What ever might this be? Someone sharing everything that makes him himself has suddenly entered his field of vision.
Zephirin gives a pause to his own thoughts, instead replacing them with many inquiries about how such a thing might be possible. If this were a glamour, it may be bad taste, but what else would it be? Perhaps it is merely one bearing an uncanny ressemblance to his own self, down to not only the haircut and its very length, but also the very color of his eyes.
When the other speaks, his voice is as if he would hear his own spoken voice. He was certain of it.
Do I know you, he has asked. How might he best reply?
“Perhaps we both know to that question already, do we not?” He inquires, taking assured steps forward, green gaze upon the other, unwavering. “The better question might be how in Halone’s name is there another of myself, would you not agree? I for one would be quite interested to find out just what has led to this and how both of us might now coexist, having met each other in such a way.”
Granted, they wore different attire, but this, he pondered, may yet be for reasons of circumstances. He wore a dark red tabard over a chainmail sleeved shirt, hands bare from any armor, feet slid in knee-high black boots. A satchel of sorts was slung over his shoulder, contents a mystery.
“Who, then, might start first with their tale? Perhaps we should find ourselves some manner of food or drink as we share what may have happened since our defeat at the Singularity Reactor.” He states, making sure to be as non-threatening as possible.
Ah. The phantom is indeed very real, and doing a significantly better job at holding himself together besides. How queer it is, hearing his own voice like this, forming words he cannot consciously predict or direct; Fortunately, he’s always been one to gather his wits rather quickly even after being knocked off-kilter and steadily, steadily returned his doppelganger’s gaze. There is still a measure of scrutiny in it (for who would do such a thing without an ulterior motive, if this meeting is not mere happenstance?), but no more open suspicion- The keyword being open.
“I suppose we do, but one can never be too certain.”
In truth, his mind still races with possibilities, half-aborted whys and hows he doubts he’d ever be able to answer on his own. Though he looks for differences, none are readily apparent (and in a fashion, perhaps he’s a bit hesitant to look for them at all; The tale of the Ghost of Starlight Past comes to mind once more). Well then. Words reveal as much as they can conceal- They had both died at the hands of the Warrior. Known where they had died. Even Ishgard can still only speculate of the Archbishop’s time and place of demise, and where he goes, his knights will surely follow- And if this man- If he knows of Azys Lla, of the Reactor? Perhaps that is enough.
In truth, it is not. Still he decides that they can speak of the whys and hows of coexistence together, however odd that sounds. Conversing at length with himself... If nothing else, it will make for quite the experience.
He gestures with a hand as he speaks, gently- Gloved but for once without gauntlets, dark steel shed for a walk around town, a stop by the markets, though his thin black leather cuirass remains. His only luggage at the moment seems to be a pack secured at his hip, a sheathed knife strapped to his boot upon his thigh and the blade on his back.
“I suppose both our respective stories will each be strange in their own right. If you’ve no pressing matters, I’d be willing to discuss our circumstances at length, should you wish it so.”
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