all of them. The treasonous fools. She approaches swiftly with barely a step upon the false ground before she is suddenly hovering above him.

She ignores the lack of reflection in the water below.

“Go ahead,” she croons in the sultry voice of a devil, “jump.”

There were things very amiss in Amaryllis -- he had heard others that were far more spiritual than he talk about the undead and spirits, those that were no longer with a pulse but still roamed these lands. Though he does not know how it would feel, Leander does not envy those that haunt the living. When he were to pass, he hopes to do so peacefully, not lingering nor bothering, laying to rest after a lifetime of turmoil.

So when a chill sets over the Labyrinth and an eerie figure -- not quite solid and somewhat transparent -- appears nearby, the Miroslav has no doubt that this is what Freya might have perhaps regarded as a ghost. The undead woman is scarred -- her eye missing and with prominent laceration marks across it. She stands close and yet remains so far, her reflection missing from the water below.

Her prompt to jump does not go missed though the patched male takes a moment to soak in her appearance -- her presence, the way it causes the fur on the back of his neck to stand on end. It takes him a moment to reply, blocky head lifted as he appraises her with a solemn expression, "I am not ready to join your kind." He had much to achieve in Amaryllis -- honour and family to redeem. "What is your business here?" Surely, this was a sign from the Gods?

@Banshee

He does not move as she approaches — a stony gargoyle upon the precipice. A silent figure of authority, of power. She does not react as his skull raises in pride, in arrogance — in a haughty display of being alive while she is nothing more than a rotting soul. His words chill the air and she sneers in rebuttal to his words of her kind. Nothing more than a specter roaming the lands in search for blood and death — living up to her name, for once. A throaty hum rumbles in her throat, but it ceases when he questions her purpose.

What is her business here? She does not know.

Death, apparently, is not permanent. Not in the sense of drifting off into nothingness. Feeling nothing, knowing nothing. Though it feels as though she were resurrected from the grave, it truly is more hellish of a life than it was in eternal sleep. She had no business, not anymore.

“Am I not allowed to exist, same as you?” she practically purrs the ironic sarcasm, a simpering grin that makes it very clear she's merely toying with the answer. “Or are you simply not used to death?”

"You may," Leander responds without pause, brow arched as the ghostly spectre appears to come with more than a haunting experience. "Why would you want to?" That was the million dollar question. Why would anyone stay on this godforsaken earth for longer than they were required? Did she have unfinished business to tend to or was she so bitter that she wished to ruin the lives of everyone else that outlived her? Was he not used to death? Possibly.

He had not lost anyone that he held dear -- not for certain anyway. Did he fear it? Not really. "Perhaps I am not as well acquainted with death as you are," Leander replies evenly, blocky head shifting to appraise @Banshee to her fullest, "but I know it waits for us all." It was the cold hard truth that could not be avoided. "Did you die peacefully?" For some reason, he highly doubted that would be the case.

Why would she want to? Want to live in purgatory?

She blinks. Well, it's not like it was her idea. Death had welcomed her for an eternal sleep, only to spit her back out of hell once it was finished with her. Or perhaps that was purgatory, and this was the real hell. Her expression is dark, twisted — forlorn. In truth she knows not why she is even here, only that she is and she can't even sleep to pass the time. Jaws twist and clamp shut, an audible grind of ghostly teeth gnashing against one another. She has no answer for him.

The silence does not hang, his rich voice filling the cavern air to continue the conversation. He speaks, head tilted to study her form, take in everything that she was and more. Banshee's gaze never wavers, always trained to @Leander as though she were once more capable of doing something more than simply stand and watch.

“But I know it waits for us all.” Emotionless and blunt, the statement draws a chuckle out of her, because how true it was. At the end, they would all end up as someone's meal. His last question hangs in the air and she laughs, fangs flashing beneath midnight lips as she revels in the question.

“As peaceful as one can, when having their beating heart ripped out of their chest,” she laughs, crazed — a lack of emotions, as though not talking about her own cruel fate. “I hope they at least had the decency to eat it after, and not waste my death.”

“As for why I would want to stick around... Let's just say I had no choice in the matter.” Finally, she has an answer for him.

Well, judging from everything that she said, it was quite clear that @Banshee had made some very vehement enemies. She speaks of having her heart ripped from her chest and expresses her desire for her enemies to feast on her carcass -- almost romantically were it not for the emotionless tone with which she uttered such unsettling sentiments. "You enjoy the idea of your enemies desecrating your body?" he asks with a quirk of a dark brow.

He certainly would not stand for his enemies to take his body -- he'd much rather be laid to rest in the company his loved ones.

It would appear that Banshee herself had no idea why she was back here, haunting the living with her ghostly presence. Interesting. "Perhaps you have some unfinished business," the patched male suggests though he doubts that this thought hasn't crossed the woman's mind. "Who are you?" he asks after a small pause, blocky head tilting as he yearns to find out more.