He could have lived off-campus, of course, for there was no shortage of flats to rent in the Stacks, but he'd selfishly wanted to live closer to the Library and the Church of the Moon with all of its interesting Crypts underneath. Besides, he had no interest in being a financial burden on his family or his order, even if, as galdori with ancient connections, the expense was truly minimal. He already knew he would be wanting to travel again for post-graduate studies, and the dark-haired boy was certain his parents would appreciate his frugal choices now.
It was already sweltering and the sun had just risen, but the campus was mostly still this early before the breakfast hour as Ezre carried his basket along a now-familiar path. There were a few other ambitious students on their way to the Gyre (where he would be headed afterward) or jogging in groups, but it was the last summer weekend before classes began and thus it was otherwise a peaceful one where the Hoxian could be lost in his own thoughts about the East Garden and ghosts, about a particular Hessean, about trusting strangers, and about how the last half of his ninth year would unfold academically.
To say that the passive servants on campus had gotten used to his strange sense of self-discipline over past three years since his transfer from Frecksat would probably have been a putting things lightly: most of them begrudged the boy’s company just as much as they begrudged the airy brush of his Clairvoyant-laden field, though he made it a point to stay out of their way and not make useless, idle conversation. He’d learned the shifts—split into three ten-hour sections—and usually attempted to do his washing in between the ending of one and the beginning of another.
As if it just could not be any hotter before the sweltering temperatures of Yaris hit, the steam-infused laundry house was an assault on the northern temple boy’s entire being. The last of the linens for were being hung to dry and in another room, Ezre was quite sure uniforms were being ironed and pressed in order to be ready for students in time for classes to begin. Setting his basket down and hovering in a corner to wait for an open station once one of the blue-clad, sweaty, and admittedly tired-looking passive servants was finished, the dark-haired boy nodded and bowed at a couple of glances warily cast his way, his indectal field tucked close and his Hexxos tattoos impossible to hide.
It might have been his very presence upset the saatrilit. village culture in Deftung, in this context the passive work culture of the moment in the laundries, and he would have apologized if he at all felt it necessary to do so to the nonmagical children of galdorkind. He noted a few fell out of rhythm, and it was while he was watching one of the great wringing machines do its work, the temple-born galdor still fascinated by Anaxi industry and invention, that he didn’t notice two other servants staring as they walked by with a cart of wet linens ready for hanging. One misstepped, causing the other to stumble, and soon there was a tangle of limbs and a pile of heavy, still-warm sheets all over the floor as well as himself, the small-statured Hoxian comically bowled over by fabric and the hard edge of a sturdy cart.
He heard muffled voices, one of which was his own muttering in Deftung while he attempted to climb his way out of the wet pile. Once mostly uncovered and mobile, the tattooed student began to attempt to dig everyone else free without concern for who was at fault or what their social status might have been, aware that most of his laundry was still buried under clean, wet sheets,
“I am sorry for the distraction from your work. Here—let me just—assist—”