Perp

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro, Tidalpool Inn With more careful grace and good manners than one of his appearance would think to have, the battered Skakdi raised a napkin to his permanent sneering grin and patted his lips clean before folding the implement over his hand and returning it to the tabletop. His fingers, organic and mechanical, laced themselves together upon the same tabletop before him as he leaned forward ever so slightly. “Defining features? Of course, plenty. I have a good eye for details, I’ll admit. He’s a Toa. Element… can’t remember. But he was green, different shades. Vibrant viridian Kanohi Hau, with amber eyes. Like mine, you see? About one-point-five-two bio tall - an accurate measurement, I know. I have a good eye for those sorts of details, did I already say that? “Anyway. His eyes were… smaller than average. Not quite beady, but small enough for me to notice the peculiarity. Wide mouth, especially noticeable when he was grinning, and he did a lot of that, yes. Odd little scar, like a pockmark, just outside and behind his right eye, about here - ” One of his hands shot up to indicate the spot before returning to its previous position. “Bit of a cleft chin, fairly high cheekbones, prominent brow…” Baszlin’s eyes darted down, staring at his plate of food, half eaten, as if contemplating whether or not he wanted to continue his meal. He took in a deep breath, filling his lungs via his nose. “Smelled faintly of oranges. Think maybe he ate them quite often - can’t remember that exactly, but I remember the scent.”

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro, Tidalpool Inn The Skakdi wasted no time in diggin into the seafood laid before him: a smattering of smoked ruki, raw tanta lain upon plump beds of rice, bone-in makutafish, akodi pâté, at least two kinds of fresh shellfish salted and stuffed with local herbs… It was at least a minute’s worth of silence following Surdo’s inquiry that Baszlin spent both piling his plate full of at least one of each dish, and reveling in the flavour of at least two immediately after. “A name?” he, at last, pondered aloud, cleaning his fingers with a nearby napkin. “Presumably, yes, he does have one. I don’t know it. I can just see his face, very clearly, in my mind’s eye. Clearer than bless’d crystal waters on a calm summer’s eve…” His attention drifted as if lost in a memory that didn’t really exist before returning to his food.

IC: Shavrakk - The Foot of the Jaw; the Lip of the Rift Your average Skakdi would proudly proclaim that it wasn't wise to stand with one’s back to a sheer cliff face, that it was surely inviting death at the merest slip of one’s footing or tremor of earth. Doubly so if that drop a mere bio away was straight down into the Rift. They would claim that one has imbibed more than one’s share of Cactus; one is delivering oneself straight into the clutches of Irnakk; one is a fool, a Heu:Nii, or some epithet or another. The average Skakdi also ate so carelessly odds were that he would choke to death on a bone before he saw his fifth decade. Shavrakk was standing with his back to the Rift anyway. If you stood the wrong way ‘round, nobody could approach stealthily from the rear, snatch your goods and give you a hearty shove to your likely death just for good measure without you seeing them. Not to mention it was the carking Rift of all places. The less you looked at it, the better your odds were of making it to that fabled fifty. Neither of these reasons were specifically why the scout was doing what others would jeer at him for. Held up to his hood-shrouded eyes were his scopes binoculars, peering up at a fairly steep angle towards the mountains west of where he stood - up towards the crest of the Jaw. From this middling point of purgatory between what could possibly be described as funhouse mirror versions of heaven and hеll, it was heavenward that Shavrakk could only barely spy the myriad structures of Irnakk’s Tooth, the closest thing he had to a home. Home shouldn’t smell like stale pіss and burning garbage. It might to the average Skakdi, though. If he was correct, that lump of gray and bronze just barely visible over one of the peaks was the sprawling manse of Warlord-Whomever-the-Fuсk, because Shavrakk hadn’t bothered to remember his name. He was pretty sure the only reason the Warlord asked him to scout the Rift was because he was feeling bored and wanted to see if the Le-Skakdi would return a gibbering, incoherent mess, if he would return at all. This was only Shavrakk’s third outing into the Rift, but he intended to fulfill the second of those wishes and toss the first. He’d check the divide out for a day or two, trudge back up the mountain, and just tell the gate guards “I’m here to see your Master” or some such formality. Whether he’d get a refresher on the name was up in the air, but regardless he’d make sure to give monumentally bad intel if he got stiffed like he suspected he would. Then he could ask for the name once he got back into town and spit it into the dirt along with the rest of the refuse. He just wanted to get one last look at the place in the mountains… Cool air drifted down from the peaks above tingling his face and spine beneath his garments, and Shavrakk huffed, lowering the binoculars satisfied that his fantasizing had got him sufficiently motivated to see the guy’s face again. It was always a gamble when going into the Rift, and he’d be lying if the place didn’t make him nervous. One of these days, he’d lose that gamble; not this time, though. He’d will himself to survive, as the saying went. He tilted his head down and surveyed the desolate rocky plateau between the mountains towering upward before him and the titan chasm behind. Satisfied that there was no such opportunist to send him down into the Rift quicker than he had planned, Shavrakk spun on his heel and now did as the average Skakdi would do. The sun was still high, so the stabbing silicate fingers of the Rift did not yet trail their long shadows behind them in a haunting depiction of the grasping, clawing specters of Kvere;lvi that sought to drag the unwary down to their forsaken depths. No, right now, they formed their own mottled claws of raw stone with pumping veins of antidermis. Comparatively peaceful. Checking first and assuring that his leather had not somehow become sullied just by sheer proximity to this accursed place, he began to walk as he was so accustomed to doing, following the jagged lip of the Rift. After some time spent studying the cliff edge before him as he went, and a handful of promising but ultimately fruitless options, a suitable path down to the canyon floor was located. His palm unconsciously rested on the handle of his revolver as Shavrakk began his descent down, down, down into the place the average Skakdi spoke much of but feared to tread.

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Abruptly Gorro was ripped from his ruminations through the appearance of yet another bearer of bad dreams at Montague’s door, just as he himself had been mere minutes before. His exuberant half-sized host leapt to their feet at the noise, leaving the Cy-Toa to dwell on the morbidities he had dredged up from his subconscious and woven clumsily into words. Presently, he felt dizzy, off-balance, as if knocked about by the crashing of a sudden coastal wave upon his knees; the sensation made him shiver, and wetness crept down the nape of his neck to soak itself into his cloak, which he had neglected to remove. It was his hope that the folds of fabric would hide the trembling limbs underneath. The exchange of words between host and guest echoed in his conscious mind from elsewhere in the room, quite far from where his focus currently presided. Gorro’s gaze drifted over to the spot where Montague had affixed themself moments earlier, upon the edge of a quaint, out-of-fashion bedspread. In place of the Matoran, now absent, was the medium upon which their thoughts and those of others were writ - a small book, pages scrawled with what was assumedly the gospel of Gorro, his nightmares transcribed for later recall; for what purpose, the young Toa could not presently know. Just so, he leant forward, squinting his eyes ever so slightly to make out what words were indeed recorded, for the book had been left open and vulnerable to the curious, of which he was party to. As the scrawlings became readable (or at the very least, legible) to him, a sudden sharp stabbing of agony accosted his senses directly behind his eyes, forcing them shut and ending the sensation within a moment. A shuddering breath vacated from his lips as Gorro once again composed himself. Some things were not for his eyes to see.

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro, Tidalpool Inn The Skakdi nodded at Surdo’s back as the Matoran hobbled away towards the counter. It seemed to Baszlin an error not to accompany him if he were indeed to pose as the Matoran’s bodyguard - a detail an astute observer would surely notice that discrepancy having knowledge of the purported relationship of the two. However, it seemed unlikely that anyone within the dining section of the Inn would become so curious as to make such an inquisition, even if the appearance of the Skakdi himself was sure to turn a few heads, as was Baszlin’s own observation of those around him as far as he could remember. To at least preserve a modicum of the established ‘bodyguard’ pretext, he wound his way through the dining section in a looping, wandering manner, routinely shifting his gaze between his patron ordering food and the available seating. Unfortunately, the more discreet booth near the back and corners of the room were occupied, so an ordinary one against a wall would have to suffice. He located one closest to him with a clear view between himself and the counter where the duster-clad Matoran continued to wait on his order, which arrived a couple of minutes later. In the meantime, Baszlin propped his double-barreled weapon up on the seat beside him, like it was a third member of their party. His attention returned to the now-approaching Surdo, clanging about the dining section. It was a miracle that none of the tray-bound food was knocked to the floor with how much he was playing up his limp. Perhaps too much. A small gesture with Baszlin’s organic right hand was enough to attract his attention and indicate where he had chosen to sit. He opened his mouth to make plain his concerns, but ultimately stopped short and filed them away for another time as Surdo set down the platter. “Hmm,” came the substituting statement, “better than what I ate yesterday.” OOC: @Tarn

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro Technology Emporium Well. That’s not Farzan. Where had the son of a brakas run off to now? For a moment, Jokaro said nothing, staring at Wiremu’s face, his (figurative) cogs in his head turning as he processed the implications of the words delivered by this… attaché. Another moment of two heads peeking at each other from behind separate door jambs in silence would have been perhaps too awkward, so the Po-Matoran broke the silence, clearing his throat. “Inventor - singular, it seems, for the moment. I’ve no idea where my associate is right now. He was just here a second ago…” Jokaro trailed off as he stepped out into the front area of the shop, beckoning the other Matoran inside with a gesture. “First I’ve heard of any such agreement between Po and Onu. Then again, I only did get back in this morning. Wiremu, you said your name was?" ___ __ _ IC: Ember - Fore Fowadi Fighting Top High above the deck of the Fowadi, there began to drift downwards a melody - at first a pair of voices in unison, and soon followed by another. And another. And another. True to her word, the old Ta-Matoran sailor had been rallying the Sentinels of the Fowadi to work re-rigging most of the linework that the relatively less-experienced sailors had mired the ironclad in. A funny thought - a Ta-Koro Guardswoman teaching Po-Koro Sentinels how to run line like a Ga-Koro Marine. Like trying to get water from a stone! She wasn’t often one for puns, but a wry grin did in fact manifest on her face as the expression wormed its way into her conscious. What truly satisfied her was the feel of rope under her palms, the euphoric swaying back and forth as the docked ship was buffeted by the soft waves of the bay… Even at her age, there was something fundamental that had always stayed with her, pulled her out to sea; a restlessness that she might’ve called ‘destiny’ had she believed in such a thing. Warmth, not just radiating from the unclouded sun above, washed itself over her face as her blood began pumping and anxious excitement tied knots in her chest. Knots… The Sentinels could tie them just fine, it was the rigging that was sloppy, and slowly getting tighter as more and more of them took up the work. It was clear some of them had sea legs and others less so, so the work continued haphazardly and at an uneven pace. Another thought crept into her mind, a memory from long ago. It was of a tune etched into her brain from years on the ocean, and the accompanying lyrics would never be forgotten. Ember turned to the pair of Matoran affixing a block next to her - noting that they were among the ones observed to have more experience - and queried them about their knowledge of the song. Exchanging a quick glance between themselves, they nodded at the old Ta-Matoran, affirming their familiarity with it. And now Ember really did grin, ear to ear, those knots in her chest wringing themselves tighter and tighter until she took in a deep breath and began to belt out those familiar lyrics. “O break the waves, toss the nets, and fill yer lungs with air About the seas, the likes o’ me would naught be caught awhere The lubbers stand upon the sand and beat the drums o’ war Till Ol’ Takea pulls to port and brings me back ashore!” The two Matoran up near the fighting top with her joined in as she sung the chorus: “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!” This was the melody that drifted down from above, settling on the ears of the Sentinel sailors stringing up line and running tackles and milling about on deck. The singing grew ever louder as those who knew the shanty joined their voices into the chorus. Ember herself began to climb down so that those both above and below could hear the verse. “The Longshoreman, he told us that the lads had gone to war The Galleons were gone by now; they’d left the morn a’fore They brought aboard the cannons and set them five abreast Now Ol’ Takea, hoist the colors - we’re fightin’ with the rest!” “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!”

Hello my name is Adam Slavoj I'm Jamie Heineken and we are

IC: Safina - Ko-Wahi Dark Walk Ironically, neither the frigid blast of icy wind in the drifts aboveground nor the all-encompassing chill of the deepest black caverns caused as much of a shiver as the sound of the Muaka’s pained cry, echoing and reverberating down both directions that the passage extended. It was as that horrible sound faded back to nothingness that, apart from the low growl and shifting of paws upon stone now emanating from the revealed beast, Safina’s resolve returned and the panicked ululations of the Matoran in the side passage became suddenly apparent in her consciousness. She backed up another step, making more distance between the Muaka and herself, just as the Matoran burst into the main passage, fleeing from something within. The realization hit the exo-armored Turaga that something had already gone terribly wrong. The Muaka shifted its gaze to the Matoran now entering its vision, and Safina spared a brief glance over her shoulder as well, seeing iron bars forming as if to cut off the escape of the Matoran from the hideout. Many questions entered her mind as she pondered who or what was forming the metal, but quickly returning her attention to the Muaka cast them all out for the time being, for its attention was now refocusing on her as another form stepped out of the shadows. “Beast!” she hissed between clenched teeth as the magenta-clad Rahkshi made itself visible. The Muaka it evidently had under its spell shifted its weight, and Safina realized that this time, it made ready to pounce. Likewise, she shifted her feet, visualizing its trajectory and planning her own strike. The Rahkshi retreated back into the cover of darkness and a moment later, the giant red-eyed cat leapt forward with a weight and ferocity that would surely have killed her if she hadn’t the combined strength and speed of her suit and training. Her feet were moving mere milliseconds after the Muaka pounced, swinging the Exo-Matoran cleanly out of the way of the creature’s crushing weight, putting her back parallel to the forming iron bars. One thing she had noticed seconds earlier, during the Muaka’s first strike, was how much slower and less responsive the suit’s arms were compared to the relatively free movement of the legs - clearly, the weight of the lightstone torch and blade slowed the arms down enough that the response time between her own movement translating to the suit’s arms was significantly more than it could have been. To this end, in the same movement that brought her out of the way of the Muaka’s pounce, she brought the suit’s left leg up into a powerful front kick, aimed straight at the neck of the beast.

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro, Tidalpool Inn Amble. Am-ble. Baszlin caressed the word in his mind in much the same manner a blind man may caress a surface and feel its grain, its texture. His thoughts became fixated on the word as he did just that - ambled - behind the Matoran leading him further into the village. Surdo did no such thing, however. Amble. No, his gait was much more focused, much more direct and purposeful than the Skakdi’s, even considering the exaggerated limp. It was only a curious observation; Baszlin was much taller, after all. His slow gait gave him more time to think, and that was something he’d been doing more often of late. Sometimes, pondering over the most inane things gave way to minor revelations about himself. Often, they did not. This was unfortunately a case of the latter, but there were other thoughts to ponder, and perhaps one of them in particular would hold more merit. Obsidian Outpost. Hmm. A name he recognized but couldn’t place, mentioned first by the other Matoran who had met Surdo and then repeated by Surdo himself. He’d make sure to ask over their meal. Speaking of - Green and green and green. The same verdant huts that permeated Ga-Koro, but stacked on top of each other in a seemingly chaotic fashion. The exterior looked like a poor attempt at papier-mâché, perforated with holes that formed windows in an otherwise lumpy sculpture of damp leaves and seaweed. Stepping into the interior, the chaos became much more organized into a livable, functional, and dare he say trendy venue. A bit spartan for his tastes (he had taste? Odd.) but… Stepping into the Tidalpool behind Surdo, another thought quickly overrode the others. “I don’t see a pool anywhere.”

woke up this mornin' got myself some fun

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium That old familiar feeling welled up in Jokaro’s chest as he tightened down this last screw - that anxious tingle that always signaled the completion of a project, however infrequent such an occasion might ultimately have been. At last, he set down the screwdriver and pulled the goggles off his forehead, tossing them unceremoniously onto the workbench behind his newest creation. Letting out a long, ragged breath - he’d become thirsty again - the Po-Matoran slumped in his seat and rubbed the soreness from his fingers, whilst admiring the completed contraption he’d spent the whole day putting together. God, he just hoped that it wouldn’t explode like the last prototype. At least this time, it didn’t look like shіt. It was right about then that he noticed just how quiet the shop had become - he assumed the customers Farzan had been serving had all left while he was concentrated on getting the V2 prototype prepped and lamenting over the prospect of not being paid. After a few moments of pure, unbroken silence, Jokaro laced his fingers behind his head and slouched back even further, closing his eyes for a quick spot of rest. Not even a minute had gone by when he heard the door chime again and heard the shuffle of footsteps, followed by the sound of his own resigned sigh. Rest can come later, I guess. Lazily, he pulled himself out of his seat and meandered over to the doorway to the front of the shop, peeking his head through. He hoped the Fa-Matoran hadn’t wandered off again. “Farzan?” he called, “Prototype is finished.”

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium “If you can agree to come here and handle our prototypes here on the premises, then we can talk about maybe reserving you a copy free of charge when it's ready to go." “...then we can talk about maybe reserving you a copy free of charge when it's ready to go." “...free of charge when it's ready to go." “...free of charge..."

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro “Yes… that would be much appreciated, actually.” If this Matoran was truly invested - and the Skakdi intended to thoroughly find out - in his plight, allies in his search could prove beneficial. One of the more vivid memories that had stuck with him through the past few months stood out to him. A Ko-Toa, whose name he could not fully remember, but all the same reminded him that not all who would ally themselves with him would betray his trust. It was having more bearing on his decision-making as of late, for better or worse. He’d find out soon enough. “I do not have much knowledge of this village. Please, lead the way.”

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Some minute comfort was afforded to the Cy-Toa as the warmth of the steaming mug coursed through his fingers, having leant forward to accept the beverage from his host. The herbal aromas filled his lungs as he drew in a breath, savouring the quaint, familiar comfort that brought some solace to his troubled life, however often he could afford it. The words “Thank you” formed upon his lips as that same breath made ready to be expelled, bringing the words with it - though that gratitude would never make it past the knot that seemed to twist itself in his larynx. It was only then, with a faint horror, that Gorro bore witness to the expression on the face of the Matoran opposite him - one of petrification, or abject terror, or some other sensation that gripped and overwhelmed one’s faculties. The intensity of Montague’s gaze bored not into Gorro, but some point behind him, where there should have been merely bare stone. Trembling once more, young, affrighted Gorro twisted his head ‘round so that his own eyes could trace the vector of Montague’s. Peering over his shoulder, and with mounting fear of what had so paralytically gripped his host, the young Cy-Toa laid his eyes upon- t̢҉͜h̵̨̡͠ę̀ ́͘s̡͞h҉͟o͡҉̸͟r҉̸e̴͝ Bare stone. The blank, scatteringly pockmarked wall of one of a few dozen identical rooms of the quaint Unfortunate Fikou, utterly inoffensive and serving only as a canvas for whatever mental daemons one could paint upon its surface. Gorro shuddered one final time as his coiled muscles relaxed, the tension in his body easing. What temporary madness had befallen his host? Though, it was not unlike some instances of his own pseudological fancies that caused him undue alarm every so often, he mused. At once, feeling returned to his fingers as his mind was released from its stupor, and the burning of heated ceramic nearly caused him to drop the mug entirely. Quickly, he set the mug down on the table between the two of them, massaging his scalded hands and wincing at the pain coursing through now-singed nerves. Montague’s expression had relaxed and the Matoran composed themself, much to Gorro’s relief (of mood and not of pain, sadly). Hands continued to rub one another in a vain effort to mitigate sensation, so Gorro listened closely as Montague spoke in order to direct his focus elsewhere. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I would rather like to record your firsthand experience of the, ah, the dreams. Your name, perhaps, would be the place to start." The request of relaying the content of those accursed dreams gave Gorro pause - he figured as much, that this Montague would ask him about them upon reading the posted flyer, but nevertheless he would just as much prefer not to relive the escapades of those chaotic, dizzying nightmares. “My name is Gorro…” came his response after a moment, and yet another lapse of speech followed it as he collected his resolve and his memory. “I believe the first of these dreams began perhaps a month ago, though I scarcely gave them any thought at that time. I chalked them up to being merely as a result of stress, and certainly I am no exception to experiencing the odd nightmare, as any person on Mata Nui would likewise be. Of course, the aspect of these dreams is the chilling commonality between them and the incessant repetition night after night… I do not remain sleeping for an appropriate amount of time due to their terrible and disturbing nature, and as a result am prone to fits of narcolepsy, even during the day, where they continue to assault my senses.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath as he recalled the specific content of said dreams, which Montague seemed most keen on recording. The pain mostly subsided, Gorro retrieved the steaming mug and sipped at the tea, feeling the warmth and satiation spreading through his navel and gut. However, the same aftertaste he had the displeasure of experiencing a day earlier in Le-Koro persisted - that of salt remaining on his tongue… “I admit I am not eager to share what morbid narratives in which these nightmares arrange themselves, though I suspect you understand why,” he continued, replacing the mug so as to not further damage his hands. “Often I find myself falling, or sinking… it is unclear. A deep, dark void of nothing surrounds me as I fall, and there is never any sense of direction, just a feeling of- of being crushed, squeezed from all directions… Sometimes I will see figures - abhorrent and beautiful at once, i-i-impossible to describe… Utterly surreal, as I am tossed about like a ragdoll between that damnable void and gaping, monstrous caverns of oppressive darkness, lit only by undulating waves of light that silhouette massive, cyclopean structures… I have vague impressions of what it is but… I cannot say for certain. A city? A tomb?” A twinge of pain shot through his racing mind as the pace of his breathing quickened, as did his heart-beat. His thoughts wandered to the most common thread binding together every disparate nightmare. He gazed deeply into Montague’s eyes, in a strikingly familiar way, pleading understanding from the Matoran before him. “In every dream, just before I wake… I… I a-a-awaken upon a shore. And I stare into the shallow water and see some twisted, unrecognizable visage. But d̷͟eę̴̡p̀ down, that face… I know it is mine...”

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro The Skakdi blinked once at the relatively-diminutive figure in front of him. “I don’t drink... any more.” Any more. The words were tacked on to the end of his statement at the last second, as far-off sensations of inebriation and vague impressions of revelry trickled into his mind from some far-off memory. He could say with certainty that there had been a time once... he just couldn’t make out when. Or, for that matter, where.

IC: Torana - Ta-Koro, outside the Magma Lounge And she laughed. Laughed. Madwoman! Torana braced herself as the Ta-Toa closed the distance and took her swings. The first jab was caught against her raised arms, after which the Vo-Toa executed her response. See, Saeva had some pretty toned legs - Torana had noted as much. But hers were longer. Torana’s torso leaned out of the way of the remaining pair of jabs as she brought her leg up in a round kick, directed at Saeva’s ribs.

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou “Just one, thank you.”

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium The tinkering abruptly stopped. For a brief moment, the Po-Matoran sat there, his hands still and his eyes much the same, caught off-guard by the words of his co-worker behind him. Slowly, his hands rested upon the surface of the workbench, depositing the tools there. He swiveled around again to look Farzan in the eye. “Farzan, I sincerely hope you didn’t just make a bunch of sales and then propose giving away my work for free.” He shot a sideways glance to the open doorway against the wall - leading back to the storefront. His voice lowered once again to a particularly harsh whisper. “I didn’t get a faceful of Patero shrapnel this morning just to let the second prototype walk out the door, with the distinct possibility of it never coming back, without so much as a widget to show for it!” A frustrated sigh wracked his body before he eased his tone, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the launcher behind him. “Listen, once this is done, I’m gonna test this thing. If the Le-Toa or whoever wants to comprehensively test it, check for leaks, problems with the seal - and they would be ideal for that sort of thing, I’ll give you that - that’d be fine by me. But they do it here. If they find it satisfactory, good. I’ll make adjustments and build them another one. But this isn’t leaving the building, and at the very least unpaid for.”

IC: Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Puzzling, puzzling. The behaviour of this Matoran quite perplexed young Gorro - certainly, they were hospitable enough, though the Cy-Toa could not help but shiver at the momentary indignity that befell Montague upon his mention of an end to their ailments. What depraved delirium aside from that arising from the abhorrent nightmares afflicting both in present company could account for such a desire to continue falling deeper into madness? Thusly Gorro accepted both Montague’s explanation of dream-driven mania - as well as the offer of tea. “With honey, if you please.”

IC: Safina - Ko-Wahi Dark Walk Oh, she had so veritably underestimated their cunning; it was no less than an instant after she strained to hear what the commotion in the side passage was that her ears instead picked up the guttural noises and sobering movements of some thing cloaked in the darkness beyond the protective cordon of her lightstone torch. Her body and arms were in motion before her brain even had another moment to fully process - the adrenaline had already begun its grand tour of her veins. The moment the beast lept from the shadows was one of pure instinct. The Exo-Armor encasing her could not stop her from tensing her muscles to move in much the same manner had she not been using it - at once pivoting her suit and body defensively, giving only one step of ground to her attacker. The left foot of her suit retreated backward, bringing with it the rest of that side, including the arm. In sync, the bladed right arm shot forward from its tucked position, aimed squarely at where the beast’s center of mass would be a fraction of a second later - she didn’t have the time to pick a target.

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium Work on the prototype of the V2 resumed as soon as Dehkaz turned to leave. His focus, once again, was unbroken when a Farzan-shaped blur entered his peripheral vision. “Sing, Farzan, really? These things have a tendency to explode if they’re not built right.” Briefly glancing over at the schematics left on the opposite side of his workbench, he quickly set down his tools and folded the papers up, stuffing them in his nearby pack before Farzan could take notice. Plenty of time to dive into them later - right now he needed to keep the Fa-Matoran focused. His voice drew down to scarcely more than a whisper as he actually swiveled in his seat to face Farzan. “Now, I have no qualms about selling one of these things without testing it - you know, buyer beware and all that, no refunds, yada yada - but if it’s Toa we’re talking about, I’d rather keep the air in my lungs if something goes wrong, get me?” His voice returned to its normal pitch as he swiveled back and continued to tinker with the V2. He was genuinely surprised at how quickly progress had been made on it - it’d be ready for testing as soon as he secured the breech cover and gave the whole thing a once-over. “So what’s this idea?” ___ __ _ IC: Ember - Fore Fowadi Fighting Top “Oi! I hopes ye lunk’eads cun sing bett’r than ye can runna line!”

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou It was a truly frightful consternation which beheld Gorro, for he could not decide which unnerved him more - that this Matoran somehow knew, with assumedly some form of arcane prescience, that others dreamt in much the same manner as themself; or that Gorro did not share this same ability. To say his host’s mannerisms were peculiar would be an understatement. They were bordering on mania, and the Cy-Toa sitting upon their sofa presumed he would shortly follow as his head swam with ominous questions and terrible assumptions. “Yes...” he answered after a lengthy pause, “here I am…” One of these dreaded questions roiled within him (or perhaps it was just his stomach making another odd noise) and finally breached the surface, shattering the murk which so plagued his mind, though he could not stop his hands from shaking with both trepidation and outright terror, folding them into his chest. “D- do you know if there’s a… a cure? Some way to- to make them stop?”

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium The Po-Matoran rubbed his temples at the indication that this heavily-armed Toa before him was, indeed, a commander - so, naturally, the onus was on Jokaro to come through. He wasn’t so great with managing expectations. “Well, there’s no way we can build it in-” he glanced back at the schematics to double-check the noted proportions. “Yeah, no way we can build it in here. Or assemble it, rather. We’ll have to set up a testing site deeper into the Motara and either build an adjacent field workshop, else manufacture the components in the Koro and haul them out there for assembly.” Hands rubbing temples turned to hands scratching chin as he stared into space, his brain at work. “Hmm, Ostia might make for a better base of operations for a project like this. If we were to set up the testing site near there, we could have routes open via the Mahi or the sea if we need material shipped from either Po-Koro or elsewhere on the island. Plus, I’ve got a few people I can talk to in Ostia who might be able to help; I used to live there - no shortage of craftsmen in the north.” Thoughts swirled in his head for a few moments more, until he yanked himself back to reality and stood up and turned to properly face Dehkaz. “Look, uh… We’ll give it a shot. I can’t promise how long it’ll take or how expensive it’ll be, but If you’re coming to us and not going to Onu-Koro with this, there’s no way I can say no.” A curt chuckle escaped his lips before he continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the nearly-assembled launcher behind him. “Right now, though, I’ve got-” "Oi, Jokaro, how's that prototype coming along?" “...other work to finish first,” he sighed. “Nearly done!” was the bellowed response.

IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium “Jokaro,” he answered tersely, his hands scooping up the schematics, breaking the Toa’s gaze so that he could stare at the illustrated contraption again, his face perhaps a bit too close to the paper. “Listen, uh… yes, it certainly is interesting, and yes, it arouses me - arouses my interests, that is. I already said it was interesting… nevermind. But, you see…” The papers were deposited upon the workbench once again, and pair of eyes met pair of eyes again. Jokaro waved his hand over the smattering of technical inscriptions, sketches and calculations for added effect. “We can’t build this. Karz, I don’t think even those Onu-Koronan b#####ds can build this. We’re working with scraps and leftovers here. Practically speaking.”

IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro He carefully considered the words the Matoran spoke, finding them both amusing and disheartening simultaneously. Somewhere deep within him, those words had struck a chord; how often does one have to watch their back to ensure one’s friend is not shoving a knife into it? “Trust doesn’t come easy to me any longer,” he mused, reminiscing about a half-remembered time in his life where he was whole and unscarred, “so I find your philosophy sound. Trust nobody. Except me, of course.” He extended his left arm, inspecting the crude craftsmanship of the prosthetic, and marvelling at how it remained functional despite its poor quality. “Things tend not to go my way very often - I understand your plight, and will guard you if you remain true to your word.” It’s not like this Matoran was capable of getting a firm backstab in anyway. Or was he? If the Skakdi was asleep… Hmm, make sure not to do that, then. Sleep.