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IC: (CelTech workshop, Tajun) "Celrys to perform external diagnostic...? Test Del I?" “Exactly right, Del. But this is a test with no wrong answers – just give the response you find to be most fitting.” Celrys turned away from Del, producing two large, flat metal ovals, with strange cylinders attached. With a flourish, he unfolded them into two chairs; one he offered to Skyra, the other he took for himself. At last, he turned once more to Del. “Now, are you sitting comfortably?” ”Yeah, I’m feeling pretty comfortable.” Skyra responds as she sits down, even if she wasn’t the target of the question. For as much as the Ferrumite struggled to conceptualise 'comfort', they did seem to register the implicit command, turning and reclining back into the patient chair. A thumb rose from a closed hand at their side, signalling in the affirmative. “Then we’ll begin,” Celrys smiled, the scope over his eye sliding back into place, its glassy surface now rendered opaque by a dim glow. “Now, this examination will take the form of a series of questions. We’ll start off simple, in order to establish a baseline: what village are we currently in?” A deceptively complex question if one still doesn't quite grasp what a village is. Del focused hard, tracing back along previous lines of conversation and inquiry, lines now joining blazingly fast between dots of ever-increasing proximity. <<Find Celrys. Find. Locate. Location. Skyra Daring the best driver. Driver. Drive. Go. From and to. To Tajun. Tajun location. Celrys here in location. Celrys in Tajun. Tajun.>> "Tajun." Del droned. "Tajun what village are we—" they paused, reassessing. "...what village we are in. “Fascinating.” Celrys couldn’t help but lean forward in his seat. “Now, what is my name?” "Celrys." Del responded with startlingly minimal delay. Easy, names were established back in Atero. Their eyes left the ceiling and fell on the owner of that name. "Celrys you." “Very good. What about your companion, here? What’s her name?” "Skyra Daring the best driver." Their gaze now turning to the Tesaran. It became apparent that Del considered that their full name; still a ways to go. Skyra grinned, looking at Del. “****** right I am~” She'd been good about keeping quiet during the test so far, at least till now. Celrys couldn’t resist smiling, though he quickly suppressed it, adopting a studiously professional expression as he refocused his attention on Del. “And what about your name?” The tiniest, imperceptible to anyone but maybe Celrys, hesitation. The infinitesemal, non-zero, doubt. The name from the artificer's logs played on a thousand loops in a thousandth of a second. "Del I." the Iron Tribal stated, asserted. ]Celrys nodded, seriously. “And what village are you from, Del?” Got us out of Ferrum. <<Out of Ferrum. From and to. Ferrum. Ferrum Plague. Ferrum.>> "Ferrum is a village, like Tajun." they parroted. "Del I from Ferrum village...?" From their perspective, Del was from Ferrum as much as they were from Atero as much as they were from the deep desert. Inconclusive. “I see. Well, perhaps we can skip the ‘childhood memories’ section; how about some maths?” Though Celrys smiled sympathetically, there was a knowing glint in his eye. “What is three plus three?” "Six." Instant. “Three multiplied by three?” "Nine." Instant. “Three divided by three.” "One." Instant. “Three minus three.” "Zero." Like a ping-pong match. “The square root of three hundred and thirty-three, rounded to three significant figures.” "Eighteen point two." “Divided by two?” "Nine point one." “Divided by zero.” Tick. "Inconclusive. Non-conclusive" Nice try. Celrys smirked. “Multiplied by zero.” "Zero." Instant. “Excellent.” Celrys leaned back, looking satisfied. “Logic problems next. A woman orders a prosthetic right arm; she lost her original arm in an accident. The prosthetic is installed and works exactly according to specifications. Has it always been her arm?” "No." Not as quick as the maths test but remarkable in the firmness of the conclusion. Del did not show their working. “There are two ropes in front of you; each takes exactly one hour to burn, but they do so at inconsistent rates. Some segments may burn faster or slower than others, and you have no way to tell which are which. How can you use the ropes to measure forty-five minutes?” This took a little longer for the Ferrumite to puzzle out, although time is subjective and 'two seconds' is a longer span of time than 'two nanoseconds'. "Burn two end of one rope. Burn one end of two rope. Burn two end of two rope when one rope finish burn. Time when two rope finish burn: forty-five minutes." Celrys nodded. “Two men stand before two doors; only one can take you to your destination. One man only tells the truth, the other tells only lies. With only one question, how would you learn from them which door to choose?” The underlying language of a good riddle was pure logic, as was Del's. The overlying language still needed some work, a piecemeal of limited vocabulary and patchwork mimicry. Thus some words, and their adjoined meanings, slipped through the myriad cracks. <<Clarification.>> "Query: what truth is? What lies is?" Celrys perked up, sitting upright. “Truth is fact. Lies are not. For instance, it would be true to say that my name is Celrys; it would be a lie to claim that my name is Skyra Daring.” Rapid extrapolation. <<Facts, not. Truth, lies. One man would tell door to destination. One man would tell door not to destination. One question.>> An answer in the form of a— "Query: which door would not-you man tell to choose?” The meaning was hopefully communicated adequately. “Would you walk through the door the man answers with, or the other?” "Other door. Truth-man tell lies-door that lies-man tell. Lies-man tell lies-door that lies-man lies that truth-man tell. Truth. Lies." Cement filling cracks. “Perfect. One last puzzle: A woman orders a prosthetic right arm. She pays up-front. The parts are acquired only after she makes her order, to her specification, and it is tailored specifically for her. Once it is complete, she immediately claims it, and it is installed. Has it always been her arm?” Another linguistic trait to experiment with. An impressive five seconds passed. "...Yes. Always been her arm, not always been her arm." Celrys was absolutely beaming; if not for his earlier denial, he would seem every bit the proud parent. “Absolutely fantastic. This is simply marvellous.” He turned his chair to face Skyra. “Well, bad news first: Del here is dealing with some serious brain damage. It would take tests I’d rather not subject them to in order to confirm the exact cause and nature, but as you yourself have doubtless noticed, amnesia is the primary symptom.” Skyra nods solemnly, even the driver knowing when to be serious. “Right, I figured something like that was up.” He looked once again to Del. “The good news is that your short-term memory is in perfect working order, and your other cognitive functions are performing remarkably well, especially given the circumstances. There are only two lingering questions that remain: the first is your ability to convert short-term memories into long-term, and the second is the matter of your nervous system at large. I would like to observe you over the course of the next few days – not twenty-four seven, just a few check-ups – and, in addition to this, I would like to perform another test tomorrow. This one would be rather… different, in format, focusing primarily on your adrenal response and your physical coordination. Is this acceptable to the both of you?” <<Memory. . .>> As with many other things, the capacity for long-term memory had not occurred to Del. They set about performing an assessment of the events of the last few days, their own internal diagnostic; back past the long drive across the roiling dunes, the faces of denizens of a dive bar in Atero, waking up in a training ground tended to by a kindly Agori couple. Beyond that, there was... there was… A voice but no words. An answer but no answer. "Brain damage. Del I... damage?" they said more to themself than either Celrys or Skyra. Subjectivity and unsurety crept back into their voice. One would almost swear their tone was troubled. The truth of their scenario eluded them. Truth. It was vital they know. Anything less than optimal was un— "Acceptable. Just a few check-ups. Another test tomorrow." ”Well if Del is cool with it then so am I, guess we’ll be seeing you tomorrow Doc.” “Tomorrow, then,” Celrys said with a smile. OOC: Big thanks to @Techn0geist and @Snelly for the jam!

IC: Mard & Ahmoa - Training Ground, outskirts of Atero Play it cool, Ahmoa thought, planting the handle-end of the axe in the sand and crossing his hands atop the blade. "You're right on one count, ma'am, but sadly mistaken on another. We follow the Grand Tournament season as closely as we can, we could be said to be "fans"; alas our position does not afford us the luxury of travelling to see the bouts themselves." Play it cool, Mard thought, awkwardly hugging the bundle of javelins to his chest and trying not to let any spill. "Yeah, we don't own this joint, we're just staff. Our boss, that's the lucky sonovabitch who jets all across the desert for the Gee-Tee. And every other damn fight. 'Business trips', my be-hind." Mard had no fear of admonishment for his comments, given the target of them was scarcely present for anyone to report them. Ahmoa was caught halfway between rolling his eyes and chuckling at Mard as he shuffled away to stow the javelins in the equipment shed, deciding on neither. "We look after the grounds while the proprietor is tending to his many-other ventures. As such, it is rare for us to attend Tournament matches even when they come Atero-way, given those tend to be our busiest seasons." The Vulcanusian put on his best customer-facing smile. "Don't fret, after tonight's performance we'll be sure to keep an eye and ear out for your names in the Tournament roster. Should either of you make it to the Atero stages, and if fortune smiles on us, you may even see us ring-side." He didn't even tell this to every client, honest. "You'll definitely see me at the betting tables!" Mard exclaimed as he returned, dusting off his hands. "Lorqua, your odds just went up." His excitement was only half-put-on, the green guard known to make the odd wager. "It would only be fair for me to put some coinage down on Lutenus here, then." Ahmoa replied with a grin, and no intent of following through on that. OOC: @oncertainty @Toru Nui Apologies! I've been remiss in posting these boys for some months now 😅

IC: Escus - Mouth of the Cave, the Valley of Death Escus knelt at the cave's mouth as Selamat called back to the others. He stared, unblinking, into its depths. On the one hand, he was letting his eyes adjust to the stark difference in light. On the other, there was a certain fervor in the gesture. It looked almost devotional. At once, he rose again. A thoughtful hrm emerged from the back of his throat. "Hasty, perhaps even dangerously hasty... But I concur," he said, gesturing with the head of his axe toward the mass of resting bats. He let the words hang in the air for a few seconds. "They wouldn't be sleeping in the same cave as something that would, well... eat them. Not much that wouldn't eat them that would trouble us. Unless it's something... strange. That is all to say, clear enough." He took another step forward, past the young Glatorian. One eye shut, his head inclined to one side, Escus continued to stare into the cave. OOC: @Burnmad @a goose @Nato G @~Xemnas~ @Toru Nui IC: Lorqua - Training Ground, Outskirts of Atero A skeptical look worn openly on her face, Lorqua followed Lutenus' lead in collecting up the Javelins—scattered around the arena as they were—and returning them to Mard and Ahmoa. As the adrenaline of the fight left her, Lorqua's other concerns came to the fore. If they wanted to know more about what was going on with that Ferrumite Glatorian who had stumbled into the bar, it seemed like these two were the ones to ask. Lutenus couldn't be planning to just walk right out of here, without taking such a beautiful opportunity, could he? Even if he was, Lorqua would dare anything. She couldn't resist some probing. "You two gentlemen must be going Grand-Tournament-way eventually, yeah? Hard to imagine a pair of trainers like yourselves wouldn't be tournament fans on top of that." OOC: @Toru Nui @Techn0geist IC: Skrall - Markets, the Bone Hunter Stronghold Skrall's glance follows the others', the instincts of a unit—or a herd—easily taking over. The sight of the once-Skrall makes his teeth clench. He's never seen one from this close. To know that any one of them could be so reduced is troubling. His nostrils flare. The air of the marketplace at once seems sickly. A miasma. "If they see that more than they see us," he says, speaking quietly. "It would give anyone strange ideas. But out here... what do we do?" It seemed as important a question as any; being observed by what-was-once-Skrall, and observing in turn. Were Skrall simply to turn away? Skrall was asking for the purposes of unit cohesion, of course, but also because he had absolutely no idea. OOC: @a goose @Mel @Vezok's Friend @Burnmad @Toru Nui

IC/ Skrall/ Bonehunter Stronghold/ Markets/ The conversation had lasted long enough for her to return to the moment after her surprising revelation and to finish her ration bar. Apparently they were still on the subject of how best to conquer all that they saw before them, openly talking strategy. Maybe a bit too openly. She started to look around to see if there were any unfriendly eyes or ears nearby that were too close for comfort. All the while she wondered why they were discussing strategy in the first place - after all they already had been tasked with one. “War is not the southern way.” she chimed in. “Save it for the arenas.” That’s where disputes were settled. And when they got there they would use the South’s own honorable system to take whatever they laid claim to. Skrall would challenge, fight - and win. All is as he willed it. Just then, she felt the all too familiar sensation of eyes on her. She knew it well from home - had known it all her life. Those who knew what she was - or suspected - staring at her in all ways subtle and obvious alike. She slowly, deliberately turned and looked over to the barred window to meet the others' gaze. For a split second she thought it might have been their prisoner, already processed. But this thing was much more emaciated. Only color hinted at what had once been skrall - but was no more. Was that what awaited the unfortunate one they had just handed over? Maybe skrall could be broken after all? The possibility disgusted her and she made no effort to hide her reaction. She nudged spec-ops to get his attention, shot him a dark look and nodded her head in the direction of their observer... OOC: @a goose @BULiK @Nato G @oncertainty @Burnmad @Toru Nui @Mel

Content Warning: internalized victim blaming, allusions to sexual assault a slave | bone hunter stronghold Sometime in between the many cycles of sleeping and waking, you hear them. Voices. Skrall voices. Not exactly intelligible to your keen but un-enhanced hearing, but achingly familiar in their tones and rhythms. Perhaps another will be added to the not-hunter’s pen today, though surely not one as pathetic as you. Then one of the voices becomes clearer, unmistakable in its tone—a women’s voice, in the unmistakable dialect of the Skrall. Something that can only be the voice of a Sister. You are half convinced it is that voice that moves your limbs, that forces your breath out throat-drying ragged as you creep toward the barred window to get a better look, expecting the iron grasp of another will in your hands, in your body, at any moment. The others do not notice you in their equally fitful sleep, the soft-steppers in your feet doing you, at least good service. It is hard to see outside in the daytime; your night-seeing eyes spin the heat into smears and veils of color. You squint, trying to focus on the tall black figures as they move through the market. OOC: @Vezok's Friend @a goose @BULiK @Nato G @oncertainty @Burnmad @Toru Nui Someone is watching. Your choice on whether you notice or not.

IC: Skrall (Bone Hunter Stronghold, Marketplace) - Be Careful What You Wish For Skrall began mulling it over. The scout’s comparison of him to a poorly-handled Spikit seemed to indicate that he believed that he only wanted to crush the Renegades because they were closer, not because they were… repulsive. They treated their slaves abominably and won them through foul means. The Skrall did not do such things… not in the same way, which was the crucial difference. There was no similarly between the Legion and the Renegades apart from something of a shared origin, nothing more. Nothing. As for his proposed strategy of attacking the tribe with the food first, this too sickened him. He would have vocally objected, but the Special Operations Skrall had commanded silence, without outright saying he was commanding silence, which was also insulting. Defeating the south by starving them would lack honor, especially since… Skrall searched for the right word. It was apparent that most of them were servants, but were not slaves, but also not warriors. They had those strange circular pieces of metal with little value to barter among themselves with. How very strange. The deaths of these people would stain the Legion’s conquest. Surely, their target should instead be… He froze as he contemplated the implications of what the scout proposed. A victory through such dishonorable means was bad enough, but then there was the tribe with the water, and the tribe that forged using lava, using the metals from the other two tribes. The southern tribes could only survive independently of each other through trading and their games. His eyes go wide in realization. There was no feasible way for the Skrall to achieve an honorable victory without either conquering every tribe at once - which clearly, none of his brothers here would have any confidence in - or by striking at their hub, the city known as Atero. A city full of those who were not warriors. Skrall decided he preferred thinking with his sword. @Burnmad @a goose @BULiK @oncertainty @Vezok's Friend @Nato G @Mel IC: Taldrix (Bone Hunter Stronghold, the Tower) - Her Understanding “Yes. I think I do understand.” Taldrix said, nodding her head. “You came to us, and not the tribes, because we are easier to control. None of that democracy garbage in the tribes, where you win based on how well you can lie and how much wealth you can throw around. You came to us, because if they helped you, you’d have to give them their share. They might even have tried to destroy the ruins, if it conflicted with whatever religious nonsense is being peddled nowadays. And the Skrall would never listen to you, being so far up their own backsides that their meals are recyclable.” She tapped where Ferrum is on the map. “I also understand that you were so interested in Ferrum’s plague because it happens to be close to where these ruins are. We’ll be at risk of contracting it the more we operate in this region, so we need as much information on it as we can…” She turned to the Ghost. “This would be my reasoning if I were you, at least, sir.” @a goose