Brunnhold Campus
Late Afternoon on the 34th of Dentis, 2719
Ezre's face tightened in thought. It was not a scowl of disapproval or objection so much as an obvious processing of Nkemi's opinion, a weighing of her words. He wanted to make sure his response was just as articulate, was measured against what had been discovered over the centuries as well as what he'd experienced in his short life. He nodded first, a firm acknowledgement that Nkemi pezre Nkese was welcome to her own opinion, that her thoughts on lingering souls were valid, but his lips formed a thinner line, pressing against the ink that trailed downward from the bottom curve,
"If it is not meant to happen—if the flow of souls was not meant to be broken, then it matters because it is a sign something is wrong." A tattooed hand came to rest over the thinner, paler green wool of his Brunnhold uniform shirt, fingers brushing over those damn uncomfortable suspenders when he pressed his palm to his heart, "Blood flows in a cycle, too, and when that flow is interrupted, is that not a sign of injury? So, in the same way my Order believes restless spirits and supernatural phenomena represent some kind of wound, but of Vita itself. That does not mean those who end up where they do not belong are the problem, however. They are unfortunate victims."
The Hoxian looked away as if to hide both the emotions such admission brought to the surface of his thoughts like steam rising above the magma-warmed waters of a hot spring pool in the snow and the truth that there was more to the world of the supernatural than just mere ghosts. His mother was not a ghost, after all. The edges of his eyes narrowed and he exhaled a long, slow breath through his teeth, far too aware that the young Mugrobi woman shivering next to him was a member of law enforcement and probably far better trained at reading the expressions of those around her than the Hexxos Guide could ever hope to be. His inhale was a little frayed at the edges, the airy particles of his field drawing closer but not in a reflex of shame or fear so much as just a momentary need for comfort.
Gently, he shifted the subject for a moment, attempting to dam the stream so that his mind would settle, so that he could be careful not to let the words inside spill over. There were still secrets to be kept, secrets that he had shared before but ones he still knew he needed to be a proper guardian of in spite of his enthusiasm, in spite of the very cheerful encouragement Nkemi seemed to be.
He listened to her description of the relationship between her home of Dkanat and the phasmonia of Serkaih, appreciating the distracting imagery of it all. He didn't smile, but his expression softened, loosened, and warmed, the Carrier of the Dead quite comforted by the ideas of memories kept and offered, of family members passing those memories from one generation to the next. The child of a raen perhaps appreciated that the most, though he was doing his best not to give all of himself away so easily to a stranger, no matter how belike some parts of their lives may have been.
Although, if he thought he'd found his resolution there, if he thought he'd found some safe place to stand, he'd not been prepared for her shared story.
Dark eyes wide, unaware that he held his breath through parts of it all until a puffed cloud of heat blurred his vision in a sudden exhale, Ezre listened again, listened deeper, weaving together the unspoken parts of Nkemi's story that it seemed as though she herself perhaps wasn't entirely aware of. At least, from his now experienced perspective, the truth that was left unsaid sounded very much like possession.
She smiled at me, the Mugrobi prefect said so brightly, and I was not afraid.
Ezre understood in a way that the Hoxian felt incapable of articulating, unable to entirely contain the hues of curiosity and shades of empathy from staining through his rhakor into their mingled fields. He hummed a few consonants again, sounds of thought and interest, and nodded expressively, quiet voice full of far more warmth than the long stretch of shadows they'd paused in. The young Guide reached into his scratchy green trouser pocket with one hand while he indicated toward the Church doors with the other, inked fingers digging for a particular silver watch he'd had restored and leading the pair of them up the stairs,
"I have seen ghosts and other restless spirits more than once in my life with my own eyes, perhaps far too many times for the comfort of most. Some even here on Brunnhold's campus. I have talked to them, too, though not all of them make the same sense as they probably did in life, if any, and not all of them are interested in coexisting with those who live in their stead. It sounds as though you met one yourself, Nkemi." He opened the door with all the expected manners of a native Anaxi, holding one of the heavy, engraved and gilded things open against the wind to allow Nkemi to enter before him, passing to her the drowned man's watch from Ghost Town that day in Bethas, from that first day he met Tom Cooke in the most appropriate of places and gave him the gift of a name for what he was.
"Possession is a very strange, and probably varies from ghost to ghost and person to person. You were very young, and while I could be wrong, it sounds as though you made such contact. I have only experienced it once myself, last spring, when I met the restless spirit and his watch—" Ezre indicated the item, voice hushed in the decorated antechamber with its soft candles and sunlight streaming through stained glass, its iconic paintings and statues. He spoke without hesitation about things he knew as fact, but after passing on the pocket watch as if it was evidence of his own story, he paused, there in the entrance, to pay his quiet respects.
Prayer was easy, comfortable conversation, and he made it in his mind instead of with his lips. Did the gods hear? Did the mona? Surely, if they were part of all things, if zkratas was true, then of course they did.
While the Church of the Moon was built by Anaxi hands, it was still a tsvat to the Circle gods and he had a personal and spiritual duty to honor that.
Lifting his head again, he finished his thoughts easily, letting the warmth of the church seep into inked flesh so used to the chill outside, "—and it was definitely an exhausting experience. Even if it only lasted for an hour or less, even if I was forced to expel the ghost instead of have it leave my body willingly, I was unwell for sometime afterward."
The Hoxian's rhakor was stretched to its limits, for the young Guide left out whole sections of his story. Where Subprefect pezre Nkese had bared her whole memory of her supernatural moment, Ezre skillfully and delicately left out any mention of the not-Incumbent, of Tom Cooke, aware that there was no reason to explain raen, to implicate the not-galdor, to someone who didn't need to know of the existence of such things.
Unless she did.
Did she?
"The truth is always a good object of curiosity, and I can only respect the active seeking of it."
The Hexxos Guide was not yet sure, and so he led them both into the church proper, looking around for the veiled forms of Everine and breathing in the hints of incense and candlewax for the familiar comforts they were. Offering to take their time meandering alcoves, he did not rush them toward the various entrances to the Crypts nor make any particular choice about direction,
"I have heard that when Brunnhold was first built, so, too, was this Church of the Moon. Or, at least, its foundations. War and conflict around the red-walled fortress-turned-school most likely led to the destruction of the church many times, but the catacombs beneath are perhaps just as old. Like Serkaih, many Anaxi galdori memories are buried in mausoleums, though most of the time, it is with their bodies. Sometimes, lost souls linger. Much of their knowledge left behind is difficult to access, but I suppose I see that as a worthy challenge."