Kostos makes an acknowledging noise in his throat but does not move from where he's stopped, frowning at a collection of lit candles in an alcove and the wisp weaving around them on an endless patrol.

He doesn't know if the Professor recognizes him. The last time they were in a room together he was twenty years younger, less scruffy, less scarred. Still intense and surly, though, albeit in a way aimed toward ambition. He'd wanted this — the Necropolis — badly enough to stop hating being a mage for a couple of years, there.

And now that he's here, finally seeing below the surface levels, he's finding it mostly gives him a headache.

He answers in Nevarran, nodding at the wisp: "It's protecting them." The candles.