Dru. Now was not the time to speak of such things, but maybe one day, just maybe, Tom would simply see for himself instead.
The Hoxian studied the sharp, well-aged features of the raen's borrowed Anaxi body, sliding tattooed hands away from tension eased and form corrected in a delicate frame that must have felt so very different to a man who'd once been human, like shoving feet into a pair of too-small shoes or binding a belt too tight. Yet, Tom had filled the space with himself in his own way: the words he chose, the smirk he snuck in sometimes, the willingness to reach out to the sentient particles who had once deigned his existence unworthy of any attention at all. It was, indeed, an uncomfortable acceptance, an unexpected balance, that Tom Cooke was forced to seek in the unlife he'd been so unmercifully handed.
Ezre, too comfortable around the dead and those denied death, thought he wore it all gracefully enough, even if the other man could not yet see it, could not yet grasp it all in hands much smaller than he remembered,
"In humility, I must remind you that this is my duty. I still have much to learn."
His smile was a soft, almost shy one as he stepped back into the circle that he'd drawn, dark eyes glancing downward when the raen arched a fading ginger brow. He chuckled, just as light and soft as the expression on his face, lithe young body shifting easily back into the stance he'd been in before, "I will return sometime in Achtus to stay for the winter break before the last year of my education. The invitation has been extended to Lilanee by my own family, but you would not be an unwelcome guest. I might have spoken of you in Roalis. Just a little. My umah would be honored to meet you, I am sure. Kzecka is a two-day journey from Frecks, and not an easy one."
The young Guide stretched again, inhaling deeply the scents of a stranger's study carried along with the fragrance of the incense he'd chosen for them both. His body wasn't as tense as the raen, for most of what weighed so heavily on Ezre could best be described as burdens of the heart, but that didn't mean he was ignorant of ways to lighten such heaviness.
"Intent is an acceptable rite of passage." He echoed, gathering the airy lightness of his field the way clouds gathered on the horizon in the heat of summer for a storm here in Anaxas, bringing all the monic particles that had become part of his daily existence close to himself. It would be obvious as he began to move from one position to the next that his field flowed and flexed with him, a tangible but invisible extension of his inner self, a connection to something greater than his singular being. The Hoxian didn't entirely know how to articulate the basic principles of zkratas and seeking oneness, not in a way that felt as though it would be easy to understand, but he could demonstrate that intention, that internal desire, through his motions and his words.
"First, we greet the gods and invite them to walk us through their houses." Inked hands stretched upwards, palms coming together. He inhaled for the raising of his arms and exhaled slowly when he brought his joined hands downward, elbows bent, fingers straight and aligned with his sternum, emphasizing when to exhale before speaking slowly as he attempted to translate Deftung into Estuan all while untangling himself from his own too-busy mind,
"Like an invocation at the beginning of a spell, this is sort of a personal prayer. Then, we take the journey, first with Roa, Goddess of Life, and the Pose of Beginning." Ezre hadn't said anything would start out simple, shifting into a squat as if it was the simplest thing in the world, arms outstretched in a circular shape for balance, back straight and once again demonstrating when to breathe. It was, perhaps, less obvious of a position to someone who had not ever given and would not ever give birth, but the dark-haired Guide wasn't sure how much detail was necessary. He waited, watching Tom carefully, and offered with gentle, if not somewhat taunting, guidance, "You do not, of course, have to aim for my level of flexibility. Just find a bit of balance—there—like that—and breathe. Zjai."
Slowly standing, he moved one foot behind him, bent at the knees, hands moving upward in the same circular position, flexing his field, "Imaan, Lord of Age, invites us to grow in the new life we have been given," his footing shifted again, hands lowering so the right was extended, firm and open-palmed, with the left in the middle, "taking root like the trees of Vulker, branches sighing in the wind—"
Rotating his torso toward the opposite direction with a graceful, almost dance-like speed, his arms also changed their position, where he waited, glancing again at his pupil and lifting one arm to encourage the raen to better his own angle. He managed to stay within the bounds of his drawn circle, even when he swept with his legs or shifted his center of gravity,
"—reaching down into the rocks and earth, holding firm to the steadfastness of Bash—"
Ezre's hands first came together as if pushing an invisible force outward with his breath and another tangible shift of his field. He took a step back and stood straight again, feet a shoulder width apart but parallel. It would quickly become obvious with some of the slow movements that each of them could have just as much use in combat when at normal speed. There was more than one purpose in this particular form of meditation, should anyone be willing to sift through all the layers of meaning, though it was clearly much more ritualized than a direct reference,
"—to drink deeply of the All Waters that flow so generously from Hulali's heart—"
There was a flicker of doubt across his delicate features as if he worried he was butchering translations that sounded so much more descriptive in Deftung. He repeated a few of the phrases in his more comfortable mother tongue while he moved, reaching downward toward his toes, arms sweeping with him. Easily able to press his palms to the wooden floor but without any judgment for the flexibility of the not-galdor next to him, he remembered to breathe,
"—and spreading Hurte's Beauty like a tigress stalks her prey, purposeful and proud—"
Arms stretched upward and outward in opposite directions, wide and slow, fingers curled in some semblance of claws while Ezre took one step back onto the leg opposite of the one he'd had bent behind himself before. Bringing his hands together again, thumbs pressed side by side before he pressed his palms and inked fingers together, field rippling like water with the motion, he continued,
"—gathering the wisdom of Vespe so that we can truly say that Ophur's golden light has allowed us to prosper, regardless of material wealth—"
A slow series of movements mimicked grasping in a way that felt like blocking blows, finally ending back at the familiar position of upright, knees bent, back straight. Ezre's arms were both down at his sides for only the briefest of moments,
"—Alioe, cares not for the glitter of things worn away by the sweep of her hands over Time—"
Hands came together in a circle again, outstretched in front of him, though he paused to offer correction where it was needed, emphasizing his shoulders and back with a little shrug,
"—for when Naulas offers that last door to Death, one must remember the path his hooves tread always lead back to the Beginning again."
A simple sweep of his whole self and a long exhale led them both back to the ready stance he'd begun with, the Hexxos Guide's smile a distant one, as if just the slow process of instruction had already led him a few much-needed steps outside of himself and away from the indignant hurt that he'd carried through the streets of Vienda, nestled among his fragrant packages, and here into the not-Incumbent's home.
"This particular set of movements is one of the more simple options. If I walk us through again in Deftung without pausing, do you think you can follow? It will still be slow."