Why was it always the ditsy ones to end up lost? One would think natural selection would have picked off the oblivious folk by now. At least it was amusing, but after centuries of limbo, he had to keep things entertaining otherwise he would lose his grip again. This particular girl was nothing special compared to all the ones he had seen before, but Beck still ended up stalking after her as soon as he caught her scent trail, like he did with all trespassers. While the poltergeist typically followed strangers in their territory, waiting for an opening to attack, he hesitated when the recognized scents of Vigenere and Zimavich approached the unknown feline first.

      Lurking in the marsh foliage next to a huddled group of wilting cattails, his ears twitched back and forth as he listened to their nearby conversation with a faint smirk on his disfigured snout. Soon enough, a muffled giggle sounded from his damaged lungs, echoing off itself as he abruptly materialized next to Arrow, muddied fur bristling at just the mention of her name. It was an arrow that had driven into his back and had been ripped out from torn flesh -- he chose to ignore his final memories of life for now. It was difficult, flashes of blood and murderers slipping through the cracks of his mental barricade, but he had practiced avoiding his own thoughts for a long time. Instead of collapsing into a panic in fear of another hidden archer aiming for his head again, Beck limped a distance in front of her, wheezing through razor-sharp teeth clenched in a welcoming smile, "Well, if we're sayin' our names and stuff, name's Beck, and I guess ya can consider me the leader of these knuckleheads. Most of 'em were 'just passin' through' like ya; who knows, maybe you'll stick 'round too. This ain't a great place to be alone, after all." Clearly, Beck needed to practice more on subtlety rather than blocking out memories.