The spectre stared at the man, no breath escaping his cold, dead lips. Slowly he lowered his blade, allowing it to rest on the ground, though his right hand still gripped the hilt. Staring at the man before him... wondering what to do... to stay silent would invite suspicion... or worse, they may attack him if he did not voice his intention. However... the veil made the dilemma more confusing... if he spoke the man would hear the revenants words as vile lies... but... perhaps one among the group did not register the veil... he knew such people existed... and it was better to appear to lie than to remain mute. So... with a rasping, gasping tune he began to speak. It came in clipped, monotonous tone, as if the ghostly apparition had not moved whatever passed for a tounge in a very, very long time. 

"I...will... no... not attack..." It would seem as though speaking was more difficult for the spectre than fighting, "You... carry... a relic... it's soul... I see.... an... and feel... it... I... see... seek the relics. You... are... their... their... leige lord... are you not?" This last comment a direct question for the man before him, "wh... Who..." a coughing wheeze escaped the spectre's mouth, it sounded as if dust should have come out with it, "who... is... the... the one... wreathed in... red?"