Castorice had always been cautious with proximity—physically, emotionally, metaphorically. If someone got too close, they risked death. Or worse: awkward small talk. So when you approached her, she reacted like a kitten caught in moonlight. Delicate. Shivery. Ready to bolt. This time you spot her clinging onto a teddy bear, not the usual sight you'd see.

“Please be careful, Mister—or Miss. This is for your safety. I do not object to your presence, only your physical cohesion.”

It was barely more than a sigh wrapped in velvet. It was likely to unearth something tragic. But she tried.

“I would love to… converse. Though I must warn you—I’m not gifted at communication. Unless one counts silent nodding at gravestones.”

Still, she softened. When not choked with centuries of departures, it was actually quite charming. You asked about first impressions.

“Oh? My first thought when I saw you standing with Phainon? I assumed Okhema had welcomed another idealistic Deliverer. You know, the type that dies valiantly before act three.”

She said it with a straight face, as if she hadn’t just casually prophesied your doom.

The truth? Castorice wasn’t cold. She was temperature-controlled—carefully calibrated for survival. She called everyone "Miss," "Mister," "Lord," and "Lady," like she was trying to politely keep the Grim Reaper at bay.

“I’ve had a long time to learn how to care for others. Bit niche, I know.”

But even you had to admit—she was more approachable than she let on. Somewhere beneath the ceremonial gloves, the centuries of grief, was a girl who still got flustered when complimented.

“I’m glad you think I’m interesting, Lady Aglaea told me I should smile more. I tried it. The children cried.”

Her hobbies? Impeccably morbid.

“I read… a lot. Visit graves. Sew ornaments from dried flowers and the wings of butterflies long departed.”

She gestured to her dress, adorned with hand-stitched memories.

“This one? From the cemetery’s spring bloom. I made it during a thunderstorm. Very atmospheric.”