( She's truly tired of dealing with ghosts, but the more practical one is about them, the more likely one gets done with their nonsense sooner. It's not always true: they're worse in some places than others, but the bodied dead have been the most troublesome, and also, no one's currently drugged and chasing down snake gods.

There's a scale of what level of ridiculous she's finding before her now, and it's acceptable. )

She doesn't leave the grounds. How fast can you run?

( There, the quirked eyebrows, the dry curl to her voice. If they can outrun her, she can't gut them. Simple, right? )

Or we can start by talking with her like sensible people.

( And adapt, however that then proceeds. There's no... blade, that she can hold to this. The One Power, the True Source, that which she's unhappily accepting has some relationship to herself, that might help, but in no way does she know the wielding of it, and so she discounts it entirely. Better to rely on what she does know, and if this young man helps, isn't that enough? Sensible steps taken in an insensible world.

Nynaeve doesn't have the stones, and leaves them with him, but she does take steps toward the ephemeral shape of the dead woman, calling out: )

Tykhe. Girl, what are you looking for out here like this?

( Sensible if she'd been living, only sensible now because the ghost startles and spins, losing aspects of herself that reform when her sightless face points more or less their way. She shimmers, moonlight on wind-touched water, and solidifies a touch. She doesn't breathe, and that more than anything sits as a sad weight in Nynaeve's stomach.

Still, the ghost responds, voice like winds curling through pipes, the rustling of leaves in autumn. )

A way. To see. My sister.

( Not a broken sentence: three individual driving needs. )