[Closed] Away, Away

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 34 Dentis, 2719
The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon

What is mercy?

Nkemi had come across a holy man once in Thul Ka, who knelt in the fountain squares in Windward Market, during one of the months when the fountain ran dry for want of want.

What is mercy?

Nkemi had been returning to her duty station from a long day; she had been caked in dust, every inch of her feed made pale by it, even beneath the straps of her sandals. She wore her goggles, and a scarf wrapped around her face, and in the midst of the driving winds and scraping sands he had sat, undaunted, facing the fountain, and more than a few had gathered close.

He had taken a waterskin from his pocket, and poured the last of his water into his hands; he had spilled it free into the dry, dusty earth, and let it drink greedily from him, as he recited the words of the Haras’turga. Nkemi had knelt, too, around him, and bowed her head to listen.

What is mercy? He asked.

He told the story of a man who wanders in the desert, who comes across a barrel of water uncovered by a sandstorm, still sealed tight, who drinks greedy deep and swells himself up, and dies. He bowed his head, then; he scraped up the dust made wet on the ground, and let the muddy water drip from his fingers, and gave them no answers.

Nkemi, looking at the once-Everine, thought of all this and more. Her gaze shifted to Ezrah, as well, to her fingers intertwined with his, and to his other hand where it held surrounded by darkness.

There were many who did not know Hulali’s mercy, even those who had drank deep of its waters; there were many who cursed the Circle, or defied them, or ignored them. There were many who had known disappointments, injustice, cruelties, who had reached out with open palms again and again and never had one drop of water, or else had too many, a barrel-full, and did not know how to drink of it.

“Mercy cannot be a truth or a lie,” Nkemi said, her voice as firm and even as ever. Her fingers tightened lightly on Ezrah’s; her other hand still held the candle. “It is a choosing.”

Nkemi followed Ezrah down and through; a rusted lock hung from an open gate, still in its dangling. Nkemi glanced around, watching the pale light of the candle glance off the shadows, the places where the carvings on the floor trapped the darkness amidst them; they were hinted at by the light, not revealed, and in time Nkemi lifted her gaze again, watching the walls once more.

“Water,” Nkemi said, wide-eyed, listening over the rasp of her breath, the pounding of her heart, the scraping of small feet, over the darkness and the fluttering fear in her chest. She looked at Ezrah, and then lifted her gaze to the once-Everone. “Guide us, honored one,” Nkemi said, quietly, for wrong beliefs did not mean one was not deserving of honor. “Show us the way.”

Water, Nkemi thought; it tumbled over stones, steady and even, Hulali’s mercy and Bash’s patience mingled together. Mercy would win out, Nkemi knew, in time.

They went. The Cycle is broken, Ezrah said, easily, as if he knew it to be true. Nkemi looked at him, at the folds of clothing which caught the light, watching the straight line of his back. She did not understand; she did not ask, thinking of the blur of darkness in front of her, and the swirling steady upkeep of the spell in her mind. Every step weighed a bit more than the last, but the spell held.

Nkemi’s forehead wrinkled in another small frown. She looked at the plaques; this was not only the erosion of time, not only Alioe’s work in forgotten places. The passages of the candles showed scratches and marks, gouges; Nkemi felt a shivering down her spine, and lifted her gaze to Ezrah and the spirit which had reached out to them. She thought of the shuddering pool of ink in her map; she thought of the wash of loneliness and fear, the reek of it, and the cold which she felt ever in Ezrah’s other hand.

“Let me,” Nkemi said, evenly, looking at the gate. She held the candle closer; it was rusted, through. The Thul’Amat trained prefect took a step back, breathing deep, and thought of her options, careful and even.

She shifted, and she kicked out with a booted foot, firm, at the rusted latch. The rusted metal creaked beneath her foot and the latch came loose, shattering open. Nkemi pressed the shoulder of Ezrah’s coat against it, and the gate came open the rest of the way, easily enough.

The staticmaner glanced back at Ezrah, a tiny hint of her old grin on her face. “A prefect has many tools,” Nkemi said with the tiniest of shrugs. “Let us see, honored one,” she said to the once-Everine, her face settling prefect-solemn once more, and stepped through, descending further into mercy.

[Ezre Vks]

the forbidden crypts

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

Perhaps it would be safe to drop the ward, Ezre thought to offer there in the dark, the illusion of safety just that. Surely, Nkemi would be safe enough. Surely, they'd both managed to distract Everus Verona's restless remnant of a soul just enough that possession was not a risk, especially considering upkeep was taxing, exhausting, and eventually not worth the effort.

"Then who forgot to choose?" The ghost whined, hissed, and moaned all at once, fluttering as if the darkness that made up its form was simply not enough to contain its despair. The sadness was heavy and tangible. It wore at Ezre's rhakor in the same way a steady stream made rough stones smooth. He didn't like the way the powerful creature's emotions poured themselves into every crack in his well-honed exterior any more than he liked the way its entropic cold gnawed at tattooed flesh as if ready to gnaw on his bones.

"We are looking for those answers, Everus. To restore the balance that has been tipped." The Hexxos Guide spoke with careful calmness, including the Mugrobi subprefect in his pronoun even though he'd only accidentally invited her for a tour of less-traveled parts of Brunnhold's campus instead of purposefully dragged her into a spiritual misadventure.

There was enough room for the young Guide to step aside, and he met her gaze in the weak, persistent glow of candlelight. She saw what he had. Her discomfort was his own. Things were purposefully hidden, purposefully made unseen down here, like some scryer rushed to obfuscate their spell instead of considering the nature of their timing and skill,

"I did not know this section of the Crypts was actually so forbidden as to be defaced. I only thought it forgotten to progress and time." He admitted to her, concern in his tone but not in his expression, the ninth form student's tattooed face not twisted into a frown. He couldn't help the brief, uninhibited smirk when the subprefect he was barely taller than kicked the door with all the grace expected of a law enforcement officer, never one to not admire the physical prowess of others when put on such worthy display. He met her grin with wide eyes, nodding, grateful for a moment's distraction from the numbness that had crept from his fingers, up his wrist, and was reaching for his elbow.

"As they should, Nkchemi. Strength of mind and body are both important."

The Everine ghost howled at the invitation, flowing forward as if it'd been suddenly set free, refusing to drift too far from Ezre. His stomach lurched with the feeling of being tugged on because the displaced creature wasn't capable of physically dragging him so much as incorporeally compelling, some strange, insidious invasion of some of his Clairvoyant-trained will preventing him from entirely resisting in this sort of proximity, willing as he'd been to offer of himself into contact with the ghost.

The gate swung open, growling and grating. A hinge snapped and the thing slid askew, smashing against carefully carved stones that were slick with moisture, glistening in the candlelight. Stairs led down again, these worn by water instead of time. Mold and moss that didn't need the sunlight grew, softening their footfalls as they were forced to use care on the way down.

Trickling became a rushing sound by the time they reached the bottom, and a chamber of four hastily closed-up hallways would have made their precarious journey look like a dead end had one not been crumbled, water pouring from cracks in the ceiling and creating black pool of an inch or two of frigid liquid covering the entire floor. Everything was full of sound and Everus Verona seemed to spread over the darkness, expanding again, repeating phrases of song and bits of sentences about lies and lost gods, about merciful choices not made,

"My books are there. What is left of them. Secrets no one wants to read, memories no one wants to relive. Just like me. Oh, how the warmth is such a distraction."

Ezre flexed his field in response, finally scowling, warning the ghost that seemed to attempt to caress him, to caress the monic boundary that kept it at bay from Nkemi's face, and that seemed suddenly much more hungry than before that they'd made an agreement of sorts,

"We are here to breathe life into what has been forgotten." He would have apologized that he couldn't do the same for what was left of the Everine's existence—how he longed to fix things! how he longed to find some way to make things right!—but he could not, especially the more he came to realize that he couldn't even see the full tapestry of whatever had gone wrong in the world.

Aware that he'd most likely be ruining his shoes, the divinipotent tested the flooded floor, stepping then sloshing, unconcerned for the uncomfortable uniform footwear, unconcerned for the starched spatz, and totally unconcerned about the itchy wool trousers that were meant to define the cxîl as a gender that held no meaning to a Hexxos.

"Breathing—" The ghost growled, that constant weight of sadness flaring into something else, something more predatory.

Ezre ignored it, reaching again for Nkemi's free hand so the three of them could make their way through the toe-numbing, ankle-biting water toward the crumbled wall that opened into darkness. The overwhelming stench of rot wafted toward them—rotten flesh, rotten leather, rotten parchment, and the mortuary sciences student's lip curled only slightly with the realization that the library and the ghost's interred body had been too close to each other when water began to trickle in.

Had the flooding been purposeful? Accidental?

It was hard to tell.

"I am, unfortunately, or fortunately, no stranger to these smells. You were interred here, honored Everus?"

"Black rotten bones like my rotten abandoned soul." The dark thing's voice had grown louder as if anguished by being so close to its own former self. It seemed to encircle them both, bold and strong, tendrils of black seeking ways toward them, wanting now more desperately to feel the brush of their living flesh, wanting a place to hide that had a face and a pulse, "My lies decay so that a flower of truth can grow."

Ezre balked, bile tickling the back of his throat, drawing closer to peer within the mausoleum while water dribbled on him from above. He was careful, twisting in a way that admittedly brought him against all of the ghost's incorporeal boundaries of a body but allowed Nkemi to keep the candle dry while getting a view inside. He couldn't help but gasp at the brush of cold that immediately washed closer, gritting his teeth and sigiling his field against the entropic force longing for all of their body heat.

More water. Worn away white marble—the carved shapes of what looked like half a choir of Everine marked several graves, buried together over the years as peers. Some of the graves had been smashed, once again, on purpose, with name plates marred. Shelves inset on the rectangular room's walls had been mostly emptied by rot and time. Decades at least, if not centuries now. In one upper corner, however, dryer than the rest, three spines sparkled with a hint of moisture in the flickering, dripping little flame's light.

"We should go together, Nkchemi. Can you hold the ward a little longer?" Ezre tried to whisper, but there was no hiding from their spiritual anomaly of a companion, "Perhaps we can make it without, perhaps I can—well—leaving will be the challenge, I am afraid."

"Leaving? Where will you go?"

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 34 Dentis, 2719
The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon

So forbidden as to be defaced, Ezrah called it. Nkemi inclined her head, lightly, glancing around once more. The scratched name plates sent strange shivers down her spine.

It was Thul’Amat she thought of. Perhaps it was not so strange to think of here in the heart of Brunnhold with the waters of Iz swirling in her mind as a meditative focus. She let herself think of Ifús, the garden of fire, rebuilt in the heart of Thul’Amat after the destruction of Dejai Temple by fire, of the choice the ancestors of her ancestors had made not to look away from flame, but rather to gaze ever deeper in to it.

But truth was not one with openness; any prefect knew well of truth shaped by omissions and careful phrasings. It was unfair, too, to put the divergence on only those who were asked questions. Nkemi knew much of this, now, very well, a lesson achingly learned and laid alongside her bones. It rested there, heavy, and she let it be.

“I am a guest in this place,” Nkemi said, quietly, looking at the walls and then back to Ezrah, and the shifting black mass of the once-Everine, and thinking of gazing into a wall of flames, feeling the heat on her face. In the depths of her mind, still, she held the upkeep of the spell, though it, too, lay heavy on her bones. “But those questions which I know, I shall ask.”

Nkemi took Ezrah’s hand once more as they went on; she felt his grasp tighten against her, and hers, sometimes, too, tightened against his. The stairs were slick with something damp, soft bits of fuzz which grew hidden in the dark, and never saw the light. Water rushed louder and faster, onward, and Nkemi drew closer, Ezrah’s tight grip on her hand and her own curiosity drawing her on. Wax slid once more over her hand, pooling on that which already rested there, and her breath came slowly and evenly, her head spinning with the effort of it.

She felt a cool pool of darkness sliding over her, warming; Nkemi’s eyelids fluttered, and she caught her breath once more, Verona testing the boundaries of the spell. She took a deep breath, in and out, and shored up the walls which sought to crumble in her mind, gleaming spell-waters swirling still. She could feel the strain of it; she could feel water no longer trying to bash down the stones, but leaking, dripping, steadily, through the cracks in them, as it poured from the ceiling before them.

Nkemi let Ezrah’s hand go when he stepped into the damp floor. She breathed in, grateful for the sturdy strength of her boots, and followed him into the damp, both hands clasped around the candle. The water did not frighten her; Ezrah reached for her hand again, and she took his, and led him on.

The prefect coughed, once; she had no hand free to pull her scarf up over her nose, but she knew to breathe carefully through her mouth. She would have rather this the first time she had smelled such, but duty had called her before, and would again. She breathed in and out, evenly; her eyelids fluttered again as black closed in around them. Nkemi let Ezrah look; she watched over and around him, the candle light casting a flickering flame against the white marble.

Her eyelids fluttered again. She lifted her gaze to the books, and looked back at Ezrah; she inclined her head. “A little longer,” Nkemi said, slow and careful, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered once more.

“We seek to listen to your words, honored one,” Nkemi lifted her gaze to the darkness around them, her eyes searching all through it. She drew herself up; she drew a deep breath. The candle flame, which had bowed its head, flickered straight up once more, its light brighter in the crypt; her tongue found its strength once more. “Is that not why we have come? We are here! You are not forgotten, not so long as we may bring back your words with us, into the light of day."

[Ezre Vks]

the forbidden crypts

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

Ezre was grateful to have not made this journey alone, though had he been someone else, he might have felt some twinge of regret for an innocent tour turning into such a strange misadventure. He did not, aware that he'd not planned and the consequences were definitely making themselves known, crawling over his skin and soaking his clothes. The unlikely trio made their way through the crumbled, broken barrier that had been so hastily raised to hide what the Hoxian could only assume was considered some kind of spiritual shame, some religious understanding that the galdori of Anaxas or merely the Everine had not wanted the general populace to know or possibly remember.

How old was this section of the Crypts? How long had it been like this? The air was so cold and so still that even the mortuary sciences student couldn't tell, not with the rot crawling everywhere, consuming everything in its dark, thick slime. The experienced student also shifted to breathing through his mouth, having surrendered his coat to the Mugrobi subprefect long before they'd delved this deep. He felt the chill now, shivering wet with the frigid touch of Everus Verona still attempting to gnaw closer, deeper, to entirely devour what warmth the temple-born Guide possessed as a living body.

He paused once they'd entered the large mausoleum, nodding when Nkemi admitted her endurance had yet to run dry. The rush of water echoed on damp stone, drowning out the sound of his elevated pulse but not overwhelming the stench of flesh improperly preserved. He felt the pressure of the ward, sharp against his inner ears, clinging to the edges of his senses, but it was almost entirely overwhelmed by the raw emotion and untamed entropy of the ghost that curled and seethed around him. It seemed to grow exponentially in the darkness, in the epicenter of its own memory. This is where it had spent the most time, this was where what was left of not only its old, old corpse still lingered but also where its most important work was left to waste away unseen.

Work that someone had decided needed to be hidden. Destroyed.

Inked fingers of his freed hand reached up once the Mugrobi woman let go, trailing over the incorporeal surface of the restless spirit's hand on his, "I need to let go for a moment, Everus. Please."

The ghost's attention was on Nkemi, cords of thick, rolling darkness curling around the otherwise invisible sphere of monic resistance,

"Tell me of the light of day." It rumbled, half-whining, half-singing in some raspy, terrifying baritone. Releasing Ezre, its luminous gaze focused on the subprefect, cloudy existence enveloping her as if it had every intention of snuffing out the candle she held. She would feel it then, in addition to the intense sadness that seemed to be like background noise even in the stale silence of the Crypts was the undying hunger, the yearning to feel warm in a way that could never be satisfied.

"Do not overstep your boundaries, fair Everine." The Hexxos Guide intoned firmly, striking a match he'd fetched from his satchel, lighting another candle.

The ghost whimpered and hissed, flowing through the room like smoke, passing over smashed coffins and moldy, long dead corpses. Ezre used wax to fix the candle to what was left of half a column, the rest of its decorative shape in pieces buried under ankle-deep black water. He let the match burn down to his fingers, holding it in his numb hand, wincing at the heat of it and striking another. He lit one more candle, saving the last for their escape, holding it aloft as he adjusted his bag back behind himself,

"It has not been my intention to destroy you." He threatened quietly, nauseated as he stepped carefully over whatever the water hid below, making his way toward the shelves and what was left of the books. He glanced down at what was left of the remains, leaning down with his candle and holding his sleeve over his tattooed face, dark eyes judging time by decay with an educated but unpracticed eye. By the Circle, he couldn't even be sure, so overrun with black mold and Naulas only knew what else.

"I would like to come back and properly care for what is left of your body and the others here, but it will not be today. I recommend you keep that in mind."

"We don't deserve any such kindness." Growled the ghost, following along the edge of the candlelight, still maintaining some tendril-like contact with Nkemi's ward.

"That is far from the truth. You deserve respect, regardless of who agreed or disagreed with your discoveries. The truth must be honored and passed on, even if it is difficult to hear, never destroyed." Ezre murmured, a flash of pain in his expression, carved harshly into features no longer delicate by candlelight. He sloshed and slipped some more, desperate to keep the candle dry, unsure of everything he grabbed and groped onto to keep himself steady. He tried to move quickly, aware that magical exhaustion was a trickster, luring you into the false belief that you were stronger than you thought, though he trusted the clairvoyant subprefect's knowledge of herself far more than he trusted his own.

"Remind me of the warmth of the sun here in the rotten dark." Whispered the ghost, repeating parts of the phrase like a chant, washing as close as possible to Nkemi while its tone of voice raised a little in discomfort, once again testing its barrier, "Is there still light to see by up there among the living? I have been down here so long. So lonnnng. I cannot remember."

Soaked when he reached the shelf, the young Guide attempted to find some purchase for the candle, dripping more wax, coaxing a spot in stone among rotten leather and moldy paper. Precariously finding some smashed torso from a statue to balance near the shelves, he climbed, reaching for the surviving books. The first seemed to dissolve at his touch, mushy and weird, but the second was solid and mostly preserved. The third was somewhere in between, giving weakly at his quick grasp but staying together enough to pull down and press against his chest with the other.

Searching the shelves, he found one more small book tucked among the slimy mold, wincing but not gagging while he dug it from whatever else had once been on the same stone alcove, shoving away parchment.

"You cannot follow us back the way we came, esteemed Everus." Ezre grunted, slipping and scrambling down, turning toward the Mugrobi and searching her face with genuine concern. It was difficult to know how to communicate without giving everything away to their ghostly companion, and the Hoxian student was admittedly unclear as to its level of comprehension despite how well it seemed to be able to make its own thoughts known. He'd been taught that ghosts weren't whole, weren't complete, but this creature felt more self-aware than he was used to, much like the powerful monsters of the East Garden.

"Oh, but now I know the way. You have shown me. I have seen it."

There was so much unknown, which would have been exciting had he not been in the middle of it all. The little warmth of a thrill was just enough to keep him steady, sloshing back toward Nkemi,

"I must close it all again. For now."

The dark shape rolled closer, so thick and disturbed that it nearly blocked out the candle Ezre held from the subprefect's view, surrounding him in black,

"I am sorry."

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 34 Dentis, 2719
The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon

The light of day, the ghost groaned.

Nkemi felt it, then, the cold rippling through her. It crawled over her skin, cutting through the layers of fabric, as if she herself had been plunged into the depths of the water, into the darkest depths which had never known warmth. Sadness washed over her, too, closed over her head; the darkness roiled around her, pressing at the edges of her spell, pressing the candleflame close to her.

Nkemi breathed deeply; her eyelids flickered once more, and she brought both hands to the candle. Warm wax dripped over her fingers, just enough heat to remind her to hold; it was not pain, not quite, but it was not comfortable either.

For a moment, for just a brief moment, the Mugrobi could not think of sunlight, of the warmth of the desert sun. There was only the cool darkness all around her, and the pressing urgency of it. Her gaze dropped to the candle, to its flickering flame; she tried to imagine the sun like a candle, glowing and flickering –

She thought of the door out of Iz, of coming squinting into the sun at the edge of the garden, of bright light casting shade through the trees. She breathed in deeply; the waters still swirled, beneath, even as she would step into the light again. She could see the outside of Thul’Amat, then, once more; she could remember the way they glowed in the light.

It was the desert, too, that Nkemi thought of, the sweeping dry heat, the way it pounded dizzily in her heat and swept her throat dry. She thought of hills of sand like mountains; she thought of the dry cracked earth of Dkanat, and the lanterns of Serkaih gleaming in the distance.

Ezrah was speaking when Nkemi opened her eyes once more; the ghost was speaking too.

“There is light to see among the living, honored one,” Nkemi said, calm and even; her eyes searched the mass of darkness and cold, and she did not look away. She held, glowing with the candleflame, warm and alive for all that she felt cold. Ezrah was wading deeper into the damp, his hands reaching for the books on the distant shelf. She breathed steadily through her mouth.

The throbbing of the spell echoed through her head; the waves battered at her from within, and the cold from without.

“But this light is for the living,” Nkemi said. She looked at the darkness, all around; she thought of the lanterns of Serkaih, of the gleaming lights which swept along the paths of the valley of ghosts, which burned bright around the lanterns and swept one against the other, so that to keep to the center of the path was to keep from the dark.

“I can speak to you of the dry heat of the desert,” the Mugrobi went on, evenly, as Ezrah reached high overhead, “and the beating sun of Thul Ka; I can tell you that heat gleams on black marble and glows in the air like waves. I can tell you that it warms the water, reaches into it and brightens even the deepest depths. I can tell you of the dust, honored one, which it beats from the earth, and of the plants which wilt beneath its gaze, even as they yearn for it.”

“But I cannot show this to you,” Nkemi’s gaze was clear and even, still; the candle burned in her hands, and she held the spell through the sagging of her eyelids, the pinching of her face. Here, in the heart of the ghost’s home, she held still. "This is your place, now; you must know rest."

Darkness closed over them, and Nkemi was a faint glowing point of light in the midst of it; Ezrah was another. Nkemi breathed in deep, and the darkness shuttered closed, wrapping around them both.

Ezrah had cast the spell around her, above and beneath her own words. Nkemi’s eyelids fluttered again; she felt the waters of her upkeep draining, seeping out through the cracks in the walls she had built to contain it. She felt the fluttering beat of her heart in her chest, the rasping of cold air down into her lungs, the dry cracking of her lips. Her eyelids felt thin, like paper, and they were heavy – so heavy.

Nkemi could not have cast the spell, but she had held the upkeep long enough that she did not need to. The Mugrobi clairvoyant conversationalist breathed in deep, and began to chant a renewal of the ward; monite echoed through the air, harsh and clear, twining in the candlelight and beating back the darkness. She cast, and she cast again, and she chanted still, like a prayer; the gleaming spell waters in her mind crept higher, and higher still.

The circle of light around her swept out, gleaming, the candlelight glowing against the darkness. Nkemi cupped it in her hands, and kept up her casting, until at the edges of it she saw the gleam of Ezrah’s candle, too, flickering, glowing. Her eyes met his, and she held his gaze, still casting, and offered him the mantle of the spell once more.

Rolls

Nkemi attempts to strengthen the failing spell: Sidekick
BOTToday at 11:35 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Ezre Vks]

the forbidden crypts

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

The Hoxian carefully made his way through the flooded chamber, books clutched to his dirtied uniform shirt, protective against his tattooed chest. He'd almost left the candle behind him on the shelf, the little light dancing off black water with its humble shadows kindling for the seething darkness of Everus Verona's displaced spirit, of the remnant that seemed more eager to fill this cold, moldy space with its entire existence (but only because it was refused the opportunity to fill one of their warm bodies instead). Just as he found his footing again, however, he stretched to reach for it, snatching the small flame and attempting to keep his balance as he sloshed his way toward Nkemi once more.

He slipped and staggered, smashing a shin on purposefully broken stone that had once been a carefully carved column. Ezre hissed in pain, wool trousers already soaked; uncomfortable standard-issue shoes probably ruined; left leg leg now aching all the way to his numb toes; and focused on the subprefect's voice as she described her homeland.

Tuhir, his father, had chosen to finish his mostly Kzecka-given education at Thul'Amat instead of Frecks, and the Hexxos Hand returned to Hox just barely a year before meeting the elderly previous Hexxos Vessel of Lreya before the raen was given the body that eventually gave Ezre the life he lived now. His otsur studied history and literature and contributed to the Languages Department instead of focusing on magic, though he was a capable enough staticmancer as far as his own child knew. He would tell stories and share songs with Ezre in his childhood, and as Nkemi spoke of her home to the hungry, restless ghost, he felt the same longing he had all those years ago to see it all for himself, despite the heat he was sure would suffocate him somehow.

The ghost whined more, incomprehensible sounds growing louder with what could only be felt as no longer sadness but anger. The once-Everus' emotions were so tangible, grasping for both the living bodies in search of an anchor for its restless spirit.

Finally scrambling closer, Ezre paused to once again open his satchel—this time one-handed—and without much regard for his schoolwork or other items already inside, he gently, carefully put the books he'd oozed from the bookshelf inside. One-handed, candle aloft, he fumbled clumsily but succeeded with grit teeth while the ghost seemed to ebb and flow with the subprefect's breath and the flickering of the flame she held.

"There is no rest! No peace! All of those promises were lies. This is not the Afterlife we taught and sang about, just like the Circle we prayed to wasn't enough." Growled Everus Verona, wailing as tendrils of smoke-like shadows dug closer to Nkemi's warm body and caressed the Hoxian's satchel, drifting over his hands with its bitterly cold touch, aware of what was inside.

"They were not lies, Everus." Ezre whispered, "They still are not. Ignorance is not the same as willfully ignoring. Are you saying you purposefully taught the opposite of what you knew to others?"

"Everine veil their faces. I, Everus Verona, veiled the truth." The proclamation was a long, drawn-out whine. It washed through the room and reverberated through lungs that still took in breath.

Ezre frowned, the delicate features of his face drawn long in the deep shadows. He shuddered, cold and soaked, and let his dark eyes take in the deplorable state of the graves that had once been built with respect only to be destroyed in selfish anger. He cradled his candle's light closer, aware of the burden of the meaning of his name. Looking to the Mugrobi subprefect, he tilted his head carefully toward the archway that led outward,

"We with unveiled faces will share the truth, even if it is difficult to hear."

"Do you think you won't suffer the same consequences as my grave?" Groaned the ghost, threatening now.

Ezre felt the shift in Nkemi's belike field as he sloshed closer, the drawing in of something worn thin, and he understood her response to the question he'd not asked out loud. Gathering himself, he pressed outward with his own Clairvoyant-laden field, reaching as if ready to receive. His casting began somewhere underneath hers, just a whisper, growing and building, and while there was no magically perceivable pause, no actual break in the spell during the passing of one bearer to the other, so smooth was their transition, the Hoxian took another step closer, attempting to put himself between the Mugrobi and the once-Everine, attempting to stand between the exit and the tomb.

He slipped again, not stuttering but biting his tongue. His ears rang and the mona seemed to ring with the same frequency, grating through both living galdor's senses. The brail was not a severe one, brief and minor, but it was like a crack in the ward, a gap in the door that let chilled winter air from outside creep in. Both candles flickered dangerously low without any breeze at all, flames shrinking and wavering as if almost snuffed out, and Everus Verona stopped whining and rambling.

The ghost hissed, entropic existence rippling with the shifting of monic tides, filling the dark mausoleum with more of its powerful self as if it'd demurely been holding back the whole time.

Ezre's lip curled in displeasure as he scrambled to stay upright, to keep his candle safe, and to recover before it was too late.

For the first time this afternoon, Nkemi would physically feel the chill, eager touch of the restless spirit that she'd helped keep at bay when black, smoky tendrils brushed over her face and reached through layers of clothing like they were illusionary to begin with.

"No one has to go anywhere without me." Pleaded the once-Everine, anger and sadness filling the room like so much sound, like a symphony. Temptation and yearning began to rise from beneath it all, louder and louder in their minds, "Take me with you so that I can share what I know. Take me back to the warm places where the sun shines."

"Dru. You cannot." The Hexxos Guide had set his candle back down on one of the more whole stone coffins carved with the likenesses of veiled strangers—even in death, the Everine had surrendered their faces, apparently. He'd collected himself and his field, sigiled and ready, grimly determined despite the hint of sad hesitance in his tone,

"There are few who believe what you have become exists at all, and fewer still who would listen in your presence. You will stay here."

Or be destroyed. It would have been easier to do so, Ezre knew, but he hesitated. He wasn't yet convinced that was what this ghost deserved.

The soaked Hoxian moved closer, beginning to cast again. This time, it was different than the ward that had kept the pair of galdori safe along their walk through these forbidden tunnels, the Clairvoyant carrier of the dead changing phrases and recalling old books. He asked the mona to reach out toward the spiritual anomaly they seemed to despise so much and hold it still—to press it in place here in the dark in hopes of giving himself and the subprefect time to get away.

He could hold it until the top of the stairs, at least, he figured, so long as he didn't slip and fall a third time.

The ghost growled in discomfort and hunger, frigid touch tightening for a moment as if it had every intention of crawling inside one of them in order to hide from the spellwork that began to bind it.

Ezre tilted his head toward the archway, moving slowly, carefully, toward putting his entire self between the ghost as he bound it there into the black, writhing and seething while its touch left strange, wet trails on their clothes and skin.

"We must hurry." He grunted when he'd curled the request, concentrating as he attempted to walk backwards in order to keep his eyes on the ghost until they'd reached the hall.

Rolls

Ezre attempts to take the spell (oops)
Result: 1d6 (1)
Total: 1

Ghost makes its move
Result: 1d6 (4)
Total: 4

Ezre says nope
Result: 1d6 (4)
Total: 4

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 34 Dentis, 2719
The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon

Nkemi cast, chanting steadily, as Ezrah reached out for the spell.

The ghost’s voice was a wail; Nkemi did not hear it so much as feel it. It ached in her teeth like the cold; it rattled all through her, pressing at the back of her head as if to make her yield. It was not only sound but anger and even hatred, but fear, too, and the ache of loneliness. Nkemi held herself and the candle upright against the darkness.

Not a threat, Nkemi thought, her mind slow to think of anything beside the spell, able to spare only the faintest sliver of herself for anything but its renewal, but a warning.

Ezrah’s voice chimed beneath hers, low and steady. Nkemi felt the heavy weight of the spell lift from her shoulders, from her bones, from every inch of her skin; it had held her down, and for a moment, as she let Ezrah take it back, she was so light she thought she might fly. The spellwaters which she had built to a gleaming high drained, slowly; the intangible energy held in place by her imaginings flowed between her and Ezrah, the belike mona of her field deeply intertwined with his. She thought she could almost see it, in the flickering of the candleflame, as if even the light reached out towards the Hoxian, but she was not sure.

He slipped; he brailed.

The last of the spell spun away from her; it trailed through Nkemi’s fingers like water she could not hold, splashed useless on the ground between her. The Mugrobi gasped, breathless; for a moment she spun inside herself, too light to keep hold of the ground.

Nkemi felt it, then.

The darkness wrapped around Ezrah once more; it choked out the light of his candle, so Nkemi could see only the faintest gleam at the wick. The Mugrobi choked, shaking; the cold rushed through, the spirit reaching through both coats, through the sweater beneath, through the thick, colorful scarves wrapped around her, through her sturdy boots. She felt the cold in every inch of her, washing through.

“You must not,” Nkemi’s voice twined beneath Ezrah, replacing the student’s words with her own truth. She spoke through gritted teeth, through her jaw held tight against the cold. It swept through her, like nothing she had ever felt, like nothing she had ever imagined. She tried to think again of Thul’Amat in the sunshine, of the wash of heat and light over the sandstone; it slipped away into the dark, dissolved like smoke and left nothing behind.

She was a wisp, too; Nkemi’s eyelids fluttered once more, and she realized she was in danger of dissolving, too, like the thought of the sun, of slipping away into the darkness and drowning in it.

She heard Ezrah’s monite half-distant, as if through the muffling of cloth. Nkemi gasped for breath; she felt the darkness crawl back away from her. Her teeth were chattering still, and she glanced down unseeing at the candle, not sure what she held for a long moment until the flame flickered once more. Something cold and dark swept over her; damp lines crawled in strange patterns unknown to her over the thick fabric of the uniform coat.

“Yes,” Nkemi whispered. She shook her head; she pulled back, slowly, taking one step, and then another. Her feet slid on the damp stones, but she held upright. She reached out, and took Ezrah’s free hand firmly in hers; she squeezed, and then slid her hand down his arm, so she grasped him firmly around the forearm, so that he could do the same to her.

Though Nkemi was small, she was strong, and her steps steady; she meant to bring Ezrah up the stairs with her if she had to drag him, so long as he could keep his focus on the spell. She was not large enough to carry him on her back – this she knew, for it is wise for a prefect to know her limits – but she could help him stay on his feet. If he slipped, Nkemi thought – she hoped – she could keep him upright with the strength of her grip, could keep him from falling and losing the gist of the spell.

They climbed.

There seemed a thousand stairs; there seemed ten thousand stairs, as if for every step Nkemi took, the staircase stretched out longer. Her breath rasped in her ears; her heart pounded. She felt nothing but memory of the wax in one hand, and the fabric in her other. Her head was light, and spinning still; she was swamped in fear, bathing with it, with nothing to wash it away.

Nkemi prayed; she did not cast, for these were not words – were not spells – which she knew. She prayed instead, quietly, in Mugrobi, for it was the language of her heart; she called on Hulali, and the rest of the Circle too, for what He knew All knew, and what All knew He knew. She called on Naulas, to ask Him why; she called on Roa, for Her blessing. She called on Alioe, for this was surely hers; she called on Bash, for the strength of His stone. Imaan, Ophur, Vulker, Vepse, Hurte; she called them each, by name, whispering one after another in the hallway, towing Ezrah behind her up the stairs.

It was Hulali’s name she whispered once more at the top of the stairs, the Circle made complete.

“Do we run?” Nkemi asked, quietly, her breath still clouding softly in the air.

Rolls

Nkemi tows Ezre up the stairs: Sidekick
BOTToday at 12:53 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4

[Ezre Vks]

the forbidden crypts

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

Ezre's very youngest childhood had been a surprisingly unstructured one—Kzecka children that weren't yet at the expected school age of six left to their own devices after their chores, mostly required to stay within reasonable distance of their homes or whichever relative who had been tasked with their care for the day. In the brief warmth of summer, this often meant playing in the irrigation ditches between greenhouses or chasing what few insects scratched out a meager existence in the thin, cold air high above the rest of Vita. The tattooed Guide could say he'd caught quite a few examples of the wildlife available in the Spondola Mountains with his bare hands, and he especially remembered the beat of small songbird wings against his palms, the struggle of a tiny creature desperate to get free from his grasp, for the sensation was not so dissimilar when the hungry ghost began to feel itself contained when the Hexxos properly recovered and shifted the direction of his cast ward.

Raising his candle, Ezre held it with purpose between himself and the writhing, howling darkness that he was forced to concentrate to keep pinned so firmly. Fingers brushed his free hand, slipping past his scarred palm to curl around his inked wrist; it was a movement he recognized and without needing instruction, the well-disciplined student mirrored the grip.

"I will come back, Everus." He promised, though unsure if he was capable of returning alone—not yet, "And make things right here."

Even if he wasn't entirely sure all that had gone wrong, he made what consolation he could, though the only response that earned him was hissed sounds of etherial agony, the once-Everine no longer as capable of coherent words in its state of confined rage.

The Hoxian did his best in the wet and the dark, teeth grit in the need for focus, moving slowly and steadily backwards under Nkemi's careful guidance, relying heavily on her direction and the subtle shifts in her grasp on him to lead him while he kept his gaze on Everus Verona through the meager flame. Out of the purposefully destroyed masoleum, through the hall and toward the stairs he knew had been slippery. His hand shook, every knuckle aching from the cold touch of the hungry creature he'd led back down here.

Shouts and squeals, wails of despair and betrayal echoed off the black water and cold stone, following them, haunting them even after the ghost was no longer visible, swallowed by the dark outside of the ruddy glow of their small, flickering lights. The back of his foot felt the first stair and he understood what was required of him—endurance. Releasing the subprefect's arm to reach for the meager inset bannister carved into the stair, he still required her assistance, complicating matters by steadily, oh-so-slowly walking up the stairs backwards, dark eyes searching the darker places they'd just been for any signs of failure, for any signs of the ghost proving itself stronger than his spellwork.

Climbing was, strangely enough, not an issue for the Kzecka-born Hexxos, the ninth form student raised in a city full of stairs covered in snow and ice most of the year. He moved up each one with all the grace that years of lighting candles and hearths in the various tsvat'en scattered across high Spondola peaks had taught him to find, each step a meditation on its own, though he couldn't pray his way through the Circle this time, but from behind him, warm breath defiant in the chill of the Crypts, he heard the Mugrobi woman take over this duty, also. He heard all the names he knew, unable to help but wonder what names he didn't, finding comfort in Nkemi's prayers.

Confident of his center of gravity even though he was distracted by the concentration necessary to pin down a powerful creature from this distance, Ezre risked letting go of the rail to dig in a pocket, leaning a little more for a moment into Nkemi's strong, reliable support while inked fingers fumbled for his bone-handled folding knife, tucked in his soaked trouser pocket in blatant disregard for Brunnhold's rules.

By the time they'd made it to the top of the first set of stairs, he'd found his knife, thumb resting in the familiar groove on the blade while he traced the rest of their route through his racing thoughts at the speed of his rushing pulse. He panted, shivering and wet, feeling the gnaw of exhaustion and aware of his limitations. There were no gates left to close anymore—locks broken or doors' hinges bent—and all the Hexxos Guide knew to do was create another barrier, however temporary, in the hopes that the once-Everine would quickly forget the way they'd come in their confused anger. He felt the soggy weight of old books in his satchel, pausing at the top of their climb,

"We will have to move quickly, zjai, Nkchemi, for I do not think I can make anything else that will last very long. I will buy us some time, however, and hope that Everus Verona did not manage to memorize what we inadvertently showed it of the Crypts." Slowly dropping into a low squat there at the threshold, dark eyes still staring downward beyond the glow of his candle, he poured a small circle of wax, setting the candle in the middle to keep it upright.

He would have to replace one spell with another, aware that in those precious moments when he released his upkeep, he would have but one opportunity to create his barrier here at the stairs.

Closing his eyes for a moment as if it mattered, he moved to open the knife he'd pressed the handle of so tightly against his palm, gathering his field with all the steadiness he could muster. It was with the pain of the sharp edge drawn deep and quick into his other hand that he consciously unbound himself from the monic signature he'd left behind to pin the hungry ghost in place, grunting with the sensation of his breath being stolen from his lungs and the popping noise that resounded through his inner ears. Opening his eyes again, he moved quickly, angling his hand with practiced ease so that the steady, warm stream of his own life could trickle between two fingers, writing quick, loose swaths of monite strokes on carefully hewn stone, raising his voice as if calling all the Clairvoyant mona he'd left between the destroyed mausoleum and here back to him, syllables ringing out in the cold as if he was building a wall of sound.

The candle flared for a moment, brighter than before, catching glints of fresh blood on the ground as if setting it aglow. Somewhere, just at the edges of hearing, groans drifted from where they'd just been,

"Do not leave me!"

"There is still so much to learn!"

"Come baaacccccckk!"

It was growing louder, of course, fueled by a timeless madness Ezre had admittedly read about but was incapable of properly understanding.

He curled his spell, and while nothing visually seemed to change, the sounds felt immediately muted and that strange prickling feeling of barely missing one's dresser in the dead of night tickled their senses as if something was, indeed, right in front of them, unseen.

"We must go. Whatever speed we can attain is better than not moving at this point." He stood, wiping first his blade on his ruined trousers and then his hand, reaching out to steady himself, realizing he was dizzy, before pointing and beginning to move back the way they'd first come as quickly as he could muster, remembering the paths through what he'd labeled as forbidden and forgotten beneath the Church of the Moon.

Rolls

Climbing is easy.
Avrae | Today at 12:49 PM
Result: 1d6 (6)
Total: 6

Warding is easy.
Avrae | Today at 12:49 PM
Result: 1d6 (5)
Total: 5

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 34 Dentis, 2719
The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon

The once-Everine was not speaking now; it was nothing so simple as noise and speech. It was a whirling roar of despair, of fear and loneliness, of darkness without hope of light. It did not stretch to cover them, this time; it hung back, distant, squealing and echoing off of the dark walls.

Ezrah let go of her to grasp for the bannister of the staircase; Nkemi did not let him go. She felt the shifting of the muscles in his forearm, and tightened her grip, still towing him step by step up the stair as she prayed her way through the Circle, naming and calling them once by once even as the climb dragged a little more of her breath with each step. She had enough to spare; for all that she lived in Thul Ka, now, Nkemi had grown up racing up and down the edges of the canyon of Serkaih, playing with goats on flat plains and steer ledges, and kept herself even now in motion every day. Her body remembered, and it endured, too.

It was warmer at the top of the stairs, not only from the exertion, but now that they were more distant from the wailing, frightened spirit. Nkemi’s heart ached, but she did not look back, and did not think, either, of going back. She knew well enough what she could and could not do; she knew that her refusal of Everus Verona was truth.

There was still a distant wailing, echoing through the chambers. Nkemi looked around, and down the stairs once more, her chest moving with each breath. She let go of Ezrah here, standing back to watch him work.

Nkemi had never used her own blood in a casting. Something in her jerked at the idea of it; something in her had not understood, not really, until the blade cut open Ezrah’s hand and fresh clean blood welled out. She did not look away, for she knew that to look away changed nothing.

Any scryer knew the value of blood to find a target. Such things were taught at Ire’dzosat, too; Nkemi had been taught that to look from the truth was almost as shameful as a lie. Her work with the prefects had made it more than an abstract lesson; she knew now, very deeply, how well the parts of the body connected to the whole, when the right words were spoken to the mona to make them so.

Ezrah was chanting, now, the words of an unfamiliar ward. Nkemi was crouching, too, for it seemed somehow wrong to stand. She watched the candlelight gleam on the blood, her small face set in a frown she could not have explained; her gaze flickered up, to Ezrah’s palm, and to all the soft scar lines which gleamed, too, in the candlelight.

It was not the time for such reflections.

“Yes,” Nkemi said; she shook her head, as if to clear away the thoughts. She rose, looking at Ezrah, and did not, this time, take his hand.

They ran, or if it was not running, it felt like running. There was a weight to each step – to some steps – as if something pulled at their feet and threatened to hold them back, or else as if they were tired from the journey, and weighed down by dzesi’tsofe, the tiredness of casting which lays along the bones.

Nkemi thought of a dark inkblot spreading out on a carefully drawn map; she thought of the feeling of a tug inside her; she thought of her own light, like a guide through the darkness, leaving a trace or a trail. She searched; she could not find it, but she did not know if she knew what she looked for. The clairvoyant conversationalist began to cast, softly, the monite echoing in the pants between her breaths, a spell to force the letting go of any holds on her field, on her mind, on herself.

Her field fizzled around her; she felt a shock of cold, and nothing more. She did not know whether it had succeeded or failed, whether the words she spoke could do any pushing against the type of hold she feared; she did not know, in the end, whether there had been nothing holding on, after all.

Her feet caught, sometimes, in her heavy boots, scuffed against scraps of stone and damp patches of moss; once, she slid and bashed her shoulder into a corner, though not too hard. Mostly, she ran, or as close to it as she could come, and as Ezrah could come, neither leaving the other behind.

Rolls

Spell to force release of connection: Sidekick
BOTToday at 9:36 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (1) = 1

[Ezre Vks]

the forbidden crypts

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

The Hexxos was aware of the controversial nature of the use of blood and magic, though it was mostly an obscure sort of negative bias outside of the necessity of it in Living conversation or of the usefulness of it in Clairvoyant conversation. The long memory of the mona and their intimate awareness of every living thing, magical or not, made organic matter of all kinds a curious material to work with, whether it was used to track an escaping criminal or to bind oneself as the conduit for a ward. Temporary, the oxidation process made blood a poor substitute for an everspell, but hardly any wards were meant to last forever. They just needed to hold for a time. Like this one.

Nkemi knelt next to him, and Ezre didn't look up from his work, smearing red with his fingers over old stone. He felt her curiosity but didn't feel judgement, and in his need to be efficient with what little time they had, he was grateful. She was a subprefect, after all, and he was sure she'd dealt with plenty of less-than-sincere smudges of blood for entirely different reasons.

He felt the shift of pressure not just in his ears but crawling through his sinuses, crushing his delicate, tattooed face with the reminder that he'd already reached quite far into himself for all of this. He had a little more to give, he promised himself silently, wiping his hand on the driest part of his trousers before shoving up to stand, dizzy. He would have stood there to watch for the Everine's ghost, to test the strength of his unseen barrier, had he been alone. The Mugrobi stood next to him and he understood he'd already been enough of a poor guide, chagrin trickling with the cold sweat between his shoulders, a sensation defiant in the chilled, stale air of the Crypts.

Ezre just nodded, adjusting his school satchel laden with books and turning to lead them both back the way they'd came, back toward the Clairvoyant mausoleums; back toward the well-maintained hallways of Brunnholds more famous, more beloved dead; and back toward the stairs that led to the Church of the Moon and the living Everine who'd made a decision long ago to hide some kind of terrible secret.

He staggered a little, shoes heavy, legs weighed down by wool soaked with water that shouldn't have been flowing into graves, but he moved with the swiftness provided by Kzecka stairs and Spondola cliff sides, by youth and by a clear understanding that they'd overstayed their welcome already.

He felt the shift in Nkemi's field, recognizing the other Clairvoyant's spell as a form of self-disentanglement. He felt the grate of it, unsure if it was monic objection, a miscast, or if that was the sensation of success. Given how everything had gone already, it was difficult to ascertain anymore. He couldn't yet do the same, not quite ready to let go of all he still attempted to hold back, and he wasn't sure, laden with Everus Verona's books, if he could ever sever their connection again, not fully. There was something about ghosts who were aware enough to be attached to things, to places, like the East Garden and the Ghost Town's spirit who loved the watch tucked in Ezre's coat that the Mugrobi woman was still wearing. He wanted to make it to the stairs first, to stand in the glow of Church candles before he asked the mona for the same respite.

"Probably not the campus tour you were expecting." The young Guide finally huffed, somewhere in better-lit halls, slowing his pace only a little, leading them toward the way back up into the world of sunlight and ignorance, into the chill of autumn instead of the cold of underground. He was only vaguely aware of his bedraggled appearance, of their bedraggled appearances, both wet and a little dirty, both looking like they'd taken a walk in the woods outside of Brunnhold's red walls instead of a solemn stroll through the Crypts, instead of the proper exploration of the school that Ezre had been tasked with.

He paused, finally, at the foot of the stairs, and moved his tattooed hands in front of him with symbolic motions while he spoke a very similar spell to Nkemi's, passing inked fingers over his face and turning his cut palm outward in a severing motion, forceful and strong despite the breathlessness of his monite.

Shoulders sagging, he stared back down the hall one more time, the rather innocuous warnings carved into stone and printed on various papers on the entrance's notice board next to his dark-haired head looking like some kind of joke to those who knew the truth,

"While you are free to express your disappointment to my professors, it would be my request you not discuss the nature of the confessions of the ghost of Everus Verona." It was, in its own way, a Hoxian apology, delivered in his calm, even tone of voice, dark eyes searching Nkemi's face as if he expected a reprimand despite how understanding and knowledgeable she'd been, how grateful he was to have not been in that same situation alone, "Perhaps I should let you also take the books—the further they are from the displaced spirit, the weaker its connection to them. Although, I accept that risk, especially because I am very curious to read them."

He shivered, glancing up to the last set of stairs and back to the subprefect again, "I am glad for your wisdom, and I hope whatever it is we are to learn will be truth and not a confused, lost creature's illusion."

Rolls

Safer still.
Avrae | Today at 3:47 PM
Result: 1d6 (3)
Total: 3