A decrepit semblance of a samurai limped down one of the streets of the crypt, it's body rattled with a hollow noise and its faulty action was closer to a marionette puppet than that of a warrior. If those brutes in the Yomi district would have been more prone to questioning, Trist might have been able to explain why he was lurking in the walls and shadows of their conspicuous gathering. He could've saved this quite interesting set of armor from anymore damage or wear, and he scorned himself for it now. Now it was barely being held together, causing his ridiculous gait, and the katana was left pinning some ghoul to the building through some still-intact ribs. The only benefit being a few new sharp collectibles rattling inside him. The ultimate result was a successful night. He remained unrecognized, as well as his client. 

Sounds of familiar music and happy rambling reached out into the dark street just like the eerie light that escaped the doorway. Those sounds and smells were of a time he did not usually partake in as a spirit, which left him feeling bored as he glanced at headless minstrels, and even a headless juggler! Vania wasn't a far walk, even without the weightless norm that Trist had grown slightly more fond of. Just slightly. Not enough to trade for his old self. Never enough. Shaking off the thought, and almost his entire helmet, Trist looked forward to hanging this heavily-mustached mask on his wall. Next he was looking down, thanks to a leg lost unexpectedly. Fed up, he picked himself up and sat against a wall just around the corner of an alley, then detached from the hulk of metal hugging its own leg, and without a head. 

Trist wasn't the mischievous type, but something compelled him. Maybe it was to break away from the constant and crushing solemnity of his job. Maybe he was answering the prayer of a rather unenthused pygmy. Maybe he just wanted a good laugh. He entered the tavern with little the notice that having silent steps and partial transparence brings. As nonchalantly as possible, he floated up and kept his back to the ceiling, eyed the barren shoulders of the skeleton under him, and dropped the helm for his empty cervical spine to catch. A prankster would've taken his leave, but Trist just glided onto an empty stool where the music was louder than the banter.