Dex turned away from her and stood stiff in front of the one dusty window as he expelled the story behind the scarf. The diffused light outlined the Symenestra in gold, and softened the hard lines of the grief he didn't want her to see. He was a ghost, and that gave her the distance to see him through a filter of professionalism. She experienced his pain through the hitch in his voice and the trembling of his shoulders, but wasn't part of it.
Instead, she rolled that name around her mind: Alasyia. That name was the root of everything. What happened in the Playhouse was just a catalyst for something that ran much deeper.
The Spiritist slid off the table and back to her feet. Her fingers combed through her lank hair and tied it in a knot at the base of her skull. From the dark a bird gave a soft, shrill cry. That determination was rising from the cavity of her chest again. The one that would not let this sad beast sink low into the depth of his pity and loathing. He was a ghost, but he was dying. She wouldn't be able to fix him in one day, but she could at least clean him up and arm him against the world.
She padded soft-soled to his shoulder and took his hand.
"Dexius, I'm sorry for what happened. I'm so sorry. But my pity will not help you, and neither will yours. This 'lone wolf' shyke will kill you eventually." She pointed out the window, where people were milling about their business. "You need to be out there, with people. You need to dig yourself out of this hole and come back to life. Lets go. I’m taking you to the Starstruck, then to get some food.”
She tightened her grip and pulled him towards the door. She was aware that he was stronger than her, and he could easily break her hold. If he did, she would continue her trek empty-handed. If he didn’t want to be saved she would leave alone.
Wether he was with her or not, she grabbed the brass knob and checked the door open with her narrow hip.
For a moment she stood blinking on the doorstep as her human eyes dealt with the sudden, searing sunlight. Once the white light washed from her eyes she blinked a little more, though now in confusion rather than pain. In their short absence, the mist had exploded into being. It was now waist-high and a formless, pearly white. The cobble street had been swallowed by the phenomenon, and as she cast her eyes up and down the lane, there didn’t seem to be any other illusions. Ionu did not bother itself with such boring tricks. Surely, inevitably, there was something hiding in this gentle trick.
Such mysteries did not stop a native Avalad, however. With a purposeful stride she walked straight into the fog.
Instead, she rolled that name around her mind: Alasyia. That name was the root of everything. What happened in the Playhouse was just a catalyst for something that ran much deeper.
The Spiritist slid off the table and back to her feet. Her fingers combed through her lank hair and tied it in a knot at the base of her skull. From the dark a bird gave a soft, shrill cry. That determination was rising from the cavity of her chest again. The one that would not let this sad beast sink low into the depth of his pity and loathing. He was a ghost, but he was dying. She wouldn't be able to fix him in one day, but she could at least clean him up and arm him against the world.
She padded soft-soled to his shoulder and took his hand.
"Dexius, I'm sorry for what happened. I'm so sorry. But my pity will not help you, and neither will yours. This 'lone wolf' shyke will kill you eventually." She pointed out the window, where people were milling about their business. "You need to be out there, with people. You need to dig yourself out of this hole and come back to life. Lets go. I’m taking you to the Starstruck, then to get some food.”
She tightened her grip and pulled him towards the door. She was aware that he was stronger than her, and he could easily break her hold. If he did, she would continue her trek empty-handed. If he didn’t want to be saved she would leave alone.
Wether he was with her or not, she grabbed the brass knob and checked the door open with her narrow hip.
For a moment she stood blinking on the doorstep as her human eyes dealt with the sudden, searing sunlight. Once the white light washed from her eyes she blinked a little more, though now in confusion rather than pain. In their short absence, the mist had exploded into being. It was now waist-high and a formless, pearly white. The cobble street had been swallowed by the phenomenon, and as she cast her eyes up and down the lane, there didn’t seem to be any other illusions. Ionu did not bother itself with such boring tricks. Surely, inevitably, there was something hiding in this gentle trick.
Such mysteries did not stop a native Avalad, however. With a purposeful stride she walked straight into the fog.