The Priest of Grenth was trying to calm the grieving widow; it was a difficult consolation.
His apprentice's head pointed toward the son of the deceased. "It sounds like New Krytan, but I can't understand a word she is saying." She muttered softly, missing the appalled man's expression.
"Ayana!" The priest grimaced, "Mr. Richardson believes you are addressing-"
“Oh! Sorry!” For a moment, the priest had a glimmer of hope that she would recall her protocol lessons until the pre-teen spoke again. “Can you step back, sir. You are standing in the middle of the ghost I am talking to.”
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