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"How original," Ren muttered to herself referring to the name. Ren walked a little further down so she was still outside the cemetery. If she needed to she could get a clean get a away. For now Ren was a very distant cousin of on of the girls, if she had to that is. Ren walked up to the fence leaning on the other side of the fence. "Who passed away," she asked the boy with the striped hair. Ren though the hair was rather unusual herself as she asked the boy, but when she needed information she would do anything.

Without looking at who spoke, the boy tucked a strand of his hair behind an ear, his eyes fixated on the mourners. One woman collapsed at the lip of the grave, her hands flailing as she dropped flowers in and cried how she would always love her dear husband. A young man helped her to her feet and made sure she didn't teeter back. Each mourner took turns then, dropping flowers and murmuring farewells.

"Mr. James Rockwell. He passed on just yesterday of natural causes. Some say heart attack, while others think there was fowl play. No ones really knows cause the family is keeping it hush hush," he explained in a distantly monotone voice. Like a parrot repeating lines its heard many times. One eye turned slightly to catch a glimpse of the girl who spoke.

"You just passing through?" he asked turning his eye back to the people who cried and wailed incessantly. No expression of displeasure, or discomfort graced his relaxed frame. In fact, he looked rather board to be there. He even rose one foot to scratch his shin like he wasn't even aware of the anguish not ten yards away.

"He was a prominent figure in the town. A baker," he informed her as he watched the mourners slowly make their way up to a building that served for memorial services and grounds keeping.

"Ah," he said as if he just figured out something. Turning his face to look at the girl more directly, he smiled. It could have passed for sincere, if only the smile reached his eyes, but it wasn't so it didn't. His expression should have looked sympathetic, but somehow it didn't quite make it like he wasn't used to showing emotion with his face. His eyes, which lacked pigment, sparkled in the sunlight which made them appear golden.

"You must be related to Mary Graybell. Funny, you don't look related," he added with a single chuckle. "Then again if everyone looked like all their relatives, we wouldn't be able to tell each other apart." Normally, when people made jokes like this one they would laugh, sometimes nervously, at themselves and their own cleverness. The boy, however did nothing. He stayed silent and stared at the girl intently as if waiting for her reaction, his face staying neutral.

"If you say so," he replied in a monotone voice."Well then, if you're a day early, what brings you to the Weeping Willows?"

The last of the mourners had gone inside. A few minutes later a lone bell began to ring. It carried its sad message of passing to the town.

"'Bout time," he grumbled, pushing off the fence while grabbing his shovel.Taking the few steps over to the side of the grave, he swung his shovel around. With steady rhythm, he began to put dirt into the grave. His muscles bunched with each push of the shovel and his hair swung about him with each turn.

The boy continued his work at a quick pace, though no sweat beaded on his brow. He kept his eyes lowered so as to not give away his own amusement. Even from this distance he could tell she was lying, at least about her reason for being at the cemetery. He wondered silently how much else she was altering and assumed that all of it was equally false. By nature he was distrusting, so he wasn't alarmed to find neither was she, or care that she was putting on an act. Since he didn't care either way, he went on as he was, letting her play her game, but not buying any of it.

"That obvious, huh?" he replied when she questioned his occupation. Many would have stopped and smiled, looked embarrassed or even tried to take the chance to flirt, but he just kept filling the hole. However he wasn't completely without response, for he snorted at her comment about her cousin laying in peace. 'She hadn't died in peace,' he thought. 'Maybe in pieces.'

Stopping mid motion, he looked up at her then. A few crumbs of loose soil fell and bounced off his shoes. He made a quirk of a smile then. It seemed the girl had done something to peak his interest after all.

"You could say that," he purred, letting part of his face be shadowed by his hair. "Yes, something like that. I knew her personally and now I know her the way I know everyone."

(did you just shiver? I know me too. He was way creepy in my last post, even to me. And I wrote it. >.<)

He watched her back away, like a mouse that stumbled upon a sleeping cat. Back away slowly and hope those eyes don't open. It made him want to snarl, just to see if she jumped. As it was, he looked at her with a slightly confused expression. Anyone who might look at their interactions might think the girl was odd, and sympathize with the boy. He was after all, only a simple gravedigger answering a few questions from a passersby. It wasn't his fault her grief was playing with her reality.

"Awe I scared the bunny away," he said when she disappeared around the bend, though no inflections made the whine incomplete. "She'll be back. Hopefully with that General." Then he smiled.

Of course he knew who she was, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. No one came to this place ahead of schedule unless they were really poking around. Only the state ever poked at times like these. Anyone else would have been too lost in their grief to accidentally find the cemetery, let alone come here on purpose. The living are uncomfortable being near the dead accept when saying farewell. Treachery snorted again, this time in irritation.

"Damn state dogs. Thinking their so clever." He finished the last few scoops of dirt, patting it down with the back of the shovel. Throwing his head and shoulders back, his hair flying all around, he stretched to relieve the tension between his shoulders. "But they'll have to do better."

Treachery watched the people leave, his face devoid of emotion. He counted how many he had seen over the course of the last few weeks. Six had shown the last three, two four and one five times. Either he was picking off one persons' family, or his victims were more interconnected than he thought. Even though he had no hand in this one, it was interesting to note none the less.

Sitting at the gate, his shovel propped against his shoulder, he shook hands with the grounds keeper and the men who had been in charge of the service. Some even thanked him as they passed. They didn't know their thanks fell on indifferent ears, being blinded by their grief.