Perp

IC: Ember - The Fowadi The corners of her mouth pulled upwards a barely-visible half inch, accompanied with a polite nod as Dehkaz popped over the gunwale and braced himself upon the skiff. “‘Preciate it, Cap’n.” Another salute capped off her request as the Toa of Magnetism descended out of view. With that, the Ta-Matoran spun on her heel and made her way back belowdecks. A quick conversation with the Fowadi’s Quartermaster, a surly Po-Matoran Sentinel by the name of Muuk, produced a list of essential supplies, provisions and other matériel that needed restocking, plus a few “special items” at the Quartermaster’s personal request. The former Guardswoman raised a skeptical eyebrow to counter the wry half-grin of the Po-Matoran, but didn’t object. Unusual, but not unacceptable in her maritime experience. Regardless, Ember made a mental note to check in with him later and ascended back out into the salty air of the main deck. She was becoming more and more aware of just how differently Po-Koro ran its navy. Or perhaps it was just this ship in particular, given its history and the peculiarity of the members that made up its senior crew. Perhaps it was just a symptom of how the Sentinels were, after all, relatively inexperienced on the open ocean. They’d soon have to learn, and learn quick, as evidenced by the sheer scale of the Dasakan fleet now moored in Ga-Koro, complimenting the plethora of sturdy Marine craft already about the Bay. She took another minute’s time to survey the crystalline vessels before scanning the deck for the bulky Toa she was to accompany - Rynekk. OOC:@Void Emissary

IC: Baszlin - Obsidian Outpost, Mess Hall Movement of his left hand halted, the metal digits resting lightly on the leather of the scabbard. No further epiphanies came to him - he could not remember the battle of which the Vortixx spoke, only the single detail that had caused him to react so. He remained staring at Minnorak unflinchingly while both he and Quoribay made their statements on the matter. Another beat played itself out, tension mounting amidst the awkward silence… and finally Baszlin broke the stare, shifting his gaze downward to study his artificial limb instead, raising the hand from where it had come to rest out of instinct moments earlier. Scrapes and scratches etched into the metallic surface caught the fiery gloam of the room, as he turned it over once, twice, then lowered it again, looking upon Minnorak once more. “I may need to speak to you later,” said Raaka Baszlin, his voice barely louder than a whisper, and his tone even. With that, he turned and sauntered back over to where he had stood before, giving Surdo a brief sidelong glance as he went.

IC: Baszlin - Obsidian Outpost, Minnorak’s Face The Vortixx’ query went unanswered, Baszlin electing to ignore it as he searched Minnorak’s features for precious, precious recognition. It didn’t take long to find it. A short silence followed as the Skakdi withdrew to a more comfortable distance. Still, his eyes remained fixed on the Vortixx, jaw clenched and artificial hand unconsciously edging closer to the grip of the bayonet on his belt. “This one,” he said slowly, chewing each word as it was a tough strip of meat, “has tried to kill me before.”

IC: Baszlin - Obsidian Outpost, Mess Hall Flickering firelight silhouetted Surdo as he passed from the dim anteroom further into the Outpost. Voices from within spilled outwards, reverberating off the damp stones - a note of familiarity picked out from the cacophony. Baszlin canted his head slightly, not unlike the behaviour of an alerted canine. After a beat, and a quick glance at the Ba-Toa who was already half-in the next room, the Skakdi strode impassively inward, following his charge. Several other beings filled the space; their presence provided a more homely feel to the seemingly decrepit compound, a nexus of liveliness in a place that seemed otherwise abandoned. Though, from the looks of them, they were perhaps not the sort one would typically associate with hospitality. Not that he was any different. There was Surdo in close accompaniment with the Matoran they had met in Ga-Koro, Quoribay, seemingly jovial. All appeared to be acceptable for the current moment, and so Baszlin decided not to linger by his client’s side. He took the time to scan the room, washing his gaze over the faces of- Hmm. Hmmmm. Well, that’s peculiar. He locked his eyes on the visage of the Vortixx behind the bar, taking in every detail and comparing it with what he could scrounge from his fragmented memory. He leant forward, squinting his eyes, trying to get a better look from across the room before his legs decided to take him the rest of the way. Excruciatingly slowly, Baszlin put one foot in front of the other and closed the distance to the bar. Screwing up his expression as he did so, he again leant forward, his gaze never wavering, never blinking - scrutinizing the face of Minnorak closer than one would deem comfortable. “Hmmmmm.”

IC: Ember - The Fowadi A brisk nod and a quiet ahem preceded her request. “Cap’n, ‘pon the completion of our resupply run, I’d like t’ request permission t’ bring the skiff ashore in Ga-Koro, collect some kit ‘n’ dunnage from me home there. Nothin’ more burdensome than a holystone, swear it.” Allowing her posture to relax the tiniest fraction, she added: “Helps with the channel fever too, aye?”

IC: Baszlin - Obsidian Outpost Ah, that age-old back-of-the-throat noise ol’ Bazzie was known for. “Hmmmmm…” ‘A thinking man; perhaps the only one,’ someone of note had said of him once. Or not. Who knows? Not Baszlin, that’s for sure. Scanning the snow-dusted structures around them, the De-Skakdi wracked his brain for whatever images or sensations it could possibly dredge up. ‘Does this bring back any memories?’ Quote of the century, right there. Still, Baszlin tried mightily, steam practically pouring from his ears in the attempt. Stacked stones. Wood battlements. The ethereal twang of the cable-car lines… The icy wind bit into him, shards of crystalline water embedding themselves in his face, adding to the craters and pockmarks already present. Red flags fluttering. Demarcating death. Fortifications aplenty, ramshackle renovations. Scattered barrels and crates, the stink of ill-gotten gains in the air. A distant bell ringing… Any of this ring any bells? “Hmmmmmmmmm…” It was a question he asked directly of himself, now. His effort continued. Hints of smoke on his tongue. Wisps of black and grey emanating from the apex of thin towers atop barracks of dubious build quality… Surdo’s path brought them out of the chilling blast, through the stone-lined threshold into a damp volume smelling of spilt ale and the musk of sweat-soaked garments. Candles and fire providing paltry light to a dim expanse, the creaking of moulding wood below foot… Ah, yes. His ruminations ceased - his quest for memory complete. He now knew the answer to Surdo’s question. “No.”

IC: Ember - The Fowadi It wasn’t really all too surprising she’d slept better aboard the Fowadi than she had for months at home. Something about the rocking of the boat that triggered some old reflex in the backs of certain sailors’ minds - an age-old sensation of having been a swaddled babe in their mother’s cradling arms, rocking in the same manner until they were taken by deep, peaceful slumber. The gentle swaying of Ga-Koro’s lilypad homes, either by the shoreline gale or the dips and swells of waves, had a similar effect, but not identical. Ember - that specific part of her brain, entangled with the years of sea-borne voyaging - could tell the difference on an instinctual level. She’d arisen in the morning all the surer of her decision to remain aboard the Fowadi. Her role was still unsure - it gave her a combined sense of encouragement, unease, and pride to be one of the more experienced sailors aboard such a famous ship, if only for less than a full day, and still be unsure of her place. The senior crew seemed not to care much for rank, which struck Ember as peculiar for a military vessel. From her brief interactions with the crew, before and after their shakedown had begun, the Ta-Matoran surmised that they must’ve all been friends first, and comrades second. She could be wrong, but it at least made a bit more sense to her regimented, martial mind, so she permitted the interpretation to linger. She hadn’t seen Shaddix emerge from belowdecks since he had sauntered on board, so that helped to not shatter any illusions. She neglected to mention him during the pleasant conversation she’d had with Captain Dehkaz once he’d returned from his trip to Po-Koro. She found it at least a bit more comforting to converse with someone as passionate as herself about sailcraft, even if she did find it odd and amusing that he looked as likely to sink as his iron-draped vessel with all the shіt he had strapped to him. Even so, wearing only his longcoat and devoid of any other armored vestments and weapons framed him in such a different light, she surmised that it might have been an image thing - projecting the perception of Captain being emblematic of their ship. In that context, there was no question why Dehkaz dressed as he did. The provisions on board were also a pleasant surprise - not that she’d expected the Po-Koronans to actually eat rocks and rocks only (as was the butt of many a joke in the Marines, hardtack notwithstanding) but the variety and tactfulness of their stock was comforting. The stores of fruits - even chilled within iceboxes, to boot! - was a reassuring sight. Scurvy was not a joking matter, as her old skipper “Toothless” Raffya had so oft attested. A hearty plate of roast mahi, eggs, and a fairly sizable orange had consisted of the day’s first meal. Pretty swanky, given the mostly pescatarian diet of Ga-Koronan sailors, though she wasn’t sure whether or not the Sentinel crew would think to fish in the event their stores ran dry far from port. She’d make a point to ask. Ember was leant over the port gunwale, accompanied by several other crew members when Captain Dehkaz’s orders rang clear across the deck. They’d been staring at the motherlode of Dasakan craft occupying most of Ga-Koro’s extensive harbourfront. There’d only been the one when Ember had left home naught but a few days ago - she’d have remarked drily that they must’ve bred quickly overnight, but crystalline ships didn’t strike her as the type to reproduce through mitosis. The glittering submersible vessel - the one that also intrigued Ember the most, unsurprisingly - was still visible among them and appeared to be the center of attention, telling from the gathering crowd populating a great portion of the docks. Breaking away from the side of the ship, the Ta-Matoran whirled on her heel and straightened her back, snapping off a salute accompanied with an “Aye, Cap’n!” as she’d expect of herself, even if the senior crew might not - it felt appropriate either way. She had her orders. Forsi was not at all far; she was familiar enough with the place, having lived in and around Naho Bay for a while - not to mention she’d boarded the Iron Mahi there before heading out to Ostia. That wasn’t an issue. But, it was, at least for the moment, in the opposite direction of where her secondary objective lay. Her “quick trip to Ostia” to glimpse the “unsinkable ship” wasn’t going to be as brief as she first assumed. There were a few supplies of her own to acquire in Ga-Koro. Besides, she didn’t think the Captain would want to turn down a bottle of- Well, let’s not be too hasty, now. She closed the distance between herself and Dehkaz a few moments later. “Cap’n, a word?”

IC: Baszlin - Ta-Koro What a peculiar pair the two of them must’ve looked like, meandering through basalt-lined avenues in the City of Fire - a patchwork beastman whose shotgun sling dug deeply into his one good shoulder, and the (relatively) diminutive infirm at his side clutching the cane of a souteneur. Such a sight would not be uncommon in a place like Xa-Koro, once upon a time. Alas, Xa-Koro met with the wrong end of a suspiciously convenient pocket of natural gas. Wrong end? What would be the right end? Also, what is natural gas? These questions haunted him, and would plague his sleeping hours this eve. “I have been here before,” remarked Big, slowing his gait to keep pace with Small as they wound their way through the dim amber glow of the labyrinthine city. “I was almost dead when I woke up in a hospital somewhere in town. They put most of me back together. Probably ate the rest, I don’t really know what the culture here is like.” The Skakdi deflected the hard stare of a couple of Toa with one of his own, as the dual pairs passed each other. Naturally, the Toa broke theirs first. Didn’t blame them - he wouldn’t want to look at him either. OOC: @Tarn

IC: Suzume - Sado Streets The Toroshu’s description of her location did not alleviate the sickness that consumed young Suzume: the dreaded Pivoting Plague. Still her head jerked this way and that, trying fruitlessly to triangulate direction from sounds which were not, at the moment, being made. Whatever psionic star she could point herself towards in the mental plane might as well have been a miniscule diamond sitting amongst a plateau of sand. Whatever celestial anecdote Suzume appeared as to the Toroshu, it must’ve been something to behold. ::Uhhhhh… Suzume…:: came the eventual response, blaring perturbedly as an out-of-tune woodwind. “Daikura Suzume! Who… are… you…?:: OOC: @Mel

i've got my idiot doing idiot things in the rift rn

IC: Suzume - Sado Streets It was the eerie quiet that eventually got to her first. Living in the city, even as a shut-in, left an impression on one’s conception of normalcy and comfort. The din of conversation layered over punctuations of shopkeepers and peddlers slinging their wares with voices carrying across multiple blocks; screams and giggles of young children scurrying this way and that, playing at being Menti; tinkling of crystal bells and the low roar of waves pounding onto the beaches, living so close to the island’s edge. And, of course, the music. Suffice to say that, lacking all of the above save for the occasional commanding bark from some faraway, unintelligible voice, or a terrible sound Suzume could not even hope to comprehend, the crystal towers of Sado metamorphosed into monoliths of stillness, of death. They no longer contained the life that produced the auditory heartbeat of the city, emanating from open windows and the harmonics of wind sweeping through the glassy avenues. To any other Dasaka, it might simply be creepy. To Suzume, however, whose ears were half of her talent and her most substantial connection to the world outside the small apartment, the silence was petrifying. Just a few days ago she’d ventured out and had a similar experience with the lack of Sado’s usual bustle. The combination of wilful ignorance, misplaced rationalization, and the relatively deafening sounds her stomach was making at the time prevented her from fully grasping the implications of the soundlessness. Now, those feelings of unease were amplified with each step, anxiety building within her chest and knotting up the heart within. Her own footsteps reverberated a meek pitter-patter on a half-second delay, crystal façades reflecting the sound unpredictably and driving stakes of fear into her chest every time she glanced over her shoulder, expecting someone to be shadowing her. It was such a contradictory fear, and Suzume could not parse her definitive wishes on the matter. Did she most fear seeing somebody following her during those brief glances, or continuing to see nobody at all, despite how long she walked? She felt like screaming, if only to hear a voice - but such a sentiment was short-lived, as a blast of Ideatalk assailed her mind. ::State your name and clan and your reason for being in this area without notifying the war council.:: “AAH!” She did end up screaming. A moment later, she parsed what exactly the words within her mind were saying; though she still whipped her head around this way and that, almost knocking herself off-balance with how violently she was pivoting her body to gaze down the empty streets in search of the speaker. She found no-one. ::Huh?! … whuh??? Who? Where?!:: came the unfocused, diminutive reply. OOC: @Mel

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Rocking gently back and forth with eyes fixed upon the stained tiles of the floor, young Gorro listened intently to the tale uttered by Montague. The biting cold of the black water flowing in a verbal tapestry from his host’s mouth lapped at the soles of his feet, sapping the flow of blood and numbing his extremities. He embraced himself, anchoring his elbows sharply into the ridges of his ribs and crisscrossing forearms in front of his chest, beneath his garments. Little was accomplished through this, and scarcely any comfort returned. Montague’s words grew distant across the gulf of consciousness, for Gorro continued his contemplations. His mind was on the cusp of being cleft in twain - he must either reclaim his faculties, or burst from the door of this room, never to return! Neither of these options came to pass, a deadlock still preventing rational thought for the time being. A pang of sudden, inexplicable familiarity struck the Cy-Toa without warning, demanding his attention return to the other two beings in present company. No epiphany jumped out and strangled Gorro upon the conclusion of Montague’s tale and Savis’ subsequent query, but the niggling sensation remained in the pit of his psyche, sticking there and slowly sinking in the same manner as honey down a parched throat. Montague continued, detailing the circumstances of their sibling until an uttered word brought him to rapt attention. “Expedition… expedition! Where do you plan to go? What do you hope to- to find? The cause?” Simultaneous with Montague’s lungs filling in preparation of response, whiplash struck Gorro with enough force to cause him to nearly faint. Dread. Dread! Washing over him. Just like in his- “...W- wait. What… what monolith…?” OOC: @Goose @Nato G

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro Technology Emporium Farzan’s reemergence from backstage was just as unnoticed by Jokaro as his initial exeunt. His dialogue fell on deaf ears, for the Po-Matoran was locked into a stupor, a faint smile creasing the corners of his mouth. Tailua’s bellowing laugh seemed distant, and the Fa-Matoran’s mysterious cargo, which would ordinarily have piqued Jokaro’s interest, was excluded entirely from his current, narrow perception. His attention was diverted elsewhere - psyche floating on a cloud of delirious revelation as future events (namely, a sale in five minutes’ time) unfolded themselves and created amongst the gathered souls a prophet of commerce. The siren song of his own machinations drew him in, beckoning him toward his workbench like moth to flame- wait, hold up a minute. Does Mata Nui have moths? I’ll have to double-check my sources on that one. In the meantime I guess I’ll just file them under “Mythological Entities that Stannis Maru could conceivably pull from the Legend,” other examples of which include Mata Nui’s moon, a more tolerable rendition of Stannis Maru, and the female orgаsm. Moth existence notwithstanding, Jokaro’s workbench and the crafts thereupon were revealed to the gathered group as they entered into the workshop proper - the prototype V2 settled within a nest of spare parts, all dolled up in its cosmetics of grease, varnish, and the occasional fleck of rust. “This is more or less what you want!” proclaimed Nostradamus. “Just finished building it this afternoon - I call it the ‘V2 Patero.’ It’s lighter, and much easier to operate; theoretically, it should also shoot a bit further - at the expense of payload size, of course. But, as you can see-” Hefting and carefully cradling the prototype launcher like one would a newborn, Jokaro swivelled around on his heel. His trance-like sales pitch was abruptly shattered by an apparition; a specter, a phantom come back to haunt him from times of old. The Ghost of Christmas Past. “Oh, there you are, Farzan.” remarked the Po-Matoran, too curious about his fellow’s burden to be irritated. He cocked his head, sizing up the back-laden materiel, and wondering why the Fa-Matoran had elected not to load his cargo onto his crab. “Dumpster diving again?” OOC: @Emzee @Geardirector

YO speaking of sigmas https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lieutenant

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro Two words repeated themselves over and over, bouncing off the inside surface of Raaka’s skull. Both of them stepped back out into the humid air of Ga-Koro, and those two words still continued their attempts at escape, failing each time they rebounded off the bone. Ko-Wahi. Ko-Wahi. Kooo-Waaaahiiii. Hmmmmmm. Baszlin knew he’d been there. The feeling of snow crunching under his feet, the icy chill freezing his jaw nearly shut. The sensations all pointed in one direction, but time and purpose eluded him. The docs said he’d been in a battle there, but even now, that seemed like so long ago to the Skakdi. Time felt too fluid to put a definitive pin on some cerebrally ethereal battle, a skeletal affair devoid of details and relayed only in passing mention. Answers could be found there. And it was there they would go. “Shall we take the ferry to Ta-Wahi?” asked he, extending a thumb and fist over his shoulder in the direction of the open Bay. “Faster than walking, if you are in a hurry.” OOC: @Tarn

IC: Ember - The Fowadi There were a couple of names - ones that would’ve immediately snapped back to the forefront of her awareness had Ember been a younger woman. Alas, it took a bit more doing, nowadays, like many things physical and mental. “Hmmm… ‘twas a while ago… lemme think, lad…” She tipped her head back, as the gentle rocking of the ship uncovered the sun hiding behind it. The warmth washed across her features as she wracked her mind, before the ship’s undulation changed direction and the shade returned. Briefly, her feat- “Right! Cap’n, um…” she snapped her fingers once, twice. “Cap’n Ruuri! Ruuri…? No, Ruuli!” More snapping. “And… and, yes - Lieutenant Valdya. Star student, that’un. Real knack for the craft. Musta made Cap’n by now.” She refocused her attention on Rynekk. “Those two, most likely.” ___ __ _ IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro Technology Emporium Merchant Onozan? Name wasn’t familiar - might be one of Farzan’s buddies. Speaking of, where HAD that little bugger run off to? Customer relations was his specialty. Nevertheless, at least Jokaro stood to make a few widgets this time without having to harangue the Fa-Matoran about giving his shіt away for free. Anyway… Carefully scrutinizing the Toa’s prosthetic - in particular the attachment point - Jokaro made a mental note to look into whether or not the shop had any similar such mounting systems. It wasn’t one he was familiar with, but modifying a Patero to utilize it wasn’t going to pose a problem. “Well, Tailua, this kind of attachment system isn’t one I’m familiar with, but modifying a Patero to fit it shouldn’t pose a problem. One moment.” Disappearing back through the threshold opposite the workshop entrance, Jokaro once again combed through the storage room’s selection of Patero, finding one that was not claimed by an owners’ tag. The relatively massive launcher obscured the upper half of his body as he carried it back to the front desk, gingerly setting the heavy weapon down allowing his burden to CLUNK audibly upon the countertop. “Yeah, see here-” he pointed to the spindly pumphandle protruding from the back of the launcher. “...this is going to be the problem area. As you can see, this puppy is Heavy, with a capital aitch. Ain’t nothin’ back here to counterbalance all the weight forward of the grip. Directly attaching the whole thing to your limb is gonna result in some serious stress without constant support from your other arm.” The Po-Matoran now gripped the Patero’s patented* pumphandle and gave it a… you know. A pump (for demonstration purposes only). “Not to mention, it’s gonna be even more of a pain in the аss to pump the thing - like this, see? Could always put the mounting point further up at the center of gravity, but then there won’t be any room for the pumphandle, and you’re kinda outta luck there.” Next, he propped the launcher upright, running his hand along the topside, terminating at the back of the breech cover. “Now, what I could do is - you followin’ me with this? Good. What I could do is take these sights off and put the mounting point up here instead. But - uh oh! No way to aim the dаmn thing properly! And it’s still a pain to pump it up. So, way I see it is, you’re gonna have to choose one’a these options here and just kinda make your peace with the - huh…” Another lightbulb moment, like the one in the previous Jokaro post. I’m not going to go through that whole wall of text again. Just scroll up, okay? You get the picture. Ding! Figurative lightbulb going off above Jo’s head here, except Mata Nui doesn’t actually have lightbulbs. And if they did, this one would be kinda flickery and intermittent. Not the greatest bulb in the box. Not the bluntest rock in the landslide. What’s that expression? Can’t remember. DING! Okay, yeah, now that’s a proper lightbulb. “...make your peace… with… huh. Actually, I just…” The Po-Matoran glanced over his shoulder at the stone archway that led into the workshop, where something in particular lay immaculate (read: dirty and unpolished) upon his workbench. “...I just had a better idea. This way, please.” He gestured, directing the Toa to accompany him as he made his way into that pigsty of a room. Wiremu could come too, if he really wanted. *(patent pending) OOC: @Void Emissary @Silvan Haven @Emzee @Geardirector

The Man, the Myth, the Legend:

PROTOCOL 1: LINK TO BASED

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro Technology Emporium Continue to create new tools for the Koro…? The Po-Matoran wracked his brain to discern whether or not he’d been privy to knowledge of Nuparu’s groping fingers settling themselves into Po. Perhaps he’d just forgotten. It wasn’t unthinkable - Nuparu’s reach extended spiderweb-like across the entirety of the island, delving into intellectual and technological crevasses only the small army of engineers at his disposal could hope to chart. And now one of said individuals was here before him, asking how he could make himself useful. Why hadn’t he gone to Po-Koro’s official Engineering Department? True, the Emporium had been subsidized by Renaka’s bureaucrats, but why not go see Lenat? It couldn’t have been an accident that this Wiremu had walked in here specifically. He’d have to interrogate Farzan on the matter later, since the neurons had finished firing and found only dead ends. A new batch of electrical impulses began their journey a fraction of a second later, finding paydirt in the Sector of Educated Guesses. “Ah, the Quarry, right? Figures that you Onu-Koronans would know a thing or two about diggin’ up ore. I’ve heard-” The gears of a mental locomotive suddenly seized within his gray matter, the machinery grinding to a halt and squealing metallically as it struggled to throw all its mass in a new direction against its previous momentum. The conductor of this neural engine held within his hands a new destination - a portrait of Jokaro’s backpack, a set of folded schematics within. As the machinery spun back up and gained steam along its new track, it collided with a big, squishy mass set upon the rails. This mass was commonly known as a neuron, but now functioned much like a domino. The shock of the train’s collision elicited an electromagnetic scream that was heard by its neighbors, who themselves screamed in turn, now making their neighbors likewise wail. This rancor ripped through his brain not at all like the streams of the previous couple of thoughts - it manifested as a tidal wave of energy that should have lit the whole of his brain up like a lightstone had it not been encased within his skull. All that Wiremu could see was an increased brightness behind Jokaro’s eyes as those schematics in the conductor’s portrait unfolded themselves, shrinking within the canvas upon which they were emblazoned. New markings, notes, instructions and specifications appeared in the growing blank areas surrounding the schematics at the center, suggesting a much, much grander scope than what amounted originally to just a thing. Now, it became a plan. “Saaay…” he began, lacing his fingers together and settling them gently in front of him upon the front counter. “I do have an idea what you might be able to help with, if Nuparu is willing to provide the materiel and personnel needed. Why don’t we-” dingdingding The train was derailed by a door chime. The Emporium’s door chime. Of which Jokaro was an employee. An employee who was currently behind the front counter. The front counter of a store which- A beat passed as his attention was briefly caught by the Ta-Toa who’d just entered. He addressed Wiremu, holding up a finger - “Hold that thought.” - before refocusing once again on what was often referred to in folklore as a ‘customer’. “Welcome. Picking up? Dropping off? Or just browsing?” ___ __ _ IC: Ember - The Fowadi Only for a few moments after Rynekk had finished his sell did the Ta-Matoran allow the grin to linger across her features. She’d already known the answer when she’d shaken hands with Kale belowdecks merely an hour or two ago. Her smiling face then relaxed and morphed itself into a much subtler and more comfortable visage of professional satisfaction. Her posture followed suit by (somewhat paradoxically) snapping itself out of its relaxed state and assumed a rigid, straight-backed stance, hands clasped behind her - now firmly back in the role of sailor at attention before a senior officer. Curiously, her head was still spinning from what Ember assumed to be the raw experience of fraternizing amongst the crew of one of the most prolific ships in history. A minuscule wave of nausea washed over her before being immediately suppressed by years of experience. It occurred to her that she was probably not, in fact, overly-awestruck at her current status but still getting reacclimated to the rocking of a vessel beneath her feet. Her gait and posture had instinctively kicked themselves back into gear once she’d first set foot on deck, adopting the automatic shuffling of her weight from one leg to another - but obviously she had spent too much time fast aground to continue exactly as she had been years ago without a few figurative hiccups. The Fowadi’s armor plating wasn’t the only thing with a smattering of rust lining the creases. Fleeting nausea was replaced with pangs of fear that were likewise suppressed moments after forming - it was concern that she would, given enough time laid up on land, get too comfortable with non-undulating ground beneath her feet and overly-palatable food in her gut. That would absolutely not do. She belonged on the ocean. Ember knew that. Hеll, even Rynekk knew it, plain as day. A little bout of nausea wasn’t nearly enough to deaden her desires, and the sampling of fear that came after served only to make her determination all the more clear. Ember cleared her throat. “Temptation’s a sin, Toa Rynekk.” The corner of her mouth tightened back almost invisibly, the grin threatening to overtake her again. Her discipline kept it (mostly) in check. “But I’m sure you know all sailors are sinners, aye?” OOC: @Geardirector @Emzee @Void Emissary @Silvan Haven

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Composure wormed itself up first from the pit of young Gorro’s stomach and soon began weaving its tendrils into the folds of his brain; the tremors which had so wracked his limbs oscillated now less and less, coming closer to a standstill as inward ruminations dissolved under a solution of outward attention and newfound curiosity. The new-comer to the small abode of queer Montague began their recounting of events, triggering a new fit of literary engrossment within the host of this absurd, ephialtic triumvirate - their host now again scribbling madly in the diary which had so repulsed dear Gorro. A trance-like fascination overcame the young Toa of Crystal as the tales of shipwrecks and memories far removed from typical recall were uttered forth by Savis. The distinctive similarity between his own circumstances and those of the Lesterin kept him rapt, specifically the fact that Savis had awoken upon- Gorro’s lip was trembling with the urge to request more of the speaker - more tales or terror so that Gorro could find further common ground, grasping desperately at the idea that what had afflicted them all was exactly that - an affliction, and not a flight of madness coincidentally shared by an unlikely pair. Afflictions could be cured, he told himself in uncertain affirmation. He could be cured. Alas, Savis’ tale wound down before anything further could be revealed, and the brief rapture Gorro had enjoyed was broken, a spell of despair washing over him like a tide UPON A- "Say, Gorro – I understand, of course, that it is a question of rather a personal nature, but I do believe that we may have stumbled upon a connecting factor. I- naturally, of course, I should not get too ahead of myself, but I do wonder… Have you, too, experienced some traumatic event in relation to water?" Saline blood drained from the young Toa’s face and composure likewise retreated back into the abyssal bowels from which it had emerged. Sickness seemed to take him, threaten to extinguish his consciousness here and leave him vulnerable in the dim light of Montague’s room. Only by squeezing his fingers into the flesh of his palms and screwing shut his eye-lids for some seconds after Montague had completed their request was Gorro able to ward off the prospect of fainting. Hoarsely, he opened his mouth and recounted his experiences after minutes of dreadful silence… “I, um… It was a long time ago. I don’t keep track of- of how many years it’s been since… I used to take a lot of drugs. I used to party. I didn’t really have anyone around me other than some others whose n-names I’ve forgotten…” Like beasts creeping from the depths of the earth did Gorro’s hands now emerge from beneath his covering, the digits spasmodically quaking as they uncoiled themselves. All could now see the pure terror that had penetrated deep into his psyche and buffeted the fortitude of his mind as waves do upon stone, wearing them down over the course of aeons. His bulging, staring eyes which had been turned down towards the dusty floor were at once covered by the palms into which were delved deep impressions of nail-marks from where his fingered had pressed moments ago. His head now rested upon his hands and his elbows planted above his knees, the gospel continued: “I - I… I went too far one day. I t-took too many. We were out on Lake Kanae. I… I think we were in a boat, or a canoe, or some-something like that. I don’t really remember. We were looking up at the stars, and… and I remember how they twisted and intertwined, and spelt out messages. The Red Star… it - it stared into me like an eye, or… or like a red-hot poker, stabbing into my chest and boiling my organs…” A pained, though measurably quiet wail of terror broke through the story and briefly gave the young Toa pause. Composure could do nothing but ensnare itself in his gut, providing meagre comfort, but just enough for him to continue. “The next thing I remember… I felt wet. And cold. And heavy… I couldn’t breathe. I c-couldn’t feel anything… just sensations… I was sinking… The… the next thing I really remember is… is… c-c-coughing up s-seawater. The salt, it- it stung my lungs, my throat, lit m-me on fire from the inside. I was… weak. I could barely m-move, but… I felt the heat on my face, just breaking through the chill… the sun was rising, that was where the- the heat was coming from, and I… and… and…” With incredible speed, Gorro’s head shot up from its organic pedestal; wide, bloodshot eyes staring through Montague’s, an expression of deathly terror overriding all other senses warping his features into a pallid, corpse-like countenance. His next words, sputtered forth through a quaking jaw, were a terrified whisper. “I awoke upon the shore.” OOC: @Goose @Nato G

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro, Tidalpool Inn Baszlin did not avert his eyes from the Matoran opposite him, as he spread a daub of pâté across the surface of a cracker as the latter spoke. The scrape of butter-knife serrations over the waver nearly drowned out the hushed tones of Surdo’s voice. Popping the whole thing in his mouth and crunching down on it produced much quieter sounds. “Mmmhmmm, yesh,” came the response after a time, followed by an inaudible gulp. “Quite distinct. Dreadfully, even. Your confidence in the matter of locating this individual will suffice for now. I’ll get the information I need one way or another.” As Surdo continued his inquiries into Baszlin’s commitment to their pact, the Skakdi carefully considered the mechanical components of his artificial limb, ensuring that no refuse had become lodged in the joints. “Yes, yes, our agreement shall be honored by both parties,” he replied distractedly. Satisfied, he laced the fingers of both hands in front of him, and returned that amber stare to the face of the Matoran who was now remarking upon his appetite. He continued staring after the Matoran had finished his sentence, almost expectantly so, for a few moments too long before- “Hah!” The chortle was accompanied by a sharp thump upon the table with the flat of his organic palm and a wry smile, as if there was some joke the Matoran was not privy to. “So be it.” At that, he likewise slid out of the booth, retrieving his weapon from where it was propped up. “Do you have further business in Ga-Koro? Or would you like to depart for… Obsidian Outpost, was it? The name rings a bell, but my memory is not quite what it once was, you see.”

IC: Ember - The Fowadi “We set sail for a fortnight, through the storms o’ hail and rain The waves; they rocked the Ol’ Takea time and time again We crested ‘round to Leva Bay, and there before us lay Our quarry on the open sea; there’s blood to shed today!” The old Salt barely had to sing her part of the shanty now. Enough of the crew had joined in that even those who were just hearing the jaunting tune for the first time were following suit as they picked up on the lyrics. Heaving and hauling rhythmically, the Sentinel sailors attuned themselves to the proper pace of the stanzas, crafted carefully by generations of mariners before them so they could be molded into the beating heart that their vessel needed them to be. “Oh-woah, bring the Ol’ Takea ‘round Oh-woah, bring the Ol’ Takea ‘round Oh-woah, bring the Ol’ Takea ‘round Till she brings me back a-shore!” Even still, she could not help but belt out the last verse, her voice nearly breaking as she exhausted every last ounce of air in her lungs so that the melody would carry itself throughout the port: “The guns; they roared a-thunderous a-well into the night Her allies cracked and burnin’; ‘twas a godforsaken sight The Ol’ Takea stood alone; gave a long and bloody fight And in the mornin’ still - she had her colors flyin’ bright!” There it was - that minuscule moment of ecstasy as the triumphant tale rounded itself nearly to a close - an instance of silence before the storm of voices rang out in unison, drowning out the creaking of wood and the tension of lines, now thrumming as if plucked by the hand of the Great Spirit. The lightning crackled in all their eyes, and the thunder soon followed: “Woah-ho, it’s the Ol’ Takea’s bite Woah-ho, it’s the Ol’ Takea’s bite Woah-ho, it’s the Ol’ Takea’s bite And she will come back for more!” “Again!” “Woah-ho, it’s the Ol’ Takea’s bite Woah-ho, it’s the Ol’ Takea’s bite Woah-ho, it’s the Ol’ Takea’s bite And she wiiiill coooome baaaack foooor mooooore!” A great, hearty hollering rang out through the ranks of sailors as the shanty slowed to a close - a great cry that seemed as if it could be heard across the whole of Leva Bay for it was so grandiose. The sound of morale. It was impossible for her not to be happy now, a grin plastered across her face as she climbed back down to the deck, dropping herself the last couple of feet with a thud. Try as she might to suppress it, a trace of the grin still remained as she composed herself and about-faced, pointing herself in the direction of Toa Kale and Rynekk as she strode over. Her back straightened and her throat was cleared, the general din of work continuing across the ship now audible again as the whooping cheers of the Sentinels died down and they continued with their tasks. “Figured I might be able t’ speed things up a bit, Toa Kale,” she reported. “More salt aboard than I expected, t’ be honest.”

IC: Suzume, Sado Apartment Weeks ago. “I’m leaving, Suzume.” There was no reply from behind the closed door of Suzume’s room, neither vocal nor through Ideatalk, save for the trilling high notes of the young Dasaka’s shinobue, filling the otherwise quiet air of the mother and daughter’s apartment with the third movement of Kitamura’s The Flower Dancer. Though the piece didn’t call for any percussion, Hiromi freestyled a single drumbeat by closing the front door a bit too forcefully as she left. Suzume didn’t falter, and barely noticed the anomalous addition - it was the same story morning after morning. Her mother was off to the Yards again - to Arohi specifically - as she did every day, even during her off-days. She’d long since stopped trying to force her daughter to accompany her, since doing so with Suzume being as old as she was would be more embarrassing than just allowing her to keep out of public perception. Hiromi knew her days were numbered. She knew there was going to come a day where the gossip would reach exactly the wrong ear and bring all of Zataka’s wrath down to bear on her household. Her career would be over. The only reason why a second stolid pile was not festering in her home - a pile of sake bottles - was because she didn’t allow them in in the first place. As soon as she did, they’d become yet another career-ending problem, and about the only thing she did like anymore was her job as a Willhammer instructor. Take the information gleaned thus far as you will. Suzume, on the other hand, was content as often as she could be, with the exception of when she got dizzy from dehydration, or when her stomach growled more loudly than her flute could drown out. There she sat, day in and out, either playing or practicing a sonata, studying her sheet music books or the biographies of their composers, or perusing the latest charts. Right now, however, she was immersing herself in the bright, energetic overture of Kitamura. The proverbial flowers budded, blossomed, wilted and faded away before long, and at last Suzume put down her flute when it was finished, some time after her mother had left. She got up, crept from the golden rays of her sun-lit room and figured on getting some breakfast from the kitchen. She’d bring the meal back to her room and continue playing before long. Her mother did not return at her usual time that evening. * * * IC: Suzume Two weeks ago. ♪—-♫ ♪—-♪ … ˢᵏʳᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉ Some seriously weird noises were interrupting her practice session this afternoon, and they were worse than the ones of exasperation that emanated from her mother’s general direction within the apartment. Not that those latter noises had intruded upon her concentration like they usually did - her mother mercifully hadn’t bothered her with a “Do your laundry! You can’t wear the same clothes for five days in a row!” or a “Come here! It’s time you learned something useful!” or some other rambling diatribe that served only to distract her and sully her mood for the day. In fact, she hadn’t really set foot in the house for a little while when Suzume was conscious, to the best of her knowledge. She figured that her mother was probably getting up really early and coming home from the Yards really late, as she sometimes did when she was in one of her moods. It wasn’t uncommon for Suzume to sleep for an inordinate number of hours and miss either of those events during their regular schedule, anyway. Well, as long as the water was still running and there was food in the fridge. In the distance, she heard what sounded like fireworks and… screaming? Cheering? Hard to tell what they were other than an annoyance. In a huff, Suzume put down her instrument and stormed off to the kitchen, hoping that the goings on of Sado would quiet down when she returned with a plum or two. * * * IC: Suzume Four days ago. There was nothing to eat. She didn’t mean that in the “There’s actually plenty of food but I can’t be asked to cook anything” way. There was quite literally nothing left to eat in the house because she’d exhausted every last option. Both the fridge and the cabinets were empty, and the garbage and sink were full in their place. In her room, the shinobue and her stomach played a duet of high lofting notes and deep rumbling vibrato. Suzume did not care for this other instrument, constantly barging in and braying like an oxen and throwing her rhythm off with off-tune and inappropriate soloes. It was time to rectify the problem that had clearly slipped her mother’s mind. Well, one of them. She completely ignored the dirty dishes and the garbage piling up - wasn’t her department. Breakfast could not wait any longer. Her robe was fetched from where it was draped haphazardly over a bundle of clothes in the corner of her room, thrown on unceremoniously (the wrinkles and stains going unnoticed by the young Dasaka donning it) and fluttered in her wake as she strode to the front door, grumbling as she went. Looking back over her shoulder was an afterthought, but in doing so, she spied that the door to her mother’s room was closed. What day was it? Suzume couldn’t remember; perhaps it was one of her mother’s off-days and she was still asleep in there. Weighing in her mind for the briefest of moments whether it was better to leave her to rest or to wake her up to declare that she was leaving the house, she decided on the former and took her leave immediately after pillaging the contents of the decorative bowl on the credenza next to the door for a handful of crystal dragons. Exiting the similarly-crystalline building into the streets of Sado was a bit of a surreal experience - Suzume truly hadn’t left the apartment in a little while and the first thing she noticed was just how quiet it was, especially considering how loud it had been earlier in the week as the bustle of the city was briefly accompanied by sounds uncharacteristic of daily life. It couldn’t have been that early in the morning - the sky was just losing the milky-rose blush imparted by the rising sun and giving way to the same brilliant blue that so dominated the Archipelago. And, like the sky, there were just as many people on the streets as there were clouds above. None. For the first time in who-knows-how-long, the young Dasaka truly pondered if something had gone terribly wrong, or perhaps she was dreaming. However, the all-too-real growl of her gut ripped her back from her ruminations. Pocketing the coinage that she had pilfered from the doorside stash, Suzume finally trod the streets of the city once more, after a lengthy hiatus, in search of a venue her mother had taken her to often when she was in her single-digit years. It wasn’t too far, if memory served - just a short walk (not that she did much of that so any jaunt was a rather lengthy one by her standards) and around the corner from the apartment. Still, her thoughts drifted back to the odd serenity of Sado as it stood looming around her, broken up only by lines of shrubbery, trees and miscellaneous foliage carefully maintained by Dashi working throughout the day, none of whom were visible now. In the distance, Suzume thought she heard shouting from some distant point, but it could just have easily been the squawking of a family of gulls or perhaps even the roar of a dragon high up on Koshiki. Once again, these thoughts didn’t remain cranium-bound for long as she rounded the street corner and spied the old joint, immediately displacing concern with lust for warm tamagoyaki or maybe those fluffy little pancakes she so fondly remembered… * * * IC: Suzume Now. She sat there, cross-legged, in the middle of the living room, with the faded calendar splayed out before her. Suzume was studying it intently, trying her dаmnedest to remember the exact day her mother had left and not returned. She’d determined that it was, in fact, more than four weeks ago, that much was certain. Certainty was another thing - she’d purposefully stayed up the entire night to be certain that she was not actually missing her mother’s theorized nightly/daily creeping to and from the house - that it was definitively not occurring outside her realm of perception or conveniently only when Suzume was incapacitated. Not to mention that, judging from the smell of fermenting garbage and the piles of soiled dishware creating its own miniature replica of Sado in the kitchen, she had not been back to the apartment in a long, long while. To learn any of this after so long would embarrass any other Dasaka living within the Empire, but this is Suzume we’re talking about and the concept of “shame” was not one she cared to learn about. The stench was actively hampering her efforts to focus on determining just how long her mother had been missing and no amount of silken wadding could stop it from, at the very least, tickling her sinuses and making her gag. Eventually, she gave up on the task at hand and, with an anguished groan, forced herself up on her wobbly, malnourished legs and steeled herself for the task at hand. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. This girl is ready, at last, to do A Chore™. The first thing to tackle was the garbage. The grimace contorting her features threatened to split her cheeks from the rest of her face as she hauled the bags of refuse out into the street and deposited them in their waiting receptacle. Whether anyone would swing by to collect them, Suzume could not care nor reasonably theorize, her senses overwhelmed by the pestilential odor emanating from the pile. She looked down in horror at her hands, begging that the stench not be permanently soaked into them. It was a hard thought to ignore as she set her mind to the second task, and that was dismantling the castle of porcelain that she had turned the kitchen countertop into. At least the water was still running, but it seemed like no amount of scrubbing could rid the cutlery and dishware of the blackening stains plaguing them. Admirably, she soldiered on, however poor her attempts were. Gold star for effort, though. Her reward at the end of all this was to open every single window in the tiny corner apartment and let the fetor dissipate into the cool air of Sado, hopefully never to haunt her again. Regardless, it made the atmosphere within the abode tolerable enough that Suzume could think and pace around without feeling the need to vomit. As much as she just wanted to retreat into her room, forget about the strangeness that had disrupted her life so much that she had to actually do something for once, and play her flute, she knew that that was no longer an option. Something had happened, not just to her or her mother, but to the world as a whole, and it was time for her to figure out what. With enough determination that might make her absent mother even the slightest bit proud, Suzume scrounged up whatever money remained within the house (not much) and some important essentials (basically just her shinobue) and, after donning her robe which she had decided to scrub at the last minute, took a good long look at her home. She hoped to be back here soon. She hoped that whatever had happened was something mundane or just some brief anomaly that would sort itself out without her. But Suzume was, admittedly, terrified. She didn’t realize just how much she depended on her mother, and needed desperately to find her. Closing and locking the front door of the apartment behind her, she strode out into the streets of her home city, determined to find out what in the name of Zataka’s rotund аss was happening. OOC: Worst Girl open for interaction.

No problem!

IC: Verakastian - Fortress Khy;Barr Now was his chance. Go! Run, Verakastian! Without uttering a word, he cut through the sickly nimbus permeating the entirety of the laboratory, a phantasmal affair of the scented steam billowing from one of a dozen crocks mixing with the acrid stench of ovuk-taht smoked one after another. He gave the proprietors of those vapours as wide a berth as he could in the confined space and bounded up the steps out into the wider Foundries of his Master’s domain. He felt safer with the titan than with those other four, and liberating himself of their company for even a few minutes would surely soothe the throbbing pain behind his eyes and calm the hammering of his heart against ribs. “My Lord,” he started as he caught up with the seismic footfalls, “will you be needing anything else for your journey? Perhaps some tomes from your library? A shipment of weapons? We have a full crate of Pikes ready to send out to the Broker. O-or perhaps some liquor? I can send Larex to fetch some from Gohkar…” Any excuse to call him away for those precious few minutes. ___ __ _ IC: Shavrakk - The Rift Creeping cautiously into the capricious crevasse, Shavrakk’s eyes darted this way and that, flicking between jagged stalagmites in anticipation of being accosted by any sort of abyssal horror or mundane interloper should they jump out from behind them - either was as equally likely here as any other strange occurrence. Past visits to the Rift had yielded unto him merely optical illusions and minor hallucinations, but he admittedly hadn’t stayed within the boundaries of this cursed place for long, ensuring his guard was up and his mental fortitude was unblemished at every available opportunity. He would continue doing so now and in future visits until the technique proved inadequate. His footfalls seemed to become heavier as he reached the canyon floor, his boots penetrating deeper into the loose soil than felt normal. Grimacing, Shavrakk’s scanning ceased momentarily as his gaze shot downward upon his footwear to ensure he was not, indeed, sinking too deep and sullying his soles. Both satisfied and concerned that it was a mere trick of the mind, he continued scanning for danger and quickly found it when, rounding the corner of a rocky outcropping, he spied the edge of a pool of antidermis. The bubbling ichor gave him pause. Welling up out of a broken stalagmite, the inky-black fluid pumped out in arterial spurts, complexifying the maelstrom patterns of its pearlescent greenish skin. The rhythmic nature of its expulsion drove thoughts into his mind of an evil heart moving the fluid deep within the recesses of the earth, giving life to the Rift itself. As Shavrakk stood contemplating a few bio away, the pool grew and grew as more antidermis coalesced aboveground and the mesmerizing eddies and currents almost invisible within it captured his attention. He resisted the temptation to examine it more closely, his fingers wrapping tighter around the carven bone of his revolver’s handle as was habit when he sensed danger. At last he tore his eyes away and turned on his heel, staring up at the canyon wall and the jagged path that had brought him down into the Rift proper. Presently he could not help but notice the way the daggers of stone towered up and seemed to close over him - as if Irnakk himself had been felled here and Zakaz made from his bones, his ribs becoming the stalagmites of the Rift and enclosing around him like a caged beast. The words “Irnakk has you now” echoed endlessly in the recesses of his mind, even after his thoughts became occupied with other matters. It did not help to allay his conceptions of geological anatomy. It was as bad an omen as any, though real bones were quite common in the Rift if one were to search carefully enough. If they were not those of Irnakk, they were those of mortals whose souls had left their carcasses behind and plunged into Kino-Ur to dissipate into featurelessness or otherwise. Spectres invisible to him were certainly watching as Shavrakk made a mental note of where exactly he had entered the Rift, and continued deeper in, counting his paces as he went. The sizzling of the spreading antidermis soon quieted behind him. * * * An hour later, his eyes were once again staring out through the lenses of his binoculars, analyzing the knotted and twisted rock formations to the southeast, a dark orifice opening within its cobbled face - a mouth, a cave, opened wide to the world and swallowing all light that entered. It was a foreboding sight, and Shavrakk loathed to study it longer than he had to. The light itself was dimming. Ragged gray clouds had tumbled in and now blanketed the sky, softening the edges of the Rift’s aggressive shadows after the sun had changed its angle from ninety degrees overhead. It was some mild comfort against the unnerving sight of the cave in the distance. He’d decide whether or not it was worth entering as he made a closer approach. The binoculars were lowered and impacted upon his chest with a thump as he released them, the strap catching the back of his neck. He let them rest there and pound out a rhythm as his pace increased from a standstill and he continued his trek. It was after a few minutes at a brisk pace that his eye was caught by a peculiar marking on the ground a short distance away - a dark spot in the soil, distinct from its surroundings. It neither bulged above the surface in the angular fashion of a waylaid item or queer rock nor roiled and twitched in the apparent motion of antidermis. The question of what it was lingered in his conscious for the minute or two it took him to stride over and check, determining before he was directly upon it that it was a stain. It was only after the Skakdi knelt down to examine it more closely that it revealed to him a worse omen. The stain was blood. Old enough to have soaked into the ground, but fresh enough to not have completely dried. A grimace twisted itself across Shavrakk’s face and his stomach turned, uneasy at the implications. It was not unlike the Rift to induce trickery upon the minds of unwary visitors, but he couldn’t help but feel it was real blood, shed only recently by a real being. He dared not speculate on what exactly had transpired here. The Skakdi righted himself, smacking the leathers of his knee where it had touched the soil until it was without evidence of dirt - he would scrub it later when he made camp, and more thoroughly in one of the hostels of the Tooth when his business in the Rift was concluded. A shiver once again wracked his body as a blast of cool wind swept down from the clouds, screeching as it wove itself through the myriad stony spires and fluttered the fringe of his hood, threatening to push it back and expose his head. Wanting to ensure that this did not occur, Shavrakk turned himself away from the wind’s origin, and in doing so laid his eyes upon another such bloodstain, a few bio away from the first, partially obscured behind a loose stone. His thumb idly brushed against his revolver’s holster, his hand again twitching closer to the grip with every beat of his heart. He could feel the pounding on his chest, though now he was standing still and the binoculars were motionless - the pounding was from within. He strode towards the new splotch of blood, and spied yet another beyond it, larger and with small chunks of viscera scattered nearby. Another stain lay beyond that, larger still and with more viscera. And another beyond that, and so on. He glanced behind him, to the northwest, spotting another link in the trail of blood, smaller and wetter. The next was almost imperceptible, a mere few drops some ten or so paces away. There was no other evidence he could find beyond that - a dead end. He spun on his heel to again face the demarcated dotted line of increasing gore and spotted the terminus in the distance. It was a familiar sight: a much larger dark spot, perpendicular to the rest and without wetness of blood nor bits of flesh and bone in accompaniment. It was the open mouth of that dark cave set into the tumble of stone to the southeast. It was waiting for its next meal.