It's a cool, humid night. A full moon hangs in the sky, letting a soft drift of light pass through the treetops and headstones of the graveyard. Dew starts to pearl on the tall grass between the graves. Though the cemetery seems empty at first, taking a second look, there's a tall, thin figure standing near the old Miller plot. Dressed in a long blue-grey coat with the sleeves rolled back a few times, a white, open-necked shirt, black trousers and boots, he has what looks like a musical instrument case strapped to his back. The cool wind that blows through the graveyard feels just a bit stronger around him.
Not everyone can walk through a graveyard and look like they belong. Waverly is one of those few that can and do. There's not a sliver of self-consciousness as she walks through the gravestones, hands tucked into the pockets of her light duster, the hood of which is pushed back during this brief respite from the rain. Spying the man by the Miller plot, she takes a chance and veers that way. Coming to a halt perhaps a yard away, to the left and behind, she calls out a quiet, "Hullo."
It takes a moment for Dross to turn from the old graves and look at the newcomer to the cemetery after hearing that low voice. He looks Waverly over closely before his gaze comes to rest on those pale, faintly witch-lit eyes. The wind kicks up the blades of grass at their feet, loosing a little shower of newly-formed dew. "Evening," he says. "You are..."
The scent of grave-dirt is stronger with Waverly around. She offers a thin-lipped little smile and extends her hand toward Dross, stepping forwad so they might more easily shake hands. "Waverly," she tells him. "I'm new in town. Well met."
Dross takes her hand, which he doesn't shake so much as just hold for a moment or two. His own feels cool; dry. "Dross," he says. No smile, but there's something thoughtful about that blue gaze. He glances at the old Caretaker's House that sits towards the back of the cemetery. Then back to Waverly... "From?"
Waverly's hand is cool as well, which is likely expected. They are both beings of cool, dark places, after all. "Most recently? Seattle," she answers. "I tend to move around to wherever a physical presence is required." The flicker of a smile has faded; she still seems amiable enough. "I don't suppose you're a local?"
That makes one of Dross's eyebrows go up a little. "What requires a physical presence?" he asks. Hand falls back where it was. From one of the trees comes the slow, rhythmic call of an owl. "Not quite... " All the same: he seems to know where he is. Local or not, he may have been here longer than Waverly.
That certainly wouldn't be difficult. Being here longer than Waverly. Her gently glowing eyes flick toward the treeline, then back to Dross. "Avernian gates. Are you familiar?"
Dross's focus on those softly lit eyes seems to sharpen slightly. He looks at the plot of graves behind him, with their thick overgrowth of lichen and the cracks in the stone, then back to Waverly. "Is that what brought you here?"
Waverly is silent and still for a moment; then she inclines her head. "It is," she confirms. She tucks her hands back into the pockets of her duster. There's a slow blink, the soft glow of her eyes briefly shuttered and revealed anew.
"Looking for someone?" asks Dross. He watches that blink closely. The wind through the graveyard picks up for a moment again, skimming the leaves in the treetops. Moonlight soft and pale over the grass.
Waverly shakes her head. "Mmm, no. Simply the Gates," she explains. "An Avernian Gate leads to the Underworld. There are contracts which allow us to open them, though they each have a way of opening them - a key - that allow them to be used by anybody. It's helpful to catalogue and sometimes monitor such things. Avernian Gates, the Underworld, ghosts... those are my areas of specialty."
Dross nods. He doesn't seem to blink-- or move-- much, himself, as he listens to Waverly speak. "To what end?" he asks. Eyes still fixed on the slightly eerie light in the other Darkling's gaze.
"I'm not certain I understand the question. To what end do I study the Underworld and ghosts?" Waverly asks, blinking a few times now. A hint of puzzlement.
"Helpful to what end," says Dross. Perhaps it's the moonlight, but there seems to be slightly less color in those fixed, unblinking eyes now. Though his tone sounds quite neutral-- quiet, but clear enough, with little inflection.
Waverly turns and walks a short distance to a nearby stone bench. She pulls a handkerchief - plain, white - from a pocket on her duster and wipes the moisture off the bench before seating herself on it. She rests her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin in both hands. "Dead men do tell tales," she says.
Dross looks at the house at the back of the lot again after that. For some time, he stands in silence, letting the wind and the soft sounds of insects in the trees and the grass fill the cemetery. At last, he says, "So that may be."
Waverly inclines her head. She nudges her glasses more firmly into place on her nose. "And what is it you do, Mister Dross?"
That makes Dross look back to Waverly; slight tightening of the skin around the corners of his mouth. Is that amusement? Something else? It can be difficult to tell with him. But all that he says is, "What do you think?"
Waverly pulls a smartphone out of a pocket and consults the screen. She begins to rise from the bench, tucking the phone away as she does so. The hanky is spirited back to a different pocket. "Someone who prefers asking questions to answering them," she replies, her tone mild. "But that is not unusual among our kind. Good evening, Mister Dross. I have an appointment to keep. It was nice to meet you."
Following that observation, Dross simply nods. Perhaps it is something like amusement, after all. He returns his attention to the same plot of graves he was looking at when Waverly came to the graveyard as the other Darkling rises and walks away.
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