There is an old, faintly decrepit mansion at the top of a hill. It doesn’t bother staying on any one hill in particular; consistent spatial locations are so yesterday.
Tonight, it’s on the top of a particularly hilly cemetery.
Tonight, the dead don’t content themselves with walking - they dance.
A man - tall and broad by most standards, slender in this company, a sword on his hip and a scar on his cheek - begins to speak to his gathered relatives.
”Love! Fraternity! Filial piety! We come here, tonight, to embrace these, and the passions of life, and the passions of death, to embrace the sweet embrace of the grave married with the rose wine of fleeting pleasure. Tonight, we honor our ancestors. Tonight, we raise the dead from the sweet kiss of the soil to feel the tender caress of the moon! And how do we accomplish this, my love, my life, my Morticia?”