ANAMORPHOSIS 2025: CODENAME BLADE

"Ten tokens..." Bruno murmurs. "And if I already gave you nine?"

He takes one token and slides it on the table. It's quickly greeted by stillness, and the longer they linger in silence, the longer Bruno thinks they mean ten new tokens. Hesitation as he thinks — really?

He will, however, give in at the thought of the open threat they were greeted with. There's a long sigh emerging from him as he pulls out his pouch and starts counting, regretful of his initial brashness.

"There's five of us," he says, right when his brain reaches fifty. "Will you give five doses?"

"What you call daft is merely a form of respect," Leo replies as diplomatically as he can. His chest still feels tight. "We've more in our party who suffer from that same skin condition. Or do you only heal one person at a time?"

He eyes the vials again; with time, he's sure he could identify most of what's here, but book knowledge does not always equal practical knowledge. The actual creation of potions is something he's only dabbled in--his comment about accidentally creating a poison was not just a carefully aimed jab.

One shoulder lifts in a shrug. "What would you do, in my position? Give your trust over blindly? It would be silly to not ask a question or two first. Not to mention we did pay you in good faith."

If none of his more human arguments can sway Orun, perhaps the world's universal language will.

"Mhmm, skin condition and a cough, one easier than the other to treat."

At a nearly inhuman speed, the jackal makes a round around the shop, collecting vials, dried herbs, other strange objects in the crook of one arm as they go. Then they haphazardly push aside a collection of oddities in the middle of the table to clear a workplace.

"For you," this is leveled at Leo as they grind herbs under a pestle and add them to a small jar, "hearty soup and relaxation. Season with this."

They hold up the jar, newly corked.

"On the house, of course. The other treatment will cost you though. And it will only be temporary. Ten tokens for a dose."

It isn't long before they have his attention once again, however. At the mention of the cure, Bruno's head snaps back toward the jackal; he stands, frozen, even at the waved hand — he's not sure if he trusts his ears at the moment, but the promise of healing tempts him to act regardless.

Thus, he joins the bustle of the jackal, eyes scanning the vast array of vials. Does he know what he seeks? No, not particularly — he's never been fond of studying herbs. Does he turn back toward Leo in a silent plea for help, completely setting aside the shaky breathing and unsteadiness he had just witnessed moments ago? Yes, perhaps, because his excitement for a cure just barely triumphs his worries for all else.

"Bitter... weed? Dark holly crest?" The labels are so worn that he can barely read them — and some of the vials aren't even labeled, it seems. He's sheepish as he stands back up. "I, uh..."

I do not know what I'm looking for.

Coins clink loudly in the otherwise quiet space. Leo watches the jackal's quick movements, how the money disappears underneath the pouch. Odd, what his mind will focus on when he's fighting off his body's instincts.

With some effort, he breathes in again, hating the faint wheeze in the back of his throat. The following frown is not solely for the jackal's comment. Leo doesn't feel any different; if anything, he's more irritated now then when he first entered this hovel.

Leo catches Bruno's gaze. The prince gives a small shake of his head in answer to the silent question.

Clairvoyance. Leo barely holds back a scoff. Playing along will get them out of here faster; so he follows Bruno towards the shelfs, squinting at the unlabeled vials.

"I was taught never to grab items off another's potion shelf," he says evenly, tracing a gloved finger along one of the glass vials. The liquid inside trembles. "As names and organization systems vary from person to person. After all, I'd hate to concoct something detrimental for my allies."

"Full of surprises, are you? Are you daft, or do you not trust your li'l ol' shopkeep?" The tone of their voice remains upbeat, almost chirpy, so much so that it's almost hard to believe that they're trying to insult you. Maybe they aren't, and this is simply how they talk.

Suddenly they lower their voice conspiratorially, and cover the side of their mouth with one hand, as if to gossip.

"Or maybe you are practiced potion crafters after all. My special soup bouillon doesn't interest you, eh? Khee hee hee."

Straightening up, they fold their arms over their chest and raise their chin.

"Well then, tell me what ailment you do wish to heal, and Orun will fix it right up."

A sniff, then another, chin raising for a better angle.

"Mmm..." They level their sights on Bruno. "My clairvoyance tells me that it's that accursed skin condition you've picked up. Not even a mangy old dog would envy you."

As a rule, Seadall tries not to swear so much in front of others. Tasteful commentary when the world was essentially a stage in which all were judged at any moment. “Thank you.” He tells the static speaking through the panel, glancing at Eileen with no shortage of surprise and apprehension.

This was not where he expected to end up, when he went looking for her. The elevator is as slow as the rest, he sighs. “About what the other one said. Did you report me just so you could move up faster? It makes sense…”

Too quickly, the doors open, cutting the statement at its knees.

The floors are bright as if freshly polished. The walls, grey. Seadall blinks against the clean, well lit space, a muffled sound of confusion getting stuck inside his mask as his eyes search for signs of whoever had been talking to them. “Hello?” A waste, considering that the wide open space tapers into what must be offices for the managers in the building.

"You heard the manager - er, former manager downstairs... no one ever gets meetings up here, and the only other workers who have access to the elevator are managers." She whispers like they might be caught trespassing, and keeps her head down as they pass cubicles and frosted panels for walls.

"Hey, this door's open-" Stopping abruptly, she points to the only other door on this floor that's not shut or locked. The nametag by the door doesn't have any name at all, and inside the furniture appears sparse, if not overturned, as if it had recently been cleared out.

He doesn't believe Leo. He may not be able to see under the mask, but the way the slats face away from him is a telltale sign that something is off. He isn't fond of the way Leo seems strung, as if every fiber within him is ready to snap at the softest of blows.

But he doesn't prod. It's not the right time, when an invisible wound sits so fresh on the surface. What bothers him more is what the jackal said: what a face you have under there.

Bruno turns back toward them, uncertainty mingling with suspicion as he wonders whether their group had done the right thing by entering. Did they mistakenly place themselves in the hands of danger?

"What did you do?" There's temptation to reach for his weapon, but his gut is telling him they are at a severe disadvantage. Thus, he stays frozen, next to Leo, attempting to control the defensiveness in his questions. "And how were you able to see under the mask?"

"Will you talk to me," he opens the pouch, "if I pay a price?"

A random handful of tokens are thrown on a nearby surface for the jackal to collect. He isn't aware of how many he's tossed until he glances down to count — nine.

"My, what... funny little humans you are." And one, two, three-- nine tokens are snapped up one after the other and deposited into the palm of the jackal's other hand, its snickering an airy sound over the clink of metal.

"I healed your fellow, of course, just as you asked! Deep breathing does wonders for the nervous system, and that one seems so high-strung he might just fall over dead."

With a flourish, they slip the coins into some unseen pouch beneath their poncho and lean forward to clasp the edges of the table with both hands. The black-painted wooden snout swings from one of you to the other. Then it presses one of its hands to its forehead and begins to hum.

"Hmmmmmm.... I sense.... with my clairvoyance... that you have come seeking a rarer, mystical cure. One spoonful of reaper bitterweed... hurry, hurry," they wave their other hand at Bruno to collect it from the wall of vials, "and... two spoons of dark hollycress... ahhhh... dash of goblin ambrosia..."

"Some have gotten away with it, then." That's what the puppet implies. Not the point; an interesting piece of information all the same.

An endless cycle of Shame. It would fit with the feeling that they've been here for decades, the fuzzy recollection that the same week has repeated over and over and over again.

Ares ducks behind the curtain. Leo watches the cloth for a moment, then turns back to the puppet, mind whirling. If these alternate versions carry their own sense of Shame, it would explain the difference in masks.

"You know quite a lot of a mere puppet," Leo remarks dryly, a sudden thought occurring to him. "This corruption; is there no way to reverse it? No amount of rule following that can erase the sin of your error?"

Leo knows for him, nothing less than perfection could redeem himself in the eyes of the adults around him, an idea that eventually ingrained itself into his very being. (Of course, he never did achieve that kind of perfection--is that his Shame, or something an alternate version of him carries instead?)

He squares his shoulders as if to ward off such thoughts. "Quite the complex magic behind all this."

He doesn't know when he grew this rot on his skin - time blurs like the patches of rot. They're on his skin anyway; he can only assume it's from then, but he doesn't know. At this point, he's not sure if he dreamed up the life before the mirror, before Fódlan, and that he's only ever been in this dismal place.

"The dark corrupts, huh." He rolls up his sleeve, revealing quite an ugly patch of what Ike can assume is corruption. "I guess that explains this."

That isn't Ike's only question. He rolls down his sleeve.

"Hey. Did either of you two pick your masks?" Ike touches his hand to his temple. "I don't remember picking mine." Berkut had called it a wooden slab, and Ike can't imagine his mask is anything but a piece of wood hiding his face.

Why would he ever choose this?

"I don't understand metaphors." He feels like he's questioned his mask before, but who even knows. His brain hurts. He's so sick of thinking without acting, but he doesn't know where to begin. Ike barely feels like himself at the moment.

"I'm surprised we're allowed individual masks. Everything else is uniform - you can't wear anything but black and grey - but you can wear whatever mask you want?" It's the public-facing face or whatever the puppet told them, right? Wouldn't a place like this want everyone to be the same?

"You two probably understand far more than I do about any of this."

"Maybe if a tailor had found more success here, we'd be out of a job! Huh huh huh." Its head swivels toward the rack of grey, square masks hanging all together on one wall. They all appear to be like copies of each other, mass produced.

"Of course, some folks like to be the same as everyone else. Those temp masks have quite a market."

Then back to both of you, sweeping its marble eyes over Ike, then Leo.

"Can't help you with the corruption though. Reversing it, that is. The masks slow it down... so the idea goes. So take care of your masks! Or buy a new one from us, if you have the moolah."

once the influx of visions fades before her eyes into ribbons of dissolving colors, she exhales slowly in a bid to shake the sinking feeling that follows, dread spread thick as she watches adham retrieve from his person that curved blade she recognizes. haltingly, the fortuneteller reaches for it, her fingers wrapping around it as if partially expecting the man to change his mind any second.

when he doesn't, she gently lifts it out of his palm and cradles it in her own hands, turning it over delicately while reciting all that she's been shown to seadall. "i think i understand now," she finishes softly, glancing back up at the shadowed man as if hoping for confirmation. "that's... not our rafal in the vision, is it? he was wearing a different mask." the next few words take on a melancholic note. "just like those who died and came back...."

the daunting implication of what must be done hangs heavy in the air like tar-like smog, prompting dorothea to take another shuddering breath. then, she shifts to tuck the weapon under her arm, fumbling with her earrings. "adham," she says suddenly. "here." a metallic clicking sound ensues. in one of her own palms now, she holds out both pieces of jewelry to him in shared offering. "they don't do anything special, but i hope you'll take it as my word that we'll help you as you've helped us. we'll see this to the end for all of our sakes."

"...will you join us? we'll be stronger in numbers." dorothea's head turns to her companion, her mask shielding renewed hopefulness. "if seadall's okay with it, too?"

When the fortuneteller rounds to her conclusion, Seadall exhales. “It seems, for now, that you are a friend,” He says, directly at odds with how his arms come to cross his chest. As much as he’d like to study the blade Dorothea now wields, Adham is difficult to look away from. As if the prophet will vanish, task completed. “If you are truly what you present yourself to be … and I am not suggesting that you aren’t … there’s more that I need from you.”

On one hand, he counts on his fingers as he speaks. “Why did you kill Ares? It was you, with that dagger.” Seadall remembers nothing of the killer, but he does remember the dagger. The way the other man had been baffled that a simple blade could kill him. “If the blade can kill our false selves, how do we get back the real person? If he’s here…then where do we acquire the lantern blue flames or at the very least-“

"K..ill... the sun..." The words creak like rusted metal, hardly words at all but low, muttered noise. Whether it's explanation or directive remains unclear. "K..i.ll..."

This time Dorothea witnesses Rafal again, asleep in his room.

The curved blade.

An empty lantern.

The vision seems strained, unclear.

The man reaches for his belt again and withdraws a small pouch of well-worn leather. Inside, are five marble objects filled with some sort of liquid, which he tosses to Seadall. At a glance, he can tell that these are more of the same stone that grants them light now.

When offered a mask though, Adham slowly shakes his head. Too late, the gesture seems to say, and you realize implicitly that this is the impact of staying too long in this corrosive dark. But seeming to, however hesitatingly, accept your alliance, he carefully takes Dorothea's earrings and folds them into his own hand.

There's a brush of contact, and from it, Dorothea witnesses another vision.

The tower and its rotting dragon again. It reaches the top, lets out a despairing cry, and the whole place crumbles beneath it.

Then, the exit door and the endless dark. The blue flame in a lantern. The bundle of moth-eaten wings wrapped up in the depths of a cave.

Intuition tells her that these are separate and parallel to one another, unable to coexist.

By the time she regains her senses, Adham has disappeared into the dark.

Perhaps the most believable thing so far. “Hm, thank you,” Following the sound of the discarded badge, he turns it in his hand. A manager, whatever that meant in the scope of this place.

It was coveted, it was what they worked so hard for all those….weeks.

Sidling up to the elevator with his companion in tow, Seadall eyes the flat shape of the glass where the calling buttons would normally be. Then, because he has his the former manager’s keycard in his hands, he holds his own in front of it. It hums to life, flashing red in an instant, with a voice blaring back at him: MAY I HELP YOU?

You state your name. The woman with the dog beside you gives her own as well: Eileen.

"ONE MOMENT."

The intercom cuts off, and leaves you two to wait before the elevator at the end of an empty walkway for what seems like half an hour before the intercom finally cuts back on again with a crackle.

"YOU MAY ENTER."

“Our… organs?” he creaks.

And to think Bruno had considered reaching over to tap the jackal on their head — had he done that, would he have been struck dead on the spot? He shudders at the thought; he’ll thank Leo later on for his recognition.

He shakes his own discomfort off, instead returning his focus to the pouch of gold in his hand. They don’t have the time to consider how their… organs could have been taken. “Thank you for, uh, your warm welcome. We took interest in some of the wares you have here — do you sell anything that serves a healing functionality?

"What a face you have under there," they say admiringly. "Close your eyes now and inhale. Hold your breath."

There's a pause, the jackal watches expectantly.

"Now... exhale. Khee hee hee." They pat you on the side of the face. "Good boy."

Then they skip back over to the wall of vials, flicking their long, clawed fingers over the corked tops of each as they mutter numbers under their breath.

Disappointment does not come easily to him, however, and he still feels some residue of hope. There must be something of value here, even if there is no sign of life. Storekeeper or no, he will find what he needs. He takes a nearby book and slides it under the door, using it to keep it propped open. A glance back at the outdoors, and he turns back around to start his search.

The jackal in the back stares back at him, beckoning.

In his trance, he takes the small number of steps toward the wall. The collection of items he walks by is varied, and Bruno believes he would have been able to focus more clearly if not for the incense clouding his senses. His breaths are shallow, suffocating. He feels like he's being watched, somehow, and he isn't able to pinpoint where exactly the vision is coming from until he is in front of the vast array of dolls.

The realization hits him then: their eyes are all on him. Disquietude strikes him, limbs growing heavy at the oddity of it all. Keeping his attention on the scene, he steps back until his lower spine is pressed against a small shelf.

"Leo?" he calls. He isn't sure what to make of this — should he prepare for combat? His hand reaches over to the canister on his belt as a precaution, but a sanity check would be kind. "There... is a strange magic here — unfamiliar, foreign. Do their eyes follow you, too?"

It is rather a smart strategy--hide the important things among the junk to deter opportunistic thieves. Leo pauses in his scowling perusal to watch Bruno prop open the door. A wise idea, even if his scowl deepens at the implementation. A book, really?

With a muffled sigh, Leo follows Bruno deeper into the small shop. Incense clogs in his throat; he forces himself to keep his breathing even, lest he succumb to an asthma attack, though his throat begins to feel uncomfortably tight.

Bruno looks as uneasy as Leo feels. "The magic here is strange, yes. Not unnatural, but...off." He hazards a glance at the seemingly unobtrusive dolls littering the shop. "They do, yes."

One stands as if in wait, uncanny eyes steadfastly locked on them. The jackal sits slightly apart from the chaos like a king from its subjects.

Almost unconsciously, Leo slides a hand underneath his jacket, reaching for the pouch of unused coins. "This one," he begins, taking a step forward, "beckons. Stay alert, Bruno. I may be springing a trap and I don't want you caught unawares."

Warning given, he unearths a token and places it in front of the jackal.

KHEE HEE HEE

fills the store. The jackal-faced doll pops up onto its legs, swipes the token before you have so much as a chance to try to get it back, and hides it somewhere within the folds of its woolen poncho. Standing, they're a little taller than they had been when they were nestled among the dolls, but they still reach no higher than your chest, including the ears from now appears to be a mask. Nevertheless, they seem delighted by your tribute.

"Now, now, how generous!" they say with contagious exuberance. "And you haven't even bought anything yet! It seems I colored your whole lot all wrong."

Brushing past you, they begin to check over their wares in the tiny shop and it becomes quickly apparent that this is the missing shopkeeper - they had been hiding in plain sight all along.

"I thought, certainly these desperate children will swipe the first shiny bauble they see and then I would get a chance to try out a spell I've been working on. Hm hm, your organs stay inside you today." They continue picking through vials and herbs while they talk, as if they aren't casually threatening you. "A fair trade for your honor, no?"

Did that mean Abban had broken the rules to get where he was? It was at direct odds with the person he’d come to know - right? Seadall could only think of the law novels littering his tabletop. “Don’t worry, I haven’t heard a thing. I wish you luck…truly. People always get what they deserve, and all. Whatever happened, it sounds like you didn’t do anything wrong. It’ll be righted.”

"They won't let you up unless you have an appointment," she says, "but no one ever gets them."

After a second of indecision, he takes hold of the brooch on her lapel and rips it off. Then she tosses it over her shoulder and it clatters on the walkway somewhere behind you.

Then Rafal, then answers, then to be rid of the wretched darkness…

The sentiment is so open ended that he’s lost in it, turning the hopes over in his head because it can’t be helped, it’s one of the few ways to soldier on blindly. When the edge of the doorframe is finally distinguishable, Seadall shakes her hand away. “Me first, keep a spell ready.” After encountering Rafal’s image, there is no doubt that another danger waits. A Dorothea double, or…

His leading foot finds air beyond the doorway. Seadall is half-pitched forward, his left foot scuffing uselessly at solid ground until the worn shoe slips into the darkness below. Rendered dumb with shock, he can only blink. Was he falling? Had he died? Far below, there is no sound of a shoe meeting anything solid, as if it could fall forever in the void. Only then does Seadall muffle a shout, the heavy weight brushing past strands of his hair to press directly against skin.

Ice floods his veins, the beat of his pulse hammering against the unmistakable callouses of individual fingertips that now rest against his neck.

Seadall has had enemies wrap hands around his neck before. Commonplace among brawlers - and yet the response is instantaneous. Flailing, both hands reach for the iron grip, seeking a weakness even as he’s steered backwards.

As soon as both of his feet are back on solid ground, Seadall bends his knees and finds leverage. Or was the hand purposefully loosening its grip? He doesn’t care, can’t be bothered to wait for the answers, ripping the fingers back one by one as he twists to face-

Nothing, at first. It’s hard to pick details in the dark. It’s a man, but Seadall had already known that. The strength and size of his grip had given that much away…though it wasn’t a particularly comforting truth. One hand is braced to a shoulder, the other still wrapped tightly around the stranger’s wrist, shooing the voice in his head that wonders (loudly) what good such a thing would do if he had been able to maneuver Seadall so easily with only one hand. Now, the chill of the stranger’s hands fall to his chest and shoulders as they wrestle for an upper hand.

“What the…” Breathless, his accusation trails away. Another trick of the darkness, where he can suddenly make out specific features. Dark hair feathers around his features, significant tendrils of rot consuming the skin of his neck and infecting the sharp structure of his jaw, his face. Finally still completely, the stranger releases him, the gold of his gaze unnaturally bright where it regards him, several shades calmer than Seadall himself feels in the moment.

Dark hair. Golden eyes. A man of decent build and height. Seadall knows he’s seen this person before, thinks it a trick of his hazy memory until the voice of his most recent dream floats back to him.

Yes…grandmother.

Seadall’s inhale is sharp, stepping back once to give his savior little more room. “Abban?” A shake of his head. “Sorry. Would you happen to be, Adham?”.

that familiar voice she could never quite determine was friend or foe. 

yes.

the word thrums through her bones.

dorothea's head snaps toward the stranger, eyes wide and breath caught in her throat. never had she known what face to expect behind that voice—but certainly not a man wreathed in shadow, with eyes that burned like molten gold. “adham,” she repeats, caught somewhere between wonder and wariness. “you’re the one behind the visions…?” the question hangs, tangled with others she can’t yet voice. why me? why not reveal yourself? what is this place, and what are those things out there? why help us, but attack the others? 

still, the smallest part of her exhales in quiet, uncertain relief—all the broken pieces of knowing had meant something. that, and the dawning truth: she would sooner trust a man half-lost to darkness than any vision handed down by a deity. a childhood spent fending off the goddess' vicious wolves had long since proven if they were ever truly held in divine hands, seadall would have been left to fall, his death buried beneath the weight of righteous bloodshed.

the fortuneteller steps forward, slow and measured. her hands lift—open, empty. a gesture of peace.“you called me down here. did you know what would happen to our friend?” 

her gaze flickers away from adham's eyes to run across the ruin carved into his skin. “we need to get rafal back first. then we’ll help you with your mission, with healing...whatever it is you need from us.”

Whether from the rot, or the dark itself, his communication with is strained. Dorothea's witnesses another set of visions:

First that of Rafal asleep in his room, wearing a new mask.

Then a blade of a special make - curved, with a gem in its hilt.

Next Rafal with a blade through his chest.

A lantern aglow with a blue flame.

The Exit Door once more, the dark illuminated by a blue glow.

A mass of some kind, deep down in a cave, wrapped in rotting, moth-eaten wings.

When the visions subside, the man silently withdraws his sword from its sheathe. Holding in across the palms of both hands, you can see that it's curved just like the vision. He offers it to you.

With a tired sigh, the woman in the mouthless mask sets her box on the rail that runs across the wall and puts a hand over her face.

"Th-there's no need to look into it." She suddenly clams up at the idea, like she probably knew it was coming sooner or later. "What's unfair is that the guy who took my place - that guy in the sun mask - has never made it past Supervisor before. And I heard he'd been recently demoted himself, too! It's not fair to the rest of us," she nods at the stars on your brooch, "who worked our way up there."

Sniffing, she hefts her box back up into her arms. "... The best way to move up is just to report a bunch of workers for breaking the rules," she mutters bitterly, "and I have a list of repeat offenders, so I'll be back in no time."

Had it always been this easy to find the upper levels?

"Has something happened?" she groans. "I've only just been demoted! It's foul play, that's what it is! I never even had a chance to defend myself, and the next thing I know, this guy's come and taken over my office."

But he studies you for a time, then glances toward the small light in his room.

"Do you not recall the supervisor being slain?" His tongue hesitates on supervisor, drawing each syllable out in slow motion until his memory catches up. (who?) "The Lion Mask, killed in broad daylight. What about the worker who disappeared," (where?) "in the tunnels?"

"And the lights now seem to be on the verge of darkness, where we are told the dangers lie. I do not recall them flickering with such vigor when I visited you last — do you not notice it?"

(when did you visit? how long have you been here?)

He rummages through a few papers in his collection until he finds one from which Ares had taken a snippet a while ago. It has a short speculative article on a death, although the details remain too vague to confirm that it had been Ares at all. Nevertheless, he hands it over to you anyway.

In other words, Seadall has not calmed. He snorts, “I was found guilty and spared and you certainly lied and lived. Come now, you weren’t there when we left the tunnels. So effectively, I can report you now for abandoning your job. You knew I hadn’t killed the man, and still accused me of it. For fun? Extra measure? To see me gone?”

The managers though. Why Seadall hadn’t thought to seek them out – or why he hadn’t thought it possible… he can’t remember. Had he even known there was a thing higher than a supervisor? “You are coming with me. Can’t let a snake out of sight, right?

"They won't let you up," she says, almost as if this is her plea for you to release her. But nevertheless, she doesn't fight you too hard as you drag her up... and up... and up... and up... until finally you come to a platform with no offices, only a walkway to an elevator at the end.

"Sten," he suddenly greets. The name is blurted out as if Bruno himself is surprised that he remembers it. Perhaps recognizing how absurd he must look, he shakes the shock off and nods as he hands the paper over. "The read was wonderful, thank you. And this...?"

He takes the new paper into his hands gingerly. A trial for stealing, destruction of property, trespassing, too much leisure, murder — the list seems endless, now that he's taking a closer look at it. The sight of the Star Mask in the photo brings about sudden guilt: did Bruno do something to that person? He doesn't remember, but the bitter taste in the back of his throat suggests otherwise.

Bruno gets the sense that Sten believes he's aware of the trial and the case surrounding it already; so he plays along. He can read the paper himself later. "How unfortunate for it to be pinned as murder. At least they were," he squints, "acquitted."

"But, I would like to look for some more historical news." A hum as he starts to make his way through the piles — carefully, as to not disrupt the organization Sten has. "The paper that I borrowed piqued my interest: there's a lot more hidden behind this facility than I initially believed. Pearl Shoals is... quite complicated."

Fylani. Adham. Names that have haunted him since his dream. He thumbs through page after page, skimming bold headlines and miniature text until he has a stack of papers that should be relevant. This small subsection of the collection, he'll keep for now.

He stands, newspapers in hand. Thoughts of returning to the flickering lights outside start infiltrating as they funnel into his next question.

"Sten — are you comfortable given the state of the current facility?" Bruno pauses, and somewhere, sights of the bird sitting on a stool grazes his mind. "I'd imagine you struggle to have enough light in the commercial wing to read peacefully now, given the current state of affairs elsewhere... but do you still feel content here? Safe, at minimum?"

But he studies you for a time, then glances toward the small light in his room.