Worried about the children. Worried about what happened to the Convention. Worried about what they will think of us.

She leaves unsaid the other worries--that they only have the clothes on their back, even if some of those clothes are enchanted. She is nearly as practiced at hiding their conversation; a subtle point from a hand in her lap while the other daintily covers her mouth.

He nods. I'm glad to be here with you. I'm not sure how I would have fared on my own.

She has felt quite useless, so far, and it's hard to hear that as more than empty reassurance. He's the one with magic; he's the charmer. But she tries to let it warm her heart anyway.

Besides, if any mortal can return us to Cheliax, Elie Cottonet can. He feels a spark of fear that they have moved outside of the reach of the gods. 

"I should ask about your gods, I suppose. Is knowledge of them widespread or will I need to wait for ... a Green?" he guesses.

"...I don't know what that is so probably you need to wait for a green, if it's like, a complicated physics thing you can do magic to or something."

He looks grim, hearing that, and will close his eyes for a bit.

She will remain attentive to their... Captors? Hosts? Hosts. She'll clink the lemonade bottle to signal that she'd like another.

"...you want another lemonade?" the grey guesses after a moment's incomprehension. She can have another lemonade.

Well, at least they're good for something.

He wishes he had retained more of the practical side of theology. Somehow people got the attention of the gods, and became clerics; he never had, and probably it is too late to do so now. If Erastil was watching Tapa, they would already have clerics of him. They likely don't have the components necessary to draw a god's attention and pay for answers, and no one who could hear the answers anyway.

The enormity of the situation weighs on him; if these people are subject to Pharasma's judgment and do not know it, how terrible for them and how important that he rectify the situation. If they are not subject to Her judgement, how terrifying for him, not knowing what they would see wise to do. And his own soul's fate, once certain, is now in question.

And eventually in come some blues and greens! They can be told apart by the hair, even if the language of Amentan fashion is fully lost on the alien visitors. "Hello! Welcome to Amenta!" says one of the blues. "I'm Kash Ekachta." (The Tongues-like effect thinks "Ekachta" means "link" or "referral", as in an internet link or a citation.) "Is there anything you two need immediate help with or should we just get you somewhere more comfortable?"

On the arrival of their notables, he makes another gesture, and at least for an hour, his fear is mastered and his thoughts are clear. 

"Well met. I am Duke Felip de Fraga, and this is my wife Isidonia, both lately of Cheliax, a nation on Golarion." He does not know how much of his meaning is translated; for him, Fraga is a name and a place and a lineage, all twisted together like the strands of a cord, and stronger for it. He doesn't realize that "Duke" might need translation.

Cheliax, of course, he has a much more complicated view of. Avistan meant nothing to the guard, but perhaps their scholar has at least learned of his planet. 

"Let us travel as you see fit."

The security office is--well, rather more functional than they're used to, and rather more sterile than he's used to when roughing it.

"Alrighty then, we've got security holding us a path out to the side exit, we can have you out of the zoo in a jiffy. Any chance you can tell me why the zoo?" says Ekachta.

"I'm afraid not; we understand what happened as little as you do. Do you have a guess as to why the zoo?"

"I haven't the faintest. This way, through here - thank you," he adds to the grey who gave them the lemonade, "write in if you need anything comped of course."

"Sure thing," says the grey.

They follow. She walks gracefully, head held high. He watches the people, noting the strange sights but keeping an eye on the faces and spaces that people could appear from.

There's a perimeter of more greys, in a different uniform from the zoo security, maintaining a corridor to the side exit preventing any of the guests from having line of sight to the path they're taking. At the exit, there's a car waiting. "If there's any immediate questions top of mind I can do my best to answer those for you or get you in touch with people who can," Ekachta says.

An enchanted carriage is impressive--no, it'd have to be something else. But that's secondary. Once they're inside, he asks the biggest question.

"What do you think happens, after you die?"

"- what a question! Are you two sick, should we be quarantining you just in case there's cross-species potential?"

He keenly feels the absence of his house cleric. "No, we're healthy, though separated from our healers. But the guard earlier didn't understand me when I asked about your gods, and that seemed like the right place to start."

"Huh. Well, that brings me to a question I'm sure all our linguists are tearing their hair out over, how is it you speak Tapap at all and is that mechanism something that might be failing on a word here and there? I don't recognize that one."

"There exist translation spells, but they are not within my abilities." He brushes past that mystery. "In all the realms I knew of yesterday, at a man's death he would meet The Judge, who would sort him depending on the deeds of his life, and then he would go to the appropriate afterlife. Sufficiently powerful wizards and clerics could look in on those worlds, or visit them, or communicate with their denizens. The living could, by magic, sometimes tell where they were pointed. The gods are the strongest of those denizens, able to empower mortals in their service, and instruct mortals in how to achieve their ends.

If that is not how things work here, well--you can perhaps imagine my disorientation. And if it is how it works here, and you are not yet aware, the costs of that ignorance seems staggering."

"...is this men specifically or is that a translation issue where you've got 'man' as metonymy for 'people', for some reason -" pipes up a green who is in their party.

"What's a cleric?" asks another green.

"Is a god like a... head of posthumous state?" asks another one.

She's following the threads between them, and by a subtle shift in her body posture indicates the middle Green.

"There are many types of magic," he says quickly, "but the two broadest categories are arcane, like mine or that of wizards, and divine, like that of clerics. They are renowned for their ability to heal wounds and diseases. Clerical magic comes from gods, to chosen individuals called clerics."