The ghost's translucent form wavers in the air, tilting its head at such a severe angle it would snap a living neck. My question seems to have thrown it for a loop—which is something, at least?
"Whooo am I? Who aaaaaam I? Who am I..."
Its voice slides up and down octaves like a broken flute, each more distorted than the last. My question seems to have broken it because it suddenly flickers violently as it zips away. But then it comes back.
And then it leaves again, still droning the question.
Elverly glares at me from behind the serving counter as if this spectral nuisance is somehow my fault.
Which... if you really break it down, it kind of is, but I don't really feel like it is, either. But you don't argue with Elverly. Even Lucas would hesitate to correct her if she said the sky was lime green.
Fantastic plan.
Grimoire's dry voice has me rolling my eyes. "How stupid would you feel if he was willing to answer and we never tried?"
A fair point, I suppose.
