Kuvarakh felt the pressure to decide beginning to grow. There was food all around him, the smell torturously enticing. He had not yet received his order and was still not convinced it would be easily purged. Wanda was swooning with culinary rapture, and encouraging Kuvarakh to confirm that he would join her. He could not deny her. He was so happy to have her with him. So happy that she too, seemed to realize their past life together. And it was so wonderful to share a moment, ANY moment with her.
As he waited for his "signature" order, he watched other customers cut through puffy pastries and rich cuts of perfectly seasoned meats. The rich, irresistible aromas of herbs and cheese bursting to fill the room, blending perfectly with roasted tubers and peppers, glazed mushrooms and spiced sauces, sweetened by cloves and coriander. Though digestion did not function in the body of a Nuit, his mouth was still capable of watering. And it did so now.
But his ears were also capable, as was his memory. He heard a voice. A voice all at once as 'present' as it was empty. Not so much spoken directly into his mind as spoken into his memory of a voice. As soon as he heard it, it seemed as if it was a profound, life-long memory of pain and sadness. It was if he'd heard this voice all his life and tried to ignore it. But he could ignore it no longer.
All thoughts of food halted as he looked for the source, finding only faces trying not to hear it, trying to deny any obligation to respond. He didn't want to answer it either, but it was somehow reminiscent of the ghostly voice that had tormented him with guilt several seasons ago. A guilt he had not deserved, but was deserved by the man who had lived in the body Kuvarakh had possessed at the time. A man who had killed himself in grief of what he'd done. Kuvarakh had found the body, transferred into it, and then come under the wrath of the ghost with the mission of vengeance against that man.
Within the rage, there had been such grief, such unbearable grief, he'd wished to die. But the ghost had possessed him and not let him, as had his friends prevented him. But his wish had not been to escape the grief himself, but to relieve the poor suffering spirit so horribly wronged.
This feeling consumed him now. He looked around, anger building at the deliberate refusal the other diners had to even acknowledge the voice's existence. Anger and wretched empathy. He HAD to help. Guilt would make his life unbearable if he did not.
He stood suddenly, his chair falling back behind him. He called as he spun around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. "Yes! I will help! Where are you?"