[Closed] Away, Away

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

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

Nkemi listened, quiet and intent, to the Hoxian’s explanation of ghosts. She shivered, once, as he spoke of their loneliness, and nodded, as if in understanding, when he spoke of their longing for the warmth of their bodies. She grinned at Ezrah when he spoke of established literature and actual experience, raising her eyebrows lightly. She remembered such confidence well, although neither would she have thought to disagree with him in the least.

“Sapience, sentient and abilities,” Nkemi repeated, thoughtfully, holding the grains of sand cradled between her palms; she watched him shrug, watched the glance of his eyes up and away, the thoughtful faint pursing of his lips beneath the expressionless face. She smiled, although there was something a little solemn to it, and a little sad, too.

“They do not,” Nkemi interjected, gently, “sound so different from the people they once were.” Her eyes searched the student’s dark, open gaze; she was abruptly aware of his age. Not only age, the prefect thought, but the sort of inexperience common amongst those of such an age – those for whom much of their time had been spent as a child, or else cradled in the walls of some place such as Frecksat, Brunnhold or Thul'Amat.

“Many who go through trauma can be much the same,” the prefect offered, gently. “Unable to pass the moment or moments which now define them; bits and pieces of who they were, searching for a whole. And, too, some do grow jealous, angry, bitter; some do wish for revenge. It sounds – alike, but...” Nkemi was quiet; her gaze drifted over the carvings on the walls, “but that there is still a chance, I think, for some of those who suffer so in life to recover themselves.”

Two-way, Ezrah said, and Nkemi shivered.

“I did try,” Nkemi said, honestly, “as a girl.” She tucked her hands into the pockets of Ezrah’s coat once more, unexpectedly cold. Entropic creatures, he said, and she felt a pulse through her, a deep ache with a name. “I could not find it again, and… after I went to Thul’Amat, it did not occur to me to keep trying. I remember it,” Nkemi offered, quietly, “or at least as how it looked to me, then, even shorter than I am now.” A hint of a smile curved up her lips; the Mugrobi was not in the least sensitive about her height. She could have painted it for him; there was a swath of pink stone across the canyon, there, and it had glowed rich in the darkness; it dipped down, and curled like a smiling mouth into a stripe of blue below, with two jagged little stripes in the striations between them that had reminded her of nothing so much as teeth.

An idea, Ezrah offered, and Nkemi grinned a little, not in the least surprised. She followed Ezra down the hall of mausoleums, watching tattooed fingers trace torchlight-gleaming metal plaques, looking curiously at a thin-faced magister here, with the little twin creases between his eyes forever etched in stone, and another with her hair scraped back into a bun, faint strands carved into the stone.

There was a collection of pebbles on one of the mausoleums, stacked neatly beneath the head of a man; his nose was worn down, faintly shiny, as if student after student had crept down and brushed it, and left behind a little offering to call their own. For success at their exams, Nkemi thought; what else did students pray for? One stone, all alone, had tumbled off the pile and lay at the corner of the stone box below.

Nkemi crouched as Ezrah made his careful, deliberate offer, the student’s green coat making a solid lump out of her; she heard how it ended in a question, even without looking at him. The Mugrobi picked up the stone, carefully, studying it against her palm; she curled her fingers over it, and glanced up at Ezrah with a grin.

“If you know where to find this ghost, why do you need me?” Nkemi grinned a little wider, almost teasing. She understood perfectly; she did not wish to make it too easy for him. She set the pebble back down against the stack, with a light, delicate touch, careful not to dislodge any others. She hoped it was not too late for the hopeful student, just in case.

[Ezre Vks]

Brunnhold Campus

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

"Iwould not argue they are very different—who they became in life and what they experienced to shape them as they lived is something inexplicably tied to their unfortunate existence as displaced spirits." Ezre considered her words when Nkemi shared them, the prefect far more experienced with the living than the dead, in opposite of himself in some ways. She understood how people were shaped and made on the inside: how thoughts and feelings came together through experiences, whether positive or negative, while the Hexxos Guide had studied anatomy and physiology to understand how bodies worked as tangible vessels for those intangible things, "Nor do I doubt that those things as you describe them also haunt the living. I can imagine—well."

If a delicate brow arched at her comment about opportunities for recovery of any kind among the living—even if she meant the dead—the Hoxian's face didn't give any discernible hint of how such a statement may have made him feel beneath the well-honed layers of his rhakor. His jaw clenched, though, and he followed her gaze, nodding instead of speaking right away, pressing against the back of his teeth the words that might have offered some sense of confirmation but no sensation of consolation to her thoughts.

He chose silence, calmly snuffing out the desire to share beyond the surface of spiritual anomalies, biding his time longer as if weighing whether or not breaking his promises of protection were worth the risk of such truths falling on the wrong shoulders unwilling to bear them.

Nkemi pezre Nkese seemed willing. The prefect seemed strong.

But still, Ezre waited.

"Ghosts fade. Whether they return to the Cycle whole again or are destroyed completely—I do not know. The entropic forces of monic objection wear at their tenuous existence, sometimes destroying them quickly, sometimes slowly. Some last a long time. Some burn bright and disappear too soon. That part of death, I suppose, is no different from life." He added, curious as to whether the ghost the Mugrobi woman had seen still existed and had not wished to be seen or had already deteriorated by the time she attempted to search her out.

He let his attention drift slowly to Nkemi when they finally paused, following her curious exploration of the carvings and statuesque forms of remembrance. She stooped to realign a stack of stones with one that had fallen, and his gaze was on her hand when she curled fingers around the lost piece of the careful pile,

"I do not need you—"

Ezre scoffed, half-smiling, half-caught off guard, the usually calm tone of his voice broken with a teenaged grate of surprise,

"—it was an invitation to collaborate."

The Hoxian would have rolled his eyes if it had at all been in his nature to do so, shaking his head gently instead and shifting to bring his satchel within reach. Dark gaze watched as Nkemi carefully balanced the pebble back on the student-made stack of wishes, prayers, and hopes while he rifled through his things for a small leather-bound book and a small roll of waxed fabric that held various writing utensils, inked fingers familiar enough with their shapes that he didn't need to look down into his school bag. The student elaborated,

"I have already let you help choose some of the course of this unorthodox campus tour; why stop now? While I have been mostly unsuccessful in communicating with ghosts through Clairvoyant means, perhaps a mutual exchange of methodology would benefit both my curiosities and your next return to Serkaih." The young Guide wasn't exactly humble about his specific set of skills and knowledge, not here in the chilled, hallowed quiet of the Crypts. He flipped through pages of his personal journal, opening to a dog-eared page with a carefully copied map on it. There were notes, but they were mostly in Deftung, save for a hallway in front of a stairwell where a miniature replica of the ward that held Lilanee's first encounter with a ghost at bay on the page adjacent had been drawn.

"You can find the minds of the living, tracing their steps. I have—theoretically speaking—touched the minds of those who no longer live but still persist here in spirit form. At least once, though that is difficult to confirm."

That same slim eyebrow quirked again in curiosity, the hint of challenge in the otherwise steady, reliable rhythm of his soft spoken tone of voice, "I can, instead, return us to a more acceptable exploration of campus, of course. If you would prefer, Nkchemi."

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

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

Nkemi could not but grin as the Hoxian’s voice rose into his scoff; Ezrah half-smiled, even his rhakor flickering for that brief moment, and he shifted. By the time she turned back to him the Prefect’s face was smooth and even; she was no Hoxian, and she would not have called herself a master of such things, but a prefect learned how to find a mask of smooth calmness and how to wear it – even one such as Nkemi, who liked very much to smile. Perhaps, Nkemi thought, most of all one who liked very much to smile.

The Hoxian went on, explaining and elaborating. A mutual exchange of methodology, he offered, enthusiastically; he positioned himself once more as the guide, flipping through his notebook. Nkemi dropped her gaze down to the notebook, curious; she could not read any of the notes scrawled carefully over the pages, but she knew a map when she saw one. The Mugrobi let herself hold the stillness of her face a few moments, as if thinking about it.

Then, bright as the dawning of the sun over the horizon, she grinned once more at Ezrah. “I am sure that I can learn a good deal from these methods,” Nkemi said, brightly, cheerful. “Is the purpose of my visit not inter-institutional academic exchange?” She grinned a little wider.

“May I, please?” Nkemi extended her hand, and took the notebook from Ezrah. She turned the page, noting notes on the back. “It is all right if I copy it out?” She would take a pen from him if he had one; the Mugrobi knelt on the floor, carefully cutting a page from the notebook with a small penknife; she held the notebook in place with one knee, and bent over the paper with all her focus, tracing the lines of Ezrah’s map onto the paper he had offered her, slow and steady. It was its own sort of preparation, careful and diligent; it was a part of the learning of the map for Nkemi, and if not part of the official preparation for the spell, it was nonetheless a step she valued.

When Nkemi had finished, she returned the Hoxian his notebook and pen; she lay her copy of the map out on the stone, and weighed it down in the corners with the stones from her pocket, symbols carved into them. She pulled out a small case, and slipped a piece of chalk from it, and tucked it back in the inner pocket of her inner coat.

“It is best, I think, if we cast the first part of the spell in chorus,” Nkemi grinned up at Ezrah, although most of her focus was, now, on the slow symbols and lines she traced, carefully, around the paper. It was not the same spell circle she had drawn earlier; there were similar elements, but she wove in, too, runes and symbols for the joining of two minds, like a prodigium wound through the broader circle.

Nkemi worked quickly but steadily; the uneven ground gave her no particular trouble, and her lines were as neat and straight as they had been on the floor of the classroom. If the circle was smaller, it still wrapped around the map that she had made from Ezrah’s notes; encircling it fully. Once or twice, she smudged out a symbol, carefully, and redrew it neater; no divinipotent could balk at the need to know when to begin again.

When she was done, Nkemi sat back; she tucked her chalk away. A small smudge of white was on her cheek, and her fingertips were thoroughly dusted with it. She sat on the cold stone floor, cross-legged, and grinned up at Ezrah. “If you will join me, ubuq?” Guide, Nkemi called him, cheerful as ever. The Mugrobi sat up straight, breathing deep; her hands settled neatly in her lap. She took out her small case of ink; she settled it in a space left in the spell circle, open and ready, and waited, breathing deep and even.

When Ezrah had settled into place – when he, too, was ready – they would begin the cast.

[Ezre Vks]

Brunnhold Campus

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

"Ido not think I was entirely told of your purpose in visiting Brunnhold, other than to give a demonstration of interesting implication for Clairvoyant students such as myself. It was mere unpredictable accident that I was requested to be your guide, but an exchange of academic and arcane understanding is never an opportunity to be missed." Ezre smiled back, letting the expression linger without much hesitance here in the cold, dry darkness of the Crypts, the warmth in his otherwise normally very stoic features illuminated by the golden glow of the light he upkept carefully.

Aware that they would be casting, however, he retrieved a small lacquered box from the apparently well-stocked depths of his school satchel, and, ever the bearer of unusual contraband, produced a handful of small candles and a very slim wax-sealed tin of matches. Inked hands acquiesced to the Mugrobi woman's request and once he'd released his book into her grasp, he next searched out a pen from the roll of writing utensils. Handing those both over, he first set about lighting the very small candles he carried for warding, for venturing into the crypts, and for whatever else a teenaged divinipotent may have found uses for them for. Once he'd lit them, one at a time with methodical, almost religious sentiment, setting them carefully near their feet and on one of the sepulchers to illuminate their work, he finally reached for the bone-handled folding knife tucked with dutiful defiance of student rules into his green wool uniform trousers, the jingling of his pocket watch, of a couple of scry stones, announcing that he was not only disappointed by the capacity of trouser pockets but that he still made use of them anyway.

Of course, not surprisingly had he thought about it at all, Nkemi had her own penknife and his dark eyes widened, left standing there awkwardly turning over the familiar, curved shape, warmed by his own body heat, pads of his fingers tracing over the carved scene made smooth by use. He watched her find a comfortable position to copy the map, the motion of her body a familiar one to the temple-raised child who knew meditative preparations and knew personal ceremonies when he saw them.

The Hexxos Guide knew when to give others their personal space, whether spiritual or otherwise. He stood quietly, observing but not interrupting her work—the lesson of being a silent witness and being still in the company of those completing an important task ingrained into the Kzecka-born cxîl's existence. Long hours not spent working alongside other galdori to eek out life from the black rock mountains, not spent meditating in Static-carved tsvat halls, not spent in prayer, were often spent in stillness, watching, learning. Part of learning a skill was admitting there was another you didn't have the talent for, after all, and Ezre had long ago realized he was not gifted with an artist's hands.

Nkemi looked back up at him and he fumbled to tuck his knife away back into his pocket, caught staring and distractedly reminiscing about home instead of standing ready to receive his leather-bound notes. Putting it all back away in his satchel while she carefully laid out her copied map onto the stone floor with gentle hands, smoothing over its surface without smudging still-drying ink and laying it like a shroud over some Clairvoyant's memorial slab, he followed dark-skinned fingers retrieving chalk instead of analyzing the accuracy of her duplicate map. He had no doubt of her skill, instead too curious about her methodology.

"Zjai, I think I follow where you are going—there are only a few phrases that I have discovered and recorded changes to when attempting to reach the consciousness of the unliving—of ghosts and—uh—other spiritual anomalies."

The Hoxian glanced at the symbols she traced out a similar, smaller spell circle, nodding in agreement to her invitation but choosing once again not to elaborate on what he knew of the landscape of displaced souls beyond hungry, restless ghosts.

He recognized the Monite, of course, arching a slim brow at her prodigium choices while he stepped out of her way, setting down his bag near one of the raised stone coffins that the room had been made to contain. If he lingered for a moment on the smudge of chalk dust on her face with curiosity or amusement, he chose not to say anything, reminded of the temporary markings in dark volcanic ash made in intricate patterns—patterns that were similar but different from the more permanent Hexxos tattoos—on the living bodies of Vessels when they were prepared for their final offering, part of the intricate ceremony before they were bound and isolated with the no less decorated raen who would be making the journey of their soul from one body to the next.

He blinked, slowly, realizing he was being asked to sit, "—oh. Zj—yes. Uh-book? Eh-bick? What does that word mean?" Ezre couldn't help but ask, looking away while he slipped off his uncomfortable Brunnhold-issued shoes first, however, tugging at wool socks and neatly folding the (in his opinion) hideously unnecessary spats until he curled toes against very frigid stone with a sigh. He also rebelliously but with well-practiced modesty untucked his shirt from the tailored hem of his trousers with a slow stretch to feel more comfortable in less confined fashion before settling into the plot across from Nkemi, hardly flinching at the cold temperature of the floor. In his homeland, most floors were warmed by clever piping supplied by the hearth or by the natural heat that ran beneath the volcano-filled Kingdom, but every Hoxian spent much of their childhood growing accustomed to the inescapable chill somehow.

He brought the bottoms of his feet together instead of sitting cross-legged, folding his body with ease and straightening his shoulders to align his spine much like the Mugrobi prefect did, inked fingers folding together in the space created by the shape of his legs. The Hoxian took a few moments in similar fashion, centering himself with deep breaths, gathering his field like one would draw close under a comfortable blanket.

Distractions were put aside with the exhale, intentions brought into his tattooed chest with the inhale.

Ezre nodded when he was ready.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

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

Nkemi sat centered on the floor, the line of her back straight, knees bent, and her feet tucked beneath them; if the damp rim of her boots from the trudge through the damp ground outside bothered her, she gave no sign of it.

“Ub means guide, Ezrah-shi,” Nkemi said with a grin for Ezrah, no less cheerful cross-legged on the cold crypt floor than she had been anywhere else. “Ubuq translates to my guide.” It was not done, at home, to speak Mugrobi to outsiders, even in a small, casual way such as this; but here, in this strange, cold place, with so few she could speak Mugrobi to and be understood – Nkemi had found that the words tasted like home; that they warmed her, just a little bit, even if they were on her own tongue, even if to hear them reflected back was strange, more like through a prism than a mirror. Speaking Mugrobi warmed her; Ezrah’s careful attempts, one after another, bounced that warmth back and forth between shallow planes of glass, and sent it washing over her.

Ghosts, Ezrah had said, and other spiritual anomalies.

Nkemi took a deep breath, and waded forward into the unknown. She nodded, too, along with Ezrah.

Nkemi began the invocation; her voice was high and soft and clear, calling to the mona with a precision and an ease of long practice. It was the same invocation she had offered them in the classroom; it echoed softly through the cavern, rippling around itself at the edges, not bouncing back, quite, but fluttering.

Her field was warm and soft in the air around her; the balance of the clairvoyant and static mona shifted, within it. There was no fight, no conflict between them, no more than the waves in the ocean could battle one another; it was merely that the clairvoyant mona ascended, cresting, and the static mona made space, as if dipping down low into the trough of the wave. It was a familiar balance, as effortless as the straight line of Nkemi’s back.

When Ezrah’s voice joined her, Nkemi made space for it. They followed one another through the spell; she led him through the invocation, and they chanted, together, the clauses which followed. At the amandation, Nkemi held back – she did not stop the spell, but she breathed in, deep, and let Ezrah go ahead; and then she plunged in after him, unafraid, finding the lines of the espial he drew with his words and reciting them alongside him.

The clairvoyant mona in their belike fields shifted etheric together; the strength of the spell built between their words, and Nkemi felt it – something – different.

Cold. It shivered down her spine and through all her nerve endings. It tingled; it ached in the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands. It rattled through her teeth, and rang in her ears:

cold

The clairvoyant portion of the spell broke off; the ley channel was held open, just the tiniest fraction, and it was Nkemi’s voice alone which journeyed onward into the static portion of the spell. Her fingers brushed the ink, and set the drops of it down on the parchment before her; she chanted, and her field shifted, too; the clairvoyant mona sunk down, slowly, making space, and it was the static mona that tingled and spread outward – their turn, now, to crest, in an easy balance.

cold

These words were familiar; these words she had chanted just the same in the room above, in the rooms that had once been hers, in the prefect offices, before a judge, before professors, before her mentor – alone – alone – alone –

COLD

Nkemi kept on; she did not brail.

Rolls

Clairvoyant spell by Nkemi: SidekickBOTToday at 2:04 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (5) = 5
Clairvoyant spell by Ezre: @Muse :game_die:
Result: 1d6 (3)
Total: 3
Static spell by Nkemi: SidekickBOTToday at 2:05 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Roll to determine extent of backlash/failure: SidekickBOTToday at 2:05 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (3) = 3

[Ezre Vks]

Brunnhold Campus

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

"Ub." Ezre handled the syllable with gentle care, testing it with a soft curiosity a few more times, even adding the personal reference and drawing out the ubuq, before offering its counterpart, "Vjer'a in Deftung. That is my title within the Hexxos and it means guide. Way finder. Path lighter."

The Hoxian left the word there like a few coins in an alms box, unashamed by the exchange of languages, if only because his native tongue was fading in his homeland and it was his treasure to share. Almost a memory, clung to by temple children like himself, kept alive by candlelight and warm hands on cold corpses. There was a generosity in the sharing, and the dark-haired student heard it in Nkemi's voice and saw it warm her face like the first sunrise after winter equinox. He kept his smile, too, though it was much more subdued.

Closing his eyes for the invocation, Ezre listened, letting his body settle against chilled stone and feeling his center of gravity coalesce into almost a tangible sensation there in the mingling of their belike, complementary fields. Static mona felt very different from the physical mona he'd grown used to in Lilanee's company, though it wasn't unpleasant in their vicinity. Her words were familiar and it was simple to join her in chorus, the student's voice soft-spoken even in casting, though not with hesitance so much as deference and respect. He was a steady creature, reliable like the mountains of his home, and as Nkemi made space for him, stepped aside in her casting for him to request for the opening of the lines of Clairvoyant communication, he raised his voice in confidence.

The Monite phrases weren't entirely unfamiliar in his espial, for he was still reaching out for a consciousness, for a mind, even if he wasn't entirely sure whether it was true sentience or not. The Mugrobi prefect would be able to easily make out what changes he made for looking for a ghostly witness: even if the differences were subtle, asking the mona to search the in-between places—

He'd met the dark, writhing shadow of this particular ghost before. He'd seen its face, heard its voice, touched the entropic decay of its trapped, lingering existence.

—Ezre felt their fields come into focus, felt the response of the mona around them, and while his eyes were still closed, mind traveling the dark stone path toward the antechamber and the stairs, through the locked gate, he also felt the ripple of a strange sensation. He knew what it was, both because he'd experienced it in casting before and because he'd felt it—he'd felt it since birth, really—in the field of his raen mother and in the fields of others like her. Whatever it was, he had no name for it, and he wasn't even sure if it meant things had gone wrong. Or if, perhaps, they'd gone too right.

Glancing downward, the pair pressed back, pressed forward, pressed through with the Mugrobi woman's fingers moving, dribbling ink onto paper. The Hoxian grasped at where the mona had taken their minds, mentally holding onto the slippery darkness that wasn't quite a vestibule, that wasn't quite enough room for either of them to take stable purchase within. It was like curling fingers into sand, and their consciousnesses sank in it, dredged through it, all while feeling it slip through their created espial elusively.

It wasn't purposeful obfuscation, however. Whatever they'd discovered wasn't a complete mind, didn't have any way of creating a proper vestibule, but it wasn't merely sapient like some animal, either.

It was cold this time—this creeping in of something uninvited, of something other—and the Hexxos Guide opened his eyes as it grew stronger, unsure as to whether it was an acknowledgment of connection or a warning of denial. Like a whisper in their ears, frozen flesh brushing against their cheeks, thoughts that weren't their own because they were too broken to even resemble anything coherent filtered into their shared consciousness like dripping dark dye into clear water.

Static mona shifted with Nkemi's spellwork, and Ezre's jaw clenched, chest tightening for a moment, watching as the ink refused to move with her request. It wasn't like her example lecture—something was wrong. Her words had sounded the same, she hadn't faltered, she hadn't brailed. Had he misspoken? Had he—

Listen.

Eyes widened. The ink dribbled onto the page spread, not in the sort of trail expected after what Nkemi had done in class, but instead curling back toward her fingertips. Pushed away, seeping into the paper as if dabbed at by another hand, spreading outward in a circle through the fibers, thick and dark. The chill clawed at them then, reaching through the already cold air and through layers of clothing, through flesh to dig through every nerve and claw at their bones.

Hungry, it felt the warmth it found there.

Lost, it saw their places.

Confused, it heard their minds.

The mona had made a decision.

The ghost whose broken existence they'd reached had been given an invitation it did not want to refuse.

I see you.

Ezre knew the voice and immediately began to cast, ignoring the ache in his teeth, the ringing in his ears that followed in the wake of the subprefect's apparent failure. Or something. Honestly, it didn't feel like it was her fault, not to his studious, too-supernaturally-aware senses. His spell work wasn't attempting to bolster their connection, to strengthen their tenuous, mysterious Clairvoyant success. He wasn't attempting to aid her Static contribution, either. Did he want to give their location away? Could the ghost they'd inexplicably found a shaky, uncomfortable, against-all-odds sort of link to even understand what was happening? Quite sure the ward he'd once cast so Lilanee and himself could walk away from what they'd found had long since faded, he was not sure if the professor's ghost knew it had the freedom to roam beyond once-locked halls it had been so feebly trapped in for gods only knew how long ... what if it knew where it was going?

The young Guide looked to Nkemi, no fear in his expression, unintimidated, and began to speak the Monite to turn their spell circle into a safe space, asking the mona to shield them from the same entropic force that still writhed like a moth attracted to flame through their shared consciousness, his field gathering from how it'd spread between them like a barrier. Ezre was not yet willing to break the connection, allowing them both to feel the truth of its existence even if they saw nothing; the Clairvoyant spell they'd cast together, they'd mixed with her specialized Static understanding, meant to trace along a map instead of provide them with other sorts of visions to interpret.

If magic had shown anything to anyone at all, it had apparently revealed their location to their unexpected supernatural witness.

Inked digits reached for a candle, setting it carefully on the paper between them, curling his spell. As he did so, the other two candles he'd lit snuffed out as if of their own accord and their ears popped, the tentative connection between the living and the not-quite-dead suddenly broken, but that lingering whisper of not-quite-normal weaving through their fields like smoke, like it had a sentience all its own just like the mona they'd come to know so well.

Whatever it was, it was as undeniably present. Perhaps even more so than any restless spirit.

Cupping tattooed hands around the candle as it flickered, the Hexxos Guide kept up his ward, whispering with a hint of both amusement and concern in the consonant-heavy lilt of his Deftung-shaped accent, "That did not go quite as planned, Nkchemi. Interesting."

RollsShow

Ezre's Ward:
Today at 12:10 PM
Result: 1d6 (5)
Total: 5
Success.

Ghost's Travel Time
(The higher the roll, the longer more mysterious wait.)
Today at 2:56 PM
Result: 1d6 (1)
Total: 1
Oooopsss. No one will be waiting long!

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

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

Nkemi nodded encouragingly as Ezrah tried the pronunciation again, smiling at him. It was not much better, but she very much appreciated the effort. He offered her a deftung word in response. Nkemi frowned, solemnly, listening intently. “Fuchera,” the Mugrobi repeated, very carefully, with a hopeful widening of her eyes. She bit down as hard as she could on the ch sound, teeth coming nearly all the way together. She could hear that it did not sound the same, not quite, but, too, she was not sure quite what the differences were.

Path lighter, Ezrah called himself, and Nkemi smiled. “Path lighter is a very good way to describe a guide.” She thought of the lanterns that led the way down from the surface into the canyons of Serkaih, which gleamed and glowed along the path, illuminating a way through the darkness. For the first time, consciously, Nkemi wondered who those lights were meant to be calling to, whether they were for the living – or for the dead?

She thought of this again as she sat in the circle, chanting steadily through the static portion of the cast. There was no audible hesitation in her voice, no lack of will, even as she watched the ink swirl around and spread out, untamed, the static mona in her field channeled not through the spell as intended, but through something else entirely.

Someone else?

Nkemi’s breath half-caught; she pressed on with the spell, steadily. Ezrah was already casting, unfamiliar words. Nkemi was coming to the end of the Static portion; she finished it, staring down at the wide circle of ink on the paper, and made her way into the second leybridge, meeting Ezrah’s gaze with her own, eyes wide. He looked as calm as he had before, unsmiling, but not frowning, not fearful. She heard nothing in his voice but calm, steady monite.

Nkemi curled the clairvoyant spell. The candles he had lit snuffed out, abruptly, thin trails of smoke curling through the air. She shook her head lightly; goosebumps had risen beneath the coats and scarves, all along her arms and up the back of her neck, prickling strangely over her head as well. Her teeth chattered, and the Mugrobi breathed out the cold, a hot cloud of breath into the air, drifting through between them and away.

Nkemi was silent on a moment. She was a scryer, but no clairvoyant conversationalist came out of Thul’Amat without knowing something of warding. As in the spell, there were words Ezrah used which she did not know, but she joined him where she did; the clairvoyant mona in her field lifted and rose, not frightened away by the failure of the spell, and the static mona rose around them too, adding to Ezrah’s barrier. She chanted, bit by bit, to strengthen the ward, to make this place safe, and she added her intent to his, even if she could only layer on top of him with her own understanding incomplete.

Ezre curled his spell; Nkemi followed suit.

Nkemi looked down at the wide circle of ink splayed out over the map. “No,” she said, looking back up at Ezrah, holding the bright light of the spell in her mind. “I have never seen this before,” Nkemi admitted. “Even when practicing on a more gifted caster, one who could sense my reaching out – never has anyone reached back.” A cold prickle ran through her once more, and Nkemi shivered, more reflexively than from any fear.

It was other words that the Mugrobi whispered then; not a spell, but a prayer. “Thank you, Hulali, for the darkness and the light,” her eyes closed, and she breathed in, deep and steady, “for Your Kindness lives in the shallow waters and the dark depths too; You shelter, and You guide, and You nourish, throughout the fullness of the cycle. Roa to Naulas to Roa again,” Nkemi’s breath clouded in the air, and she breathed in, deep, and exhaled out once more, eyes opening slowly. “and all waters are Your Mercy.”

Nkemi did not ask; what would come would come. She only held, the brightness of the spell still filling her mind, and waited.

Rolls

Casting Ward in Chorus: SidekickBOTToday at 6:02 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (5) = 5

[Ezre Vks]

Brunnhold Campus

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

Ezre closed his eyes for but a moment, the warmth he cupped against his scarred palm while holding the small candle flame steady crawling through his inked fingers, reaching up his arm, and tickling through nerves and ley lines on its way toward his spine. He might have even bowed his head for her prayer, choosing not to respond to her statement right away, choosing not to bring up his experiences in the East Garden right now while he upkept his ward and waited. Deftung followed Nkemi's words instead of Estuan, a consonant-filled song of a prayer that trailed into the cold air in a puff of steam. It was simple but no less expressive, and with the last quiet syllables, the Hexxos Guide attempted to stretch his senses, listening.

"This particular ghost—" The Hoxian paused for a slow inhale, opening his eyes, and his usually even tone of voice was hardly full of fear so much as a curious anticipation, "—can affect emotions. I believe it was a professor—or a magister—perhaps of perceptive conversation. I wish I knew its name. Should we ask?"

There was a hint of disappointment in the consonants ground out before his question, which ended with the flicker of a smirk that faded as quickly as it appeared.

"I have experienced something like this before—the reaching back." Ezre added quietly, calmly. This was not like the ghost in the water, the one that reached through his portable aquamancy cup, that wrapped fingers so tangibly around his wrist. This was not like any of the East Garden ghosts, but their awareness of not only each other but their surroundings, their very surprising level of sentience was no longer unprecedented, "It means it is powerful."

Admittedly, the young Guide tasted a bit of failure somewhere against the back of his tongue, but he placed no blame for it upon the subprefect. His enthusiasm had invited experimentation, and not every learning experience arrived from a resounding success. Thick lashes fluttered slowly, candlelight playing off delicate, tattooed features and casting its ruddy glow off the dark skin of the young woman opposite him as if she were carved of the smooth obsidian made when lava met the cold, sandy shores of Hox.

"It cannot stay up here. If it finds us."

The Hoxian whispered, his words a breathy cloud. He chose not to give details, but there was a finality implied by that expressive lack of expression on his face. It felt colder, suddenly, and the air that filled their nostrils and clawed into their lungs with their next breath smelled stale as if someone had opened a crypt nearby they shouldn't have.

Fortunately or not, for several moments, there was nothing. No more voice filtering through their thoughts. No more sounds but their own, but normal ones. Inhale. Exhale. Something dripping far off. Something crawling closer still. It was all still and normal for just long enough, too long.

Like the lingering trails of smoke from the two other wicks snuffed out by the curling of their spells, the shadows seemed to move and curl toward the edges of their spell circle. It was slow, gentle, curious, and the mona shifted, too. Just like that jittery feeling of falling, their stomachs turned and their ears rang as if under pressure. It wasn't the familiar caress of Clairvoyant or Static mona so much as the jarring, alien touch of something else, something more, made stranger still by the growing agitation caused by its very presence.

If entropy had a sensation, they both knew it now.

"These halls are familiar—it has been so long—useless though they are." The groan was like dragging something heavy over gravel, and the last sounds were more like a hiss of breath, "Where is my class? Where are my students? How did I get here? Why did you bring me here?"

The darkness beyond the warm glow of their remaining candle seemed to shimmer and move, rippling like water, and then the definite shape of a tall, elongated humanoid flowed into view, drawn to the light. The candlelight brought out sharp, galdori features, androgenous in their unsteady appearance, with whisps of hair and only the vague hints of decades-old Anaxi fashion neither of them had hopes of being sure of as foreigners. Like the little flame behind Ezre's cupped hands, the moment the fire caught their face, their eyes lit up like embers, bright and real. Sadness washed over the entire room, crashing into their consciousnesses as if they'd been on a boat now overturned, right into that dark water, and Ezre inhaled slowly, glancing up while he held his concentration, while he kept hold of those precious threads which wove the ward around them.

The ghost—for that is what it was—pressed close. Pressed closer. Trying to pour its incorporeal self into their spell circle, attracted to their light and warmth.

Denied, flickering in distress, it whined a sound so full of longing and sorrow that it could only be called pure hunger.

"Can you hear me? Will you listen?"

RollsShow

Hold That Ward
Today at 3:18 PM
Result: 1d6 (5)
Total: 5

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

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

Nkemi slipped softly into Mugrobi beneath Ezrah’s Deftung, offering quiet words to Hulali in his language of His people; in the cold which reached from the air and drifted all through the both of them, their two voices twined together, the consonants falling harsh between the soft, lilting vowels.

“Yes,” Nkemi said, quietly, in answer to Ezrah’s question. She looked at him, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. “All are worthy of the respect of their name and title.”

Nkemi was afraid. The fear was like the cold; it crawled, undaunted, through the heavy layers of her coats, and pricked up all the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. It whispered down her spine. It did not make her bow; it did not show on the prefect-stillness of her face. It was the fear of certainty, rather than uncertainty; it was the fear of knowing, rather than unknowing.

It cannot stay up here, Ezrah said, quiet and deliberate, and the words formed a soft puff of dusty white in the air before them.

Nkemi inclined her head. “Duty,” the prefect said, solemnly, meeting his gaze once more, “is not always kind.” Her breath, too, clouded the air before them, mingling with his in the sudden stale coldness.

Nkemi breathed it in, and sat, still, cross-legged and all upright, without the tiniest hint of relaxation in her posture. She watched the shades of gray and black of the shadows in the distance, the long cast of the flickering candlelight, color in the way that all light was color, and all dark the absence thereof. Without the darkness, Nkemi reminded herself, what good was the light?

So it was that Nkemi saw as the shadows began to crawl like smoke, as they shifted; so it was that she felt the edges of her field brush something strange, something which jittered through her teeth, which rang in her molars and echoed in her ears. It was the sound of crumbling rock; it was the sound of little stone-carved huts, once-delicate features ground away by the steady press of time; it was the sound of the Turga overflowing its banks, and houses washing away in an instant, there and then gone; it was the sound of her father, shuffling to the library in the midst of the night. All of it, Nkemi understood, inevitable.

Nkemi lifted her gaze when they spoke, and turned. She searched for them in the dark, and she found them as they drew closer, like a rippling shape which breathed in all the light Ezrah had so carefully made. Nkemi breathed in sharp, and she tasted the sadness – canyon paths, washed away; delicate carvings gone; voiceless snatches too quick to scream; the candle flame flickering beneath the door.

The Mugrobi shuddered; her eyes closed. She felt the upkeep of the spell start to slip, like a rope between her fingers; she held on tight, through the red flare of pain, and found she had bitten into her cheek. She grimaced; she ran her tongue once over the sore path, and, heedless, swallowed the blood; she did not dare spit onto the plot before them.

She felt them, close and closer. Nkemi lifted her gaze once more. They whined – desperate, Nkemi thought, and she ached in a place without a name.

“I hear you, honored one,” the prefect said. She shifted; she rose from her seat in an easy motion, through the heavy coats. She stood, straight upright; she bowed, deeply, at the waist, and rose once more. She did not flinch away, not from the sadness or the strangeness; she stood in the midst of it, and let it claw all around her.

“I am Nkemi pezre Nkese,” The prefect said, "and I will listen." Daughter of Nkese, she named herself, and it was her mother she thought of, easing open the library door and going inside – to soothe, Nkemi knew, where she could not heal, with a core of bright strength, as vivid as the sky on the desert’s edge. The rushing of the river brought with it water, too, to fill the wells and aquifers; as time eroded the features of the carvings and the cliff’s paths, so, too, did it erase the hurt of those losses.

“With whom do I speak?” Nkemi asked, calm and even, her chin raised and her eyes gleaming bright in the reflected light.

Rolls

Upkeep: SidekickBOTToday at 8:36 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (3) = 3

[Ezre Vks]

Brunnhold Campus

Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719

The dark-haired Guide glanced upward at the Mugrobi woman's riposte to his half-comment, half-question about the name of this particular ghost. Did it remember? How long had it been down here? Ezre blinked, nodding in agreement, sure that if this creature still knew it's name, then it was worth remembering, worth asking after. Someone should know it, should keep it as more than just an epitaph carved into stone down here below the Church of the Moon.

Admittedly, the ninth form student did not know what to expect from this particular ghost, for he had led Lilanee away, back the way they'd come through a gate they'd picked the lock of, back up stairs, and past a neglected ward. He had not felt capable of making a decision about the supernatural thing's safety all those months ago, at the start of this year, at the start of their friendship when he'd surprised her talking to herself in the crypts on Clock's Eve, when he'd leant her his coat, when he'd showed her the truth that first time.

Subprefect Nkemi pezre Nkese spoke of the burden of duty and the Vjer'a of the Hexxos understood that, too. Perhaps more than most nineteen-year-old galdori. Perhaps more than most adults of their kind, considering his origins, isolated and religious. One could perform their duty with kindness, one could walk with kindness in their intentions, but one's work was not always kind at all. A Carrier of the Dead was taught this early as an acolyte, for it was sometimes a difficult lesson to learn. Death made very little distinction—merciful and cruel at the same time, every time—and so also those called into the services given between the living and the dead often given very little consideration as one instead of the other.

Dark eyes shifted from the Mugrobi woman's face, glancing over her shoulder, watching the black beyond them both begin to shift and move and change as if the shadows themselves were alive. Delicate eyebrows rose, his breath hitched, that tide of sadness, cold and real stealing air from his lungs while he clung tightly to his concentration:

Ghosts were short, books said. Smaller, miniature like the little towns crafted for them and called phasmonia. This one was tall, lanky, and while it was strangely luminous, it was the absence of light that made it more obvious, the way it moved. Ghosts were hungry, books said. Missing the warmth of a body, craving the familiar, possession was an attempt to gain back what they knew instinctually they'd lost. This one just seemed unhappy, disillusioned, and perhaps more than just a little angry, pressing close, billowing around them with its heavy, entropic presence suddenly and without apology.

Ezre couldn't help himself, staring with grit teeth hidden behind the calmest of deadpan expressions, heart a wild flutter against the bones hidden beneath his tattooed chest.

It wanted to be heard.

The Hoxian remembered, recalling this one's words:

Seeking the truth is useless. It had said, and, Don't leave me! I have so much to teach!

Did it even really know what it was saying? The ghosts of Brunnhold's East Garden weren't just sapient, but sentient. Perhaps too much of what he'd been taught had, indeed, been wrong.

Your lessons. They are empty. Ezre hadn't forgotten those words, either.

He thought of how he'd led Lilanee away—perhaps he'd even been a little smug in the aura of her fear, bright as it'd been in her field—but this time he felt a twinge of regret. He'd made this choice, just as he had on Clock's Eve, as a question, already aware of the answer. Where the Hessean he admittedly cared about had responded with a strange mixture of curiosity and terror, this Mugrobi woman hardly ignorant of her own fear responded with an unexpected level of calm.

Nkemi moved, shifting in front of him, and the young Guide remembered to breathe. He didn't stop her, realizing she was standing, the Mugrobi law enforcement officer rose gracefully and bowed with respect usually only reserved for the living. Inked fingers curled around the candle, dribbling wax over tawny skin without concern, and, with only a slight ringing beginning to twinkle like tiny bells in his ears from the concentration required of maintaining the Ward against the ghost before them both, he stood also.

"I am Ezre Vks, and I am here to listen, also." Guilt was gritty, sour, and he swallowed it with his surprise.

As if someone had pulled a stack of books from beneath someone's seat in the library, the moment the pair both gave the dark, restless spirit their full attention, the moment they'd both bobbed in greeting and respect, the thing seemed to shrink—swiftly and noticeably. It was, had either of them actually been able to focus on it in the glow of a single candle while it swayed and fidgeted, while it flowed and ebbed as if in a constant state of being washed away and then gathered up again, just about their heights all of a sudden instead of how tall and imposing it had felt just a few rapid heartbeats before. For a moment, just as the subprefect's breath curled into the darkness, bent just a little by the unseen ward, there was silence.

As if the ghost didn't understand, or at least didn't expect, the question.

"Oh, sweet children, I am Everus. Everus Verona." The voice was softer, but more distant. That same darkness writhing at the edges of the ward that encompassed their spell circle as if looking for a weak point, searching for entry, despite how suddenly calm the ghost sounded in the ruddy light of their attentions, warmed as it was by a single flame, "Of course you haven't heard my name. My real name is gone—gone—do you know it? Can you find it? It was death that broke my vow of silence. It has been too long. Why did you bring me here, Nkemi pezre Nkese and Ezre Vks?"

"It was a magical accident, an experiment, really, Everus." He had no reason to lie, especially not to someone who revealed themselves of the Everine. Sweat trickling between tattooed shoulders despite the frigid air, he held the hungry, restless spirit at bay, "If you are glad to be here, however—"

"—glad? I am cold. You look so warm—why can't I be warm? Let me closer so I can whisper to you, so no one else hears. So no one knows I remembered how to speak. Let me closer so I can be warm. I was buried with my truth, you know. That is why they locked those doors. Do you want it?"

"We purposefully broke into a locked and otherwise unmarked section of the Crypts a level below this one. Halls had been bricked over to hide them. There was a ward at the foot of the stairs. Now I understand." The Hoxian whispered by way of explanation for Nkemi. His dark eyes stayed on the spiritual anomaly before them, disturbed by its sentience, uncomfortable with its promises, "We will hear your truth and share it instead. Let us help you rest."

"There is no rest for me, children. Don't lie to me. If I pass unto you this truth, what becomes of me? Will you leave me here? Will you lead me back there? Will I disappear, finally? Let me closer—hold my hand—"