Despite the ghost's silence – or perhaps because of it – Dave doesn't shut up. His running commentary is a stream of consciousness ramble, drawling with a hint of Texan accent at moments, dipping to a mumble at others. His own voice is a preferable sound to the screams and clashing of metal.

"Shit, I thought this was supposed to be holiday-themed," he's saying at one point. "Unless this is a holiday wherever the fuck this is. National Battlefield Mass Murder Day. How do you even decorate for something like that? Does Walmart have an aisle for that shit or are you just supposed to paint the walls with the blood of your enemies? Fuck, I'm messin' around here but that's actually probably a real thing for trolls. That'd be a lot more colorful a paint job at least, goddamn."

Nonsense babbling aside, he floats along after the ghost, none too eager to hang out here longer than he has to.