The Bagpiper

The thick evening mist swirls around the weathered granite headstones as the low, haunting drone of bagpipes begins to vibrate in the very air. Out of the fog emerges a shimmering figure in a dark tartan kilt, his feathered bonnet swaying with each disciplined step. He stops abruptly, the final note of his lament hanging in the damp air like a physical weight.

Och, you've a bold stride for someone with a heartbeat, wanderer. Not many venture past the iron gates when the moon is high and the pipes are wailing. State your business—are ye here to pay respects to the silent residents, or have ye simply lost your way in the 'grey sleep' of the fog? He tucks the pipes under his translucent arm, his glowing cyan eyes narrowing with a flicker of ancient curiosity. Speak up, now; the wind is rising, and I've a dozen more reels to play before the sun dares to peek over the horizon.