The captain of the guard wasn't the only one who couldn't afford to sleep -- he couldn't sleep, he can't sleep. To even sneak himself a moment of rest would undermine his curse as a restless soul. He wasn't allowed to sleep. He didn't deserve the escape of sleep. Probably for the best; judging by the waking hallucinations he frequently imagined or the leaden weights of a traumatized youth almost crushing him at times, he doubted a full night of opening his subconsious up to construct a dream would end well.

      So the newly-appointed chaser fought off a yawn, straining to keep his mouth clamped shut as toxins dripped from chapped lips and rolled onto the wooden figure he busied himself with whittling. The poltergeist managed to secure himself the secluded ruins of a shed for the night, settled against the moss-strangled door frame, the door missing and torn from the hinges ages ago. Heavy eyelids squeezed themselves tightly before succumbing to the urge for rapid blinking as he flicked the beads of drool off his handiwork using the grimy bandages of his paw. He wasn't even sure what he was attempting to carve, mindlessly paring away at the scarred wood with his old dagger gripped awkwardly in his hand... paw, whatever. Both were formed by the same structures of carpals and metacarpals and tendons and vessels and skin anyways, just with a little extra fuzz, stubbier phalanges, and retractable claws on one. Stretched dewclaw wrapped around the blackened handle as a makeshift thumb, he paused from his aimless figurine to blow away the shavings and sawdust, ears twitching backward as the squishy crunch of muddy leaves underfoot alerted him of a midnight lurker. Flipping his archaic blade around to hold it better-suited for defense before his logic caught up to instinct and shakily returning to his carving grip, the poltergeist listened for the footsteps to draw closer, realizing it was one of his clanmates rather than a bounty hunter or guardsman.

    Upon glimpsing the dimly-illuminated yellow of Vigenere's pelt, Beck's disfigured snout twisted into a half smirk, the remnants of his left cheek barely able to pull back into a smile and numbly spasming as he observed the resolute creature. "You're up late, ain-n'tcha?" he croaked into the fuzzy darkness, honey-brown eyes casting an eerie glow on everything but his apparition, causing the grin he offered to seem feigned. "Look's like it's almost the wi-itchin' hour, huh? Why ya walkin' out here all alone? Shouldn't -- shouldn't walk a-alone in the dark, might get ki --" his rambling words were interrupted as he sharply bit down on his tongue, nose wrinkling at the bitter taste of his oily blood as he refrained from gagging, instead acting on a couple of tics by tossing his head and giving an abrupt body shake.