The helpful wisps of the Necropolis have never, regrettably, had the opportunity to be Gwenaëlle’s primary takeaway from visits to Nevarra; every time they go, there’s been some manner of extreme crisis, usually but not exclusively resulting in having to fight their way through the dead that occupy the halls of Volkarin’s life’s work.

(Or, memorably, gathering a cluster of them with the hoop of her skirt and bowling them down a Nevarra City hill—)

Between that and the collisions she’s had with elvhen spirits, her enthusiasm is markedly less than his own even if her interest has been sufficiently caught. Still: necromancers are substantially less irritating when they aren’t fucking her grandfather, so if she doesn’t immediately warm, she at least seems willing to defer to his expertise in the matter.

“It’s not my usual experience of spirits,” she says, dry, producing a monocle from an inner pocket of her coat for her remaining eye (its twin, replaced by a blank gold substitute, surrendered to some other damn spirit). “But it’s been trying to get my attention for the past twenty minutes. I’m not sure for what, exactly.”