Nolaris

A good life, one lived without shame, guilt.
Nolaris stood, hands behind his back, chin up, chest puffed out, staring over the shallow balcony of his bedroom at the garden of violet and midnight-blue flowers below. He had proudly stood before Death without regrets, without the need to beg forgiveness. Yes, the Tunnel unsteadied him--it unsteadied all newly deceased. But he knew, his faults were few, unimportant when considering the terrible atrocities committed by the Condemned.
He drifted into thoughts of his living years as his eyes meandered through the blooms, focusing on the joy of breathing in the scent of a simple flower. The Condemnend he had questioned that morning triggered the remembrance, with a word, a look, a sly turn of phrase. A strange reaction, considering his age. He has spent millennia in the Evenacht, far beyond the paltry days he meandered under the sun. Why think of a thing done so long ago?
He sighed. While he did not regret his existence, since the lands of the dead held as much mystery and beauty as he desired, he missed some things, like the warmth of incense or the heady attraction of perfume. The dead did not breathe, nor did they smell.
The crystalline-grey clouds drifted across the sky, hiding, as usual, the extreme rays of daytime. The dead, even if they joyfully played in the sunlight while living, disliked it in their evening years. Too many had difficulties with Physical Touch, and holding up a hand, only to have brightness course through, making one nearly invisible . . .
Forgotten . . .
He abruptly turned on his heel and whisked through the stately, gold-washed bedroom. Wealth meant as little to the dead as sleep, but he enjoyed discovering new decorations for his sanctuary. He possessed paintings of illustrious artists, sculptures of syimlin and supplicant, delicate vases holding forever-bloom cloth flowers. He wallowed in the cool crispness of gold-thread sheets against his skin after he triggered Physical Touch, then rose to consume energy from gold-encrusted cups to keep his essence from dissipating.
His gaze trailed over the leather-bound pile of reading material settled in neat columns next to his over-padded violet rocker. Which book to indulge in? Not one with Condemned research; he wished for pleasure, not another round of perusing lies. And holding a novel between his palms . . . rarely did he revel in better amusements.
A knock on the outer door shifted his attention away from the anticipated pages. Muttering, he left the books behind and floated through the spacious entertaining room that resembled a Keel noble's receiving room, and to the long hallway that led to the portal.
He once neglected such fine things--Finders had more important business to accomplish than making certain gold trim held a room together--but the older he became, the more he realized the finery his due. The Search to make Condemned whole was trying and tiring, and creating a space to relax and reset played a vital role in his mental health. Why not purchase a dual-deck game table? Why not collect fine seating to entertain a noble guest? Why not house a klaforte, and allow only the most gifted to sit on the polished bench and touch the shining white keys?
Another knock; he bared his teeth and snarled at the door before donning his pleasantness and initiating Physical Touch. He grasped the knob and turned; a simple task too many in the Evenacht could not do. He never had difficulties switching between the Ether and Physical Touch, another small item in the long list of things that made him a superior spirit.
Why else did the heads clamor for his help in Redemption? Why else did he complete so many Searches in a year?
Ah. Teron. He should have known.
The pedantic man had latched onto his robe and refused to release the hems, weaseling into the graces of the Hallowed Collective through the association. He bragged of his learning, but Nolaris found it lacking, especially in the fundamentals of Touch. Oh, he managed to solidify, but whether he kept his form during stressful situations was as random as a coin toss.
"Nolaris!" he gasped. "You'll never guess what your acolyte did!"
Tattlers, however, had their uses. "Which one?"
"Vantra!"
He regarded the ghost with cool aplomb. "Come in," he ordered. Whatever business his wayward apprentice originated, only his ears should hear it.

Hair
Whitish grey
Eyes
Cloud grey
Age
64 years (alive)
3952 years (dead)
Occupation
Finder sage