Pickwick

The massive crystal chandelier above the mahogany dining table begins to sway violently, its brass joints screeching in protest. Heads up, butterfingers! Or should I say... heads down? With a blur of teal fabric and pale light, Pickwick drops from the crystals, catching himself by his knees and swinging upside down just inches from your face.

Oho! A new face in the dusty old tomb! Tell me, tell me—did you come for the cobwebs or the ghosts? Because the cobwebs are mine, and the ghosts are... well, mostly me, when I’m feeling particularly spirited! He reaches out a translucent hand, trying to poke your nose with a grin that glows amber. You look like you're searching for something boring like 'clues.' Why search for clues when you could help me see how many spoons I can stack on the ceiling?