As I cross the yard music from the party and the continual susurrus of chatting voices plays on the evening breeze. I pluck my collars up and tuck my chin down into my clothes a bit more. I have no illusions about my appearance. In life I was handsome enough, but unlife is not kind... the ashy palor of my once healthy skin, my eyes are more sunken, my hair more brittle, my jaw heavier and my teeth sharper and stronger. Overall, my aspect looks somewhat canine. My time of life was long before 'polite society' and I have never found a home there, but with this woman coming and forcing the issue, I suspect I would be best served attending now.

I knock heavily on the door and cough a bit to get my vocal cords warmed back up. The rat blood having loosened them nicely. When the door swings open and the servant looks at me, I can feel the distain in his eyes, but I am committed to the task...

I tip my hat in the manner that I've learned skreens my face and satisfies the requirements of the living's society. Even with the crimson draught loostening it, my voice is still harsh in my throat "Evening. 'M Sexton McRoth. 'M here at th' bequest of a lady to speak to th' Lord of Drakesheath Hall 'bout a pro'lem wi' th' cemet'ry."