Samothes has a plan of action for extracting the secrets from the tablet that was left for him in his strange new room in this strange new world. He intends to dismantle it eventually, pry apart its delicate machinery to see clearly the magic that must be coiled within, but first, he has further tests to conduct. He sits on the edge of the bed that has been made his, presently, and holds the thing with almost dainty care. His hands are rough and broad, but they can be fine instruments, too, and they are such on this occasion, as he illuminates the screen and begins to swipe through the selection of icons. He recognizes them as having the style of... insignia, or similar, but cannot place the referents. Half arbitrarily and half indulgently, he taps the one depicting a stylized flame. The interface flickers to an entirely new display.
Samothes knows about universal translators, as a technology. He has devised them himself to solve certain problems of communication with his subjects. He recognizes on a theoretical level the tells, the imperfect superimposition of meaning, shimmering just out of conscious reach. But he is unused to needing to make use of them himself. He simply knows the languages spoken in Hieron. Whatever language the source text of this device is, it mustn’t be one he’s familiar with. The effect is subtle, but displeasing. He finds that he can make perfect sense of the words on the screen, but the barely-there quiver of sentences revising and revising again that runs through them nags at him like a particularly insistent pebble underfoot.
The slim opening paragraph that appears, presented under an image of a frolicking couple, promises to connect him with other people, apparently just like him. It’s a doubtful claim. But he taps the button prompting him to get started anyways, for the sake of experimentation. A form of sorts appears, and further poking at the screen produces an alphabet. Ah. Diligently, he inputs the information asked of him, although frustratingly some of the questions are meaningless to him, and others seem either irrelevant or almost deliberately obtuse. “Name: Samothes. Occupation: King-God,” and then, after a moment’s thought, “Inventor”. “Location:” - well, he knows that much, now. Lampadias Suites, Sea of Tranquility. Etc.
Finally, it asks him for a photograph. Samothes has never taken nor encountered a photograph, exactly, but he has captured and preserved likenesses in other ways often enough that he gets the gist when he presses a button and a mirrored image of himself appears on the screen. He produces what he hopes is a kindly smile. Snap. His “profile” now apparently complete, he clicks around for the promised option of communicating with his peers. He has... a number of questions, suffice to say, but it’s hardly worth asking them of someone who won’t be able to answer. So when a new interface appears and instructs him to enter a message to his first supposed match, he types (very slowly):
I’m new to your world, and unfamiliar with its workings. Are you a god in this place?
