Flemyng was a curious reosean. Many didn't know of him, but if they did run across him, it was usually an interaction that stood out in their minds as strange or memorial at the very least. He said little that made sense, his sense of wordplay often cryptic or dancing around a subject, and those that did get answers out of him often left with more questions. Those that did know of him could state though that he had an air of mystery around him, a feeling of wisdom and age far beyond what his frame would indicate.
All of this lead to an unremarkable graveyard in a mostly unremarkable city, following a gut feeling that he needed to be there. It would be the right place at the right time, or so he would say if questioned, which was true in a sense. Flemyng found himself in places that would be important, or somewhere to meet someone who would make a mark on some sort of history, but wasn't often the one to be making those moments himself. No, he rather liked being a witness to it all, or somewhere where he could give someone the push they needed to become what fate intended.
He didn't know why he was here, the cold air chilling his bones in the middle of the night, but his paws pulled him forward, the motion keeping him warm enough in the snowy atmosphere.
The graveyard was well tended. Stones were carefully swept clean, paths were well kept, and the lacework's feet walked on frozen dirt instead of drifting snow. As he glanced along the paths, nothing stood amiss, nothing called to his attention. He wasn't worried though, he would notice what it was he was supposed to see soon enough. A building at the edge of the property drew his eye, even though there was nothing remarkable about it, and he knew that to be his destination. Peering through the windows, he figured it to be a resting place for the one that cared for this place - small and tidy. Steady breathing could be heart within once he put his ears up to one of the windows, and something in his soul knew this was what he was looking for - whoever the mysterous being was within.
Smirking, Flemying settled down nearby, his thicker frame and tufts of fur keeping him warm enough as he found a large headstone to block the wind. He kept the door of the place within view as he waited for destiny to show itself.
The snow came with its own sound.
Now, most would call him crazy for that, but it couldn't be any more true. When everything else was still and silent, the snow had a voice - and Molotov loved listening to it. He lay at the back of his cabin, haunches buried in the snow, front paws tucked beneath him, and listened. Flurries brushed his closed eyes, landed like petals on his nose. Soft fingers of wind combed the air, and his head tilted, listening to its song. He was content here, alone, left to care for those who could no longer care for themselves. He'd risen a few hours ago from his nightly slumber and, as he did usually, came out here for a few quiet moments to himself after a tumultuous night.
Sleep, for Molotov, was less a respite and more a portal. Each night, he crossed the threshold, leaving the quiet solitude of his waking hours behind. He navigated the nebulous realms of dreams, where the whispers of the dead grew louder, their pleas more urgent. He was their guide, their shepherd, helping them find solace and closure before moving on. Or so he tried.
His ear rotated, drawn to the sound of snow crunching on the other side of the structure. A quiet sigh wound its way up his throat, and he savored a few extra seconds to himself before moving to rise. Snow fell in clumps from his form as he stood, enjoying a nice stretch. Molotov wasn't worried; it wasn't uncommon for there to be visitors, whether they be in the form of daily wildlife or other reoseans. He took care to do his hunting far from this place; as a result, those that would normally be prey felt safe here, and it was a daily occurrence to see deer lingering between the headstones, or rabbits resting in their shade. He preferred it that way; quiet company that reminded him he wasn't a ghost himself.
Nothing seemed to have changed in the small, tree sheltered landscape as he made his way around his small cabin. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, he would need to sweep off the tops of the stones and the paths that wound amongst them. Black eyes scanned the graveyard he called home-- very nearly skipping over the snow laden form curled a mere twenty feet from his front door. Heavy brows rose, and Molotov cocked his head, stepping towards the form. Once more, not unusual - some people sought temples or churches for shelter, some people sought places like his. He'd come to learn that troubled souls did troubled things.
He sat down a few feet away, the snow cushioning his haunches. He made a bit of extra noise as he did so, a clear warning of his approach. A sense of connection bloomed in Molotov's chest, as sudden and undeniable as the first snowfall. He knew, somehow, that this wasn't his usual visitor seeking solace among the deceased. This was a story waiting to be heard, a journey waiting to be shared. And as the snow continued its gentle song, Molotov opened his mouth in greeting, ready to listen.
Flemyng hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he did as the snow fell, almostlike a blanket against his form. His dreams were disjointed, memories of the past, present, and possible future floating through the abyss that formed thought. Lights, feelings, thouhts, all swirled around him waiting to be heard, but they made no sense to him, nor would they.
A soft crunch in the snow stirred him from his slumber, and he shook his head, dislodging the snow that had gathered. He blinked away the dredges of sleep, and noticing the blanket upon him, she stretched, allowing the rest of the precipitation to fall from his coat, revealing that he was not just white in color. His eyes then fell upon his companion, an orange and black angora who had settled in beside him, and the pull in his chest gew tenfold before settling, fading away as if it had never existed in the first place. He knew this reosean was the reason he was here, an he was content to learn why.
He nodded his head. "Well met." Flemyng eyed up the okapi puller. There wasn't anything exceptional about his appearance, no role of importance apparent outside of the obvious tender of these graves. Most likely whatever drew him here was yet to come to pass, and the lacework male was curious what that might be.
"I am called Flemyng. Is there anything you might require of me?" He was curious to if there was something he could assist with, or if he was merely an observer in the grand scheme of things.