[M] Blood & Magic [Lars]

Just more damn laundry.

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The Six Kingdom's most prestigious university and the de facto cultural capital of Anaxas.

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Ezre Vks
Posts: 285
Joined: Tue Mar 05, 2019 11:02 am
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Race: Galdor
Location: Brunnhold, Anaxas
: better with the dead
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Thu Mar 07, 2019 3:24 pm

The Laundries
13th of Ophus, 2718 | Very Late
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Snow fell heavily in thick, fat flakes over all of campus, whispering against the window and sighing through the darkness outside. Phosphor lights that lined the sidewalks shone like starflies, illuminating the red stones that Brunnhold was famous for with a ruddy glow. Dressed simply in dark brown trousers that were far looser in fit than was Anaxi fashion and a simple pale shirt that wrapped and tied at his left side instead of buttoned, the young Hoxian had forgotten to roll up his sleeves.

Ezre sat cross-legged in the center of his hardwood floor, a small white porcelain bowl in front of him, the interior glazed black and filled with just a small bit of water. A circle of chalk, delineated by bones at each of the cardinal directions, defined his personal prodigium, and in the Hoxian's tattooed hand was a small knife. The fire in his humble stove crackled and snapped in the silence he'd intentionally created with his preparatory meditation, eyes closed and breathing slowed.

Two floors directly below him, supposedly poised over their textbook expectantly, one of his tutoring students, Oliver, had offered to be his witness for his experiment. Little did he know the younger boy had fallen asleep half an hour ago while Ezre was setting up his plot and centering himself with the mona. Dark eyes fluttered open and he lifted one hand over the bowl, fingers extended upward, beginning to speak Monite, his including clause naming Oliver as the recipient of his connection. The mona in his field shifted and seemed to fill the circle with its existence, suddenly tangible and warm like someone's breath against the back of his neck. His other hand rose with the knife, bringing the blade across his palm without letting the searing, sharp pain interrupt his casting even though his face scrunched in a wince.

Setting the knife to one side of the bowl, he held his bleeding hand over the water, watching the steady dribble spread and swirl in the liquid in reaction to his spellwork. The surface remained in motion as if the ripples were natural, and yet something felt wrong. It felt like he was speaking into the snow—muffled and without a returned echo from his witness. Like he was talking to himself, which wasn't entirely strange but in this situation was very out of context.

Perhaps Oliver's spellwork was faulty.

Reaching for the knife again, the line on his palm having already congealed and slowed, dribble of blood no longer dripping into the bowl. Another slice of his palm, deeper this time, and he hissed, watching the red flow freely again, tracing down the tendons of his wrist, some staining his sleeve and the rest landing in the water below his hand, droplets curling and dancing beneath the surface.

He began to cast again, gathering the mona to him with a renewed sense of focus by honing in on the sharp pain in his hand, words clear and inclusion clause reaching out in hopes to feel his connection with his pupil.

Again, the silence. This time, a more oppressive sensation of objection filled him while he spoke the last phrase of his spell, the mona clearly aware of what they must have perceived as a useless endeavor. Oliver had either forgotten their plan entirely or fallen asleep. Unreliable Anaxi. Ending his Monite with almost an apologetic turn of phrase, Ezre sighed and fell quiet, looking down into the bowl and for a moment staring at his own reflection—dark eyes and dark waters meeting. In the eddies of red, just for the briefest of heartbeats while the mona settled around him, he received his confirmation—a glimpse of one brown-haired teenager sprawled on his desk. It felt like waking from a dream, the kind of vision one saw but didn't really see, and faded just as quickly.

The Hoxian scowled, delicate lips turning downward, but there was a solemn gratitude in his heart for the mona's patience as well as their generosity in sharing with him the truth instead of disciplining him for his attempts. With a slow exhale of breath, he turned his palm and attempted to rub over the cuts with his other thumb, applying a pressure as if to assess how much he'd hurt himself. Perhaps he'd been overzealous with the second, aware that aquamancy was accurate and safe without the need to attempt what he did, though he hoped the use of his own living fluid would have perhaps increased the opportunity for detailed connection.

Tonight, he would have to leave that unanswered.

Tugging his sleeve, he pressed the hem against his palm and curled his fingers tightly. Wiping the small knife on the fabric of the same arm, tattooed fingers reached for the bowl and he stood, walking toward his door and carefully, quietly opening it to pad barefoot out in to the chilled dormitory hall. It was a late house, but in the upperclassman dorms, one never knew who would be awake. Treading toward the shared bathroom door, they were reaching for the handle only to have the door swing open unexpectedly, causing Ezre to shrink back in surprise, spilling their bowl of blood and water all over the front of their shirt.

Cecyl, his neighbor, emerged from the bath, towel around his neck instead of where it should have been, flushed from the heat of washing, stupid grin on his face as if he hardly expected another soul to be awake. Green eyes widened at the Hoxian when he met the shorter student's dark gaze.

There was an awkward silence, two young men both caught unawares and unguarded. It was the other student who sputtered almost too loudly instead of the still-composed Ezre,

"Oh, clocking hell. I'm sorry—I—uh—woah—it's a little late for painting, Ez." The older young man seemed to make the assumption that the stains that were spreading into the pale cotton of Ezre's shirt was something other than blood, thank the Circle. To be more cautious, he tucked his injured hand behind his back before answering quietly,

"Creativity rarely happens when we wish it." Keeping his eyes on Cecyl's face in the obviously unnecessary conversation, he bobbed his head and moved to slip past his fellow student into the bathroom instead, "I have finished now, however."

"You'll have to show me your painting sometime."

"ZjaiYes."

Closing the door to the shared bathroom behind him, Ezre took in the damages with displeasure. This wouldn't do. Rinsing the bowl thoroughly, he decided it was simply something he'd have to take care of himself. There was no need to raise alarm among those who did laundry, passives entirely unnecessary for this simple task, though he would need to find his way to the laundries. He'd been there before, comfortable with the odd looks often given to the young galdor who knew how to rinse his own clothes. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do, given it was winter break and he wasn't yet tired. Perhaps he should knock on Oliver's door on the way down—no. His opinion on the younger student's irresponsibilities would not have mattered.

Stubborn Anaxi could benefit from being more self sufficient, he'd decided, but they had no interest in changing.

Returning to his dorm and removing his shirt to change into another, he paused to check on his hand and wrap it in a bandage from his desk, aware that any washing he was about to do would sting the two parallel lines he'd gauged into his own palm for the sake of furthering his studies. Folding up his stained shirt and putting on a few extra layers, Ezre glanced out his window at the thick blanket of white with the hint of a nostalgic sort of smile. He could pretend for the short walk from the upperclassman dormitories to the laundries near the Passive Ward pretend he was home in the frozen north.

Outside was far below freezing, but the Hoxian was no stranger to frigid temperatures. He cut a small, lone figure this late in the night, leaving deep impressions in the several inches of snow as he trudged through it, humming an old, familiar worship tune while flakes melted in his dark hair and kissed his cheeks.

It wasn't as though the rooms for washing clothes were forbidden to faculty, staff, or students. It was simply that very few felt compelled to do the work themselves.

Ezre was one of those few.

Watching the last of his breath dissolve like some spirit into the dark, he checked the doors—they were open, of course, passive shifts rotating all thirty hours of the Vitan day—and wordlessly stepped inside. Quietly requesting Bash's favor to find the laundries empty and between scheduled work times, the Hoxian was relieved to be greeted by relative silence, the foyer almost steamy hot from the kind of industrial-level busy Brunnhold's population kept the wash stations.

Bloodied shirt folded neatly against his narrow chest, Ezre made his way through the hall with purpose, as if he belonged there all along.
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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Sat Mar 09, 2019 5:15 pm

The Laundries
Ophus 13, 2718 Very Late
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A blank stare. Not uncommon on his face, but somehow different this time. Emptiness had its home in his steel-blue eyes, held a place he believed in all things, but the truth of the emptiness was that it was phony - a lie - fake - that it wasn't emptiness in his gaze at all, but entirely too much. Too many thoughts to process, too many words to say, too many feelings to bear. It was easy to just let it overwhelm and take control until everything tricked itself into feeling like nothing.

It was easier to manage, but a lie nonetheless. He wasn't a machine. He had thoughts and emotions just like the rest of them. They just happened to be... different.

It wasn't his shift, he had nowhere at all to be except for back in his shared, cramped dorm, but the passive found himself lingering in the laundries that late Ophus night. Hands red from the heat, scrubbing in the water at someone's shirt while his mind was entirely somewhere else. His hair was a wavy, curling mess from the steam, Hessean heritage unkind in the humidity of the laundries, golden locks darkened slightly from the moisture.

Not many of his fellow passives accompanied him so late, but still a few worked here and there, dealing with the smaller amount of laundry produced during winter break. He didn't interact with the majority, never really had - he had always been more of a silent figure since he'd arrived, and it was easier to fall into routine than attempt to make friends now. That being said, there were still those among his gated kind that he could handle, those that he could bear to hold a conversation with, those that ignored his stranger qualities and treated him like they would any other person.

Clover had never been one of them.

"Hey, Lars," called a passive named Andre from across the room, dragging the blonde's eyes upwards to meet him, "are you in here for long? I've still got quite a bit to do in here, but I really need something to eat before I pass out, man."

Gaze flicking back down to the steaming water, Lars replied quietly, "it's fine. He'll take care of it."

Andre was quick to leave, dropping everything he was doing in favor of finding a late-night meal. He probably hadn't gotten a chance to eat earlier; Lars couldn't really blame him for being hasty.

It was hard not to notice another person entering the laundries, especially when said person had a very noticeable difference from the rest of them - a field. Lars saw the student out of the corner of his eye, not bothering to lift his head quite yet, observing the Hoxian as he moved swiftly through the hall. He held a strange confidence with his presence there, strangely comfortable in the working area as if he was used to being there. More interesting, though, was the way he held his dirty shirt close to his chest, the fabric stained red with what Lars knew to be blood.

He could tell. One of his talents, he supposed.

"Everything alright, sir?" finally he lifted his head, looking fully to the Hoxian with a neutral expression, "he can help with that, if you need."
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Ezre Vks
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Joined: Tue Mar 05, 2019 11:02 am
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: better with the dead
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Sat Mar 09, 2019 8:35 pm

The Laundries
13th of Ophus, 2718 | Very Late

Ezre was not the type of boy to startle, and while he hadn't entirely expected to be called out in the laundries, he was also aware that he was not a passive. His field was a stalwart thing, more like a solid old book in the dusty corner of the library as if he was already an old soul, as if the mona had known him far longer than he'd ever known it. There were servants in here, working on the garments and sheets and towels and napkins and gods only knew what else a school of this size made dirty during the less populated season of winter break, but, of course, the dark-haired student had underestimated the number of passive bodies that would have been busy at this hour.

Expression unreadable, almost blank save for the twitch of his lip, Ezre's dark gaze swept from attempting to choose a wash station to the face of the passive that spoke to him. Matter of factly, the Hoxian spoke with a quiet, firm tone, his Deftung accent lingering, "I seem to have gotten carried away with a spell. I do not wish to distract from your schedule. I thought this would be a quiet house. I was wrong."

Tilting the tattooed hand that he'd wrapped in a bandage hastily, he noted that it hadn't stopped bleeding. The boy swallowed, weighing his options, aware that the soaps would most likely irritate his wound unless he healed it himself—which perhaps he should have done already had he not weakly allowed himself to be disappointed in Oliver's laziness and his lack of conclusive results. He should have chosen a more reliable witness. He had allowed his excitement to distract him from making proper decisions, and here he was, awkwardly receiving the attentions of Brunnhold's already busy gated population.

Did he note the passive's strange way of referring to himself? Fluent in Estuan, it wasn't as though there was a language barrier. Ezre was perhaps in his own thoughts and just distant enough from those who were to be considered servants that the brief sentence wasn't enough to catch the boy's attention.

With what could only be described as a tone of resignation on his otherwise understated voice, Ezre offered his bloodied shirt with both hands to the passive, only asking him to carry it and not at all demanding him to wash it. In fact, his words implied he had absolutely no interest in requiring a servant to clean for him in this moment. Sure, he allowed his clothes to be laundered as part of his room and board, but this had been his own initiative and blood always raised questions when one hadn't spilled it on the Field of Practical Application instead, "I would prefer to wash it myself, thank you, but if you could hold it for a moment, I will tend to my cut hand before I pour lye right into the wound like a fool. Perhaps you can tell me which wash station is not in use?"

The Hoxian began to unwrap his hand, revealing not only more strange linework inked under his skin but also two parallel knife slices in his palm, delicate lips turning downward into a frown at the deeper cut that still oozed, that stung once exposed to the steamy air of the laundries.

A thoughtless mistake, but still minor enough injuries that he could heal himself.

Should he want to.

He'd follow if led by the passive, however, wanting to be shown somewhere with clean water and no other servants to disturb, fully expecting the blond man who was certainly older than himself to return his shirt and leave him in peace.
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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Thu Feb 06, 2020 7:05 pm

The Laundries
Ophus 13, 2718 Very Late
Lars straightened up once the student turned to look at him, drawing reddened hands from the water and leaving the shirts within it to soak. He stood, moving to approach the Hoxian now that he had gotten his attention, keeping just enough distance not to encroach on his personal space (or overwhelm himself with the boy's field). His explanations did little to ease the passive's confusion - he had sought the laundries at a quiet hour purposefully, so as not to disturb the gated population working there? What could the student possibly want, then? To fix his bloodied shirt himself?

His gaze was drawn to the student's hastily bandaged hand, head tilting a bit at the sight of it. The blood was his own, then, and perhaps not the result of some fight. The shirt was held out to him, then, and Lars reached out to accept it immediately, assuming at first that the boy had simply changed his mind. It was only proper, after all, for a servant to wash it for him - it would be a waste of a galdor's time to do so himself, but then the Hoxian continued and dismissed that thought.

Watching him begin to unwrap his injured hand, Lars replied quietly, "of course, sir. There's an empty station right this way."

The servant was curious, of course, about the strange markings alongside the cuts he'd seen on the student's hand, but thought it was best not to wonder, not to ask. It was not his business what a student did with themselves, he was simply here to clean up after them when they were done. He spared only the smallest glance downward to the shirt in his hands, the blood seeping through the fabric, before blue eyes were shifting forward again as he led the student across the room.

Lars brought him to the station farthest from the ones in use, away from prying eyes and ears or whatever else the Hoxian was worried about. He did not hand the shirt back over just yet, not wanting to fill the student's hands when he was wanting to clean his hand first, and stood to the side of the wash station idly.

"He can find more bandages for you, sir, if you're in need," offered the blonde, "you're sure that you don't want him to wash this for you? It is not an issue, sir."
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Ezre Vks
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: better with the dead
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Mon Feb 10, 2020 3:20 pm

The Laundries
13th of Ophus, 2718 | Very Late

Of course the gated servant looked; Ezre couldn't help but notice the taller, paler passive's bright eyes drift from his tattooed face downward to the bloodied shirt he held and the oozing cut that was obvious on his scarred palm. He blinked, arching a slim brow at the curiosity clearly written into the older man's body posture, though that studious interest in behavior didn't even flicker across the Hoxian's otherwise unexpressive face.

Following to a quiet corner where his airy but obvious field, laden as it was with his Clairvoyant monic signature, the dark-haired student noted how his blue-uniformed guide did not immediately hand over his shirt nor step any closer than necessary. The passive offered again to do his washing, and as if he had no response at all, inked fingers turned on the tap and Ezre ran water over the cut in his palm, not wincing but hissing a sharp breath at the sting.

Wordlessly, he sifted through his options, so careful with his words that he said nothing for several moments. Instead, he ran a thumb ran over split flesh, biting his lip while he judged just how foolish he'd been in his experiment before exhaling slowly through his nose,

"A fresh bandage would be most generous, please." Ezre measured his cadence carefully, waiting there at the sink while the gated servant went to fetch a suitable form of first aid that was probably more effective than his improvised use of clothing. He met the passive's pale gaze briefly before looking down at his stained clothes, inked fingers accepting what had been brought to him without even the flicker of a smile. There was no shame in his expression or his tone of voice, no sign of fear or compelling need for secrecy. He gave no excuse for his injury unless asked, simply reserving his right to experiment with magic as he saw fit without need for explanation to someone who wouldn't have understood anyway—would he?

Did living a life so close to magical academia give Brunnhold's gated population a knowledge they wouldn't normally possess? Probably not. In Hox, he'd hardly even see a passive—their work was done so much out of sight and out of mind that it was almost as though they didn't exist at all. Perhaps there were too many Hoxians who wished that were the truth, though the Hexxos Acolyte admittedly didn't quite understand what the revulsion was for, cursed or forsaken or mistaken though everyone claimed passives to be.

Dangerous, too, he'd heard, given their unpredictable diablerie, but this one seemed safe enough. Then again, given how the Crypts showed signs of Brunnhold's use of warding left to be forgotten, perhaps the ancient and prestigious school had left more to time-worn decay than it should have, including its protective boundaries.

Shifting his attention to his hand, he watched fresh red seep into the line he'd carved into his own palm, wrapping it tightly and accepting assistance in trimming the excess should the taller blond offer.

"I will allow you to wash that for me, zjai, though I admit I usually do such things myself. It is probably for the best," He waggled inked fingers in response, feeling the taut sting of objection from his hand, "I do not want to interrupt your duties—Mister—sir—uh—anyway. I do not wish for you to receive discipline due to my own careless spellwork."

He tilted his head toward his shirt and stepped aside, attention shifting for a clench of his jaw toward his palm. The bandage was not stained so perhaps he'd actually managed to stave off the bleeding. It would be quite the scab, he supposed.

"If you have somewhere else to be, I am fine caring for my own belongings."
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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Wed Feb 12, 2020 6:50 pm

The Laundries
Ophus 13, 2718 Very Late
The servant was silent as he watched the student turn on the water and allow it to run over his bloodied hand. He shouldn't stare, he thought, but blue eyes remained focused in the Hoxian's direction, moving over his hands beneath the water and the red blood that was washed away. It wouldn't have been done with a kitchen knife, considering they had the passive population to make their food, but that left him to wonder why (and how) exactly a student would have sliced open his palm at this house.

As soon as he heard the boy's response, Lars dipped his head in acknowledgement, moving away from the wash station to go and fetch him a fresh roll of bandages. The dirtied shirt was kept to his side, the passive walking through the laundries until he found the proper storage and retrieved the bandages - it wasn't all that uncommon to need them, in here, what with how easy it was to burn yourself. More often, though, your hands simply pruned and dried out for days on end, until you came right back to the laundries to prune them again. The appearance (and comfort) of a servant's hands didn't matter, of course, so long as the work was done.

He returned soon after he'd left, coming to stand at the edge of the wash station to hand over the bandages - he would have helped the student wrap his hand, of course, but he seemed to be doing well enough on his own, and so Lars left it alone until he could help him trim from the roll and be done with it. The unused bandages were set to the side - he could return those to storage once the student was finished - and then Lars' attention was shifted back to the student's face, listening to him speak and then nodding his head again.

"It's no issue, sir," he began, moving closer to the station and dropping a blue gaze to the water, "he is here by his own choice; you aren't interrupting his duties."

Resisting the urge to thank the student for his consideration (because really, what kind of student actually cared if their actions led to a passive's punishment?), Lars allowed the water to run, making sure that it was cold and watching idly as it began to fill the station. He set the garment into the cool water, and turned his head slightly to glance at the young galdor.

"His name is Lars, sir," offered the servant, having noticed the student's hesitance before. He wondered what had been so unusual about it, to the boy - most students didn't care to call him anything at all, unless it was something demeaning, so perhaps it had just been a slip to try and give him a name. Still, he didn't wish to make it any more difficult for the Hoxian, if he wanted something to call him while he waited.

Lars turned his gaze back to the water, reaching his hands down into it to begin working at the bloodied shirt. Considering it hadn't dried into the fabric too much just yet, it wasn't as difficult as it could have been.

"This won't take him too long. Did you have anything else that needs to be cleaned, sir? He can leave the laundries, if there's a mess anywhere else."
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Ezre Vks
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: better with the dead
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Sat Feb 15, 2020 10:37 pm

The Laundries
13th of Ophus, 2718 | Very Late

Ezre was unsure as to whether the passive was offering his given name or his surname, and the dark-haired Hoxian seemed to consider his options carefully. Non-Hoxian naming conventions were sometimes so wildly different, but the added layer of the other man no longer being considered galdori made things seemingly more complicated. Did gated passives keep their family names? Did they want to? Were there Anaxi customs about their magicless offspring-turned-servants that he'd yet to learn. He wasn't even entirely sure if the older man was revealing a subtle sense of humor or if he was actually being honest when he'd said he was here in the laundries by his own choice.

What sort of free will did Brunnhold give their most unwanted children? Even less than their Hoxian counterparts, that much the Hexxos acolyte knew. While he'd hardly seen passives in Frecksat, he knew they lived and worked there. They were allowed to mingle, to form friendships amongst themselves, to live as families in relationship and support each other, but unlike Gior or Mugroba, passives were not allowed to reproduce. They did not need to carry on the shame in their family lineage that had led to their birth in the first place, or so his homeland's cultural beliefs dictated. They were not meant to be seen and hardly interacted with, but at the same time, not even Hoxians could entirely ignore their magicless offspring. Most just chose not to see them. Not to acknowledge them.

Ezre wasn't sure he believed any of it, not with what he'd come to learn about the cycle of life, the movement of souls from one to the next. Interacting with a few of them here in Anaxas had left him questioning so many things about how he'd been raised, but here was not a place to discuss them.

The calm, emotionless expression on the student's face softened at the edges, and while he didn't smile, he nodded, returning the exchange while he wrapped his hand carefully, wiggling tattooed fingers to decide whether or not he'd bound too tightly. The passive referred to himself instead of anyone else in the laundry room, and had the Hexxos acolyte not been in his third year living in this Kingdom, far from home, he would have struggled to follow the strange form of personal reference. While he'd never heard anyone else speak of themselves in such a fashion in Estuan, he assumed there was very little he knew about passivekind in Anaxas.

It wasn't as though he regularly held conversation with them. Not entirely on purpose so much as—

"I am Ezre Vks, Lars-vumash," The Hoxian began, dark eyes widening for a moment because he was aware of the Anaxi formalities, "but just Ezre will do, please."

He didn't want a title and didn't give further details about his person, aware that he'd had to make a distinction here that he didn't in his homeland. He understood that his surname was more a collection of sounds than an actual word, ancient and strong, and he wasn't interested in bringing up the finer points of non-gendered Hexxos existence with a passive who most likely had other things to worry about on their schedule.

Dark eyes drifted to watch the passive work with an almost critical curiosity in his methods at dealing with the fresh red stains. His jaw clenched and his eyebrows drew together for a moment as if he He did not seem displeased—by Bash, these passives seemed to know what they were doing!—but he was caught off-guard by the question,

"Do I? Tcch, that is a good question, to be honest—" Consonants were dragged through his teeth in thought as Ezre drifted backwards in time in his mind, tracing back his steps into his dorm room, "—I am not sure, actually, whether or not my magical experiment spilled blood on more than just my clothing, I—it was—I was overzealous, though I let my emotions get the better of me."

There was a hint of chagrin beneath the well-honed rhakor, the dark-haired student's composure so very impeccable in comparison to his Anaxi peers. These were unnecessary confessions to a servant, but the Hexxos acolyte did not feel the need to press too hard against social boundaries while someone else had offered to handle his soiled clothes. Still, he did consider things carefully, falling quiet for several moments instead of choosing to directly answer the question. He watched the red stains of his own blood seep away from his shirt and disappear like stray thoughts into the cool water before looking back up to Lars, voice even, almost conspiratory,

"So long as my osta has not spilled my aquamancy equipment all over the rug in my absence, there should not be much of a mess, but—"

There was the flicker of a smile, bright and brief, before the Hoxian bit his lip, trying to decide. The servant had said he was in the laundries of his own accord. Were they given free time? Did he have leisure? And yet, Ezre had given him work to do. The Hexxos cleared his throat with a quiet noise, shrugging, "—it is a late house and perhaps I will not draw too much attention to my questionable Clairvoyant experiments if you accompany me. Usually, I clean up after myself, and I am afraid if you follow me to my dormitory, you will find yourself distracted by the feral pigs that are my suite mates."

Perhaps he would offer the other man tea for being such an interruption. Perhaps that would be overstepping some rule of Brunnhold servitude. Perhaps he wasn't sure he cared,

"I do not know how they plan to function outside of their studies, to be honest, though I am sure I do not have to make such observations to you."

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Lars
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Mon Mar 23, 2020 12:48 pm

The Laundries
Ophus 13, 2718 Very Late
L
ars-vumash. Clueless was the passive as to what the word meant, tacked onto his name like a title, or a surname, or something else that he had not offered out to the student and had expected, even less, to receive. He could only hope that it was not a sign of disrespect that he did not understand, but it would not have been the first time that the blond was lost on derogatory comments. In any case, his hands continued to work, and he did not notice the widening of the student's dark eyes to know if the word was unusual to him, too, or not. He dipped his head in a small sign of respect, glancing away from his task for just a moment to offer, quietly, "of course, Ezre."

The name was foreign on his tongue, but the sounds came out right, he supposed. It might not have been the most common of names around Brunnhold, or in Anaxas as a whole (he imagined), but he had encountered stranger. He found himself idly curious as to the meaning behind the name, but then, he hadn't the faintest of ideas of what his own name might have meant either. Things that did not matter, so long as the world was given something to call you. He could not imagine that, twenty six years ago, his parents had sat down and had a long, meaningful conversation concerning his name. It was one of many little things that did not matter, so long as the world was given something to call you.

He could feel the Hoxian's gaze watching his hands as they scrubbed. As promised, the servant worked quickly. He did not rush, and he did not put anything less than his best into it, but it did not require his full attention. It was not as often that he was given the task of pulling blood from fabrics, but it was still something that he knew well, something that his calloused hands could glide through without much thought, and do so quite efficiently. All this to say, Lars had no issue in following the boy's words, and allowed himself to look over at the mention of an osta possibly wandering near his aquamancy equipment.

And there was a smile, though it was brief and fled so quickly from Ezre's face that Lars was left to wonder if he had ever seen it at all. Compared to many of the students the passive had interacted with, this one seemed more like himself, though he did not dare to assume anything else comparable between a student and a servant. This one simply seemed quieter, but not in the way that most people were quiet. It was not a shyness that he felt radiated from the Hoxian, but a calmness. He could relate, somewhat, to that.

"He understands, s -" ah, but he had said only to call him Ezre. It was second nature to use titles and nothing else. One could not have a passive assuming such closeness as to use a first name, could they? And yet the boy had given his own, and expected for him to use it. "- Ezre. He will accompany you. He is not unused to the ways of less-than-pristine dorms, no, but he would not mind tidying up after your roommates as well, if that would help."

It was not like he had anything else of importance to do. He was meant to be sleeping at this hour, but he could not imagine that his patron would be upset with him for working through the later houses, so long as he was still up and ready to get back to it in the morning. If cleaning up the rest of his dorm would aid in Ezre's concentration and prevent further accidents such as the bloodied shirt in his hands, then he could easily provide assistance.

Lars did not waste any more of the student's time, finishing with the garment beneath the water and then laying it over the side of the basin for just a moment. A bony hand reached down to empty it, and slowly did the water drain, a swirl of diluted red. Light eyes flicked over to the student, as hollow as the rest of his expression.

"If you lead the way, Ezre, he will follow."

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