Jodi had indeed arrived the next night. Tuuya, though happy to see their longtime friend, had been in rather a stunned haze.

She hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d heard the news about Civitrecce too. 

Tuuya had let her think that was the only reason for their disorientation; she hadn’t seemed to know what had really happened, and they were in no state to explain.

Then the worm swarm had realized - Chimer must be gone.

Along with thousands of others. 

Chimer…she’d asked them about the artifice some time ago, after the creature had apparently told her some very unsettling things, and they had related its irritating antics as both Iaktta and Dyanni.

A few nights later Ullane - quiet, resigned - had mentioned the false tealblood was no more. Hunted down by an enemy, it had terminated that body to escape from him and protect the yellowblood.

Tuuya hadn’t known how to feel. 

Smugly satisfied? Bitterly vindicated? 

Now a welling sense of guilt overshadowed all else.

They had never liked or trusted the creature, but even in death, it made sure Kaningård was protected…

Tuuya knew full well they had hardly given it an incentive to do so. 

Who could blame them? It had always been unsettling and disrespectful.

Yet.

It truly had meant well.

Even if they also suspected…

They sighed and shook their head. They had paperwork to do, as always.

The head matron picked up their pen, adjusting the sheet beneath one thick, dark gray hand with their other one.

Then came a polite knock at their study door. They grimaced in slight frustration, ears flicking, but if they were really honest with themself they weren’t in a state to get much done anyway.

“Mx. Vannyn? There’s an ambulance pulled up outside the cavern, but we didn’t call for one. Do you know why it’s here? The medicullers are all baffled.”

Anleih’s voice was politely mystified, and Tuuya, wide mouth tilting in surprise as their bright green eyes blinked repeatedly, felt the same.

They took a moment to compose themself.

“I’m afraid I don’t, Anleih.” They said with determined levity. “But I’d love to find out!”

They got up, grabbing their silver cane from its stand next to their desk, and got up to open the door.

Anleih was out there along with a few other staff; they looked concerned.

“Is someone injured, Mx. Vannyn?”

“Did something happen? Are we getting a patient?”

Sometimes mutant grubs or wrigglers from elsewhere would be brought in secret to get treated.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Said Tuuya calmly. “Anleih has my permission to speak to them and find out. We weren’t expecting any special guests tonight, so be sure to give them a warm welcome.”

Code for ‘I wasn’t forewarned of an imperial, but they might be one in disguise; be careful.’

The worm swarm trusted Jodi. They would never trust the empire. 

According to the tealblood, Arty had managed to make it look like Ardoat had died of some form of subtle, fast-acting cancer. Clever, they’d admit, if deeply uncanny.

But one never knew. They might be getting investigated anyway. 

Anleih nodded and ran ahead.

The rainbowdrinker followed.

—-

Several minutes later, Tuuya blinked as they felt warped back three sweeps in time to when they’d been shot and captured.

Sochet Izzanu stood before them in the cavern’s waiting room, hands on her hips, scowling as usual. At least, usual for their interactions with her.

“Shit, I barely recognized ya at first, you’re so much rounder. And grayer.” She started off bluntly. “Doesn’t make a gal feel real at ease to see you’ve gone off your diet.” 

Tuuya snorted. “If you’d care to stop commenting on my appearance, could we perhaps get to why you’re here?”

Truth be told, they’d almost forgotten she was coming, their mind had been in such a state. When Thrixe had messaged them, they’d just said that if the brownblood could make it here, they’d speak to them.

They hadn’t actually expected Sochet to do it.

She sucked in a breath.

“Starfish boy said you knew something about why Civi was gone.”

“I have a theory.” Tuuya said calmly. “I don’t know for sure. But I do have other information that will be of use to you. First, though - why do you want to know this? How do I know you aren’t going to report on me to the empire?”

Sochet made a disgusted noise, rounded ears pinning back a bit.

“Shit! You think I’d lick an imp’s boot? Just ‘cause I don’t like you freaky fuckers doesn’t mean I’m suckin’ up to trident lovers. I’ll work with ‘em if I gotta, but do all this for one? Fuck no. It’s for a different group.”

Tuuya’s eyebrows raised. “I’m listening. Go on.”

The bronze gritted their teeth.

“They're called Legion, led by a fellow called Arigah. Xrumon Arigah.”

Tuuya squinted thoughtfully. The name rang a bell…

“Wait…he was present at Ullane’s trial, wasn’t he? I remember there being some kerfuffle with him involved when I watched it…”

The brownblood looked blank.

“Fuck, I dunno. Don’t know shit ‘bout any trials.”

Tuuya nodded regardless, their memories coming back more. “Yes…a tealblood, very outspoken. He accused the Grey Mob of sabotaging Ullane, and he turned out to be right.”

She sucked in a breath.

“Well, ain’t that fuckin’ ironic, cause he’s havin’ to work for them now. They want Civi back, and they’re leanin’ on him to get it. Friend of mine’s workin’ with his group and he called me up. I was skeptical to start.” They admit. 

“But then I realized what’s at stake. Figured even if it meant talkin’ to you freaks, I had to do somethin’ about it.” 

“How noble of you.” Tuuya replied dryly, then looked thoughtful. “The Grey Mob…I do not envy the man. Neither do I want Kaningård involved. However…you are right. This is beyond any enmity we might have for each other. One of my own sponsors and allies disappeared with the city, and of course, the loss of thousands of trolls is not something to be taken lightly.” They added in a grave tone.

“That said.” They continued, the pointer finger of their free hand raised as Sochet opened her mouth again. “I will have Ullane check with Mr. Arigah to verify your story before we continue. I think you understand why I cannot simply take your word for it, miss Izzanu.”

The bronzeblood’s scowl deepened.

—-

Tuuya instructed their staff to provide Sochet with amenities while they waited, and they did have to admit to themself that it was a bit funny to hear the hunter was mildly fuming about the delay.

Ah, the impatience of youth.

But after some time - in which a bit of paperwork actually did get done - Ullane responded and corroborated what the bronze had told them: they truly were here for what they claimed.

Once more, the head matron rose, took their cane, and went to see the lowblood. She had been shown to a space close to the waiting room, not much further into Kaningård.

Sochet might be here in good faith - as good as it got with her - but they certainly weren’t about to show her more of the cavern than was strictly necessary. Security still had to be maintained.

They knocked on her door.

They received a grunt in response, so they opened it. 

They sat down on the couch opposite the chair the hunter sat in, and folded their hands after setting their cane aside.

“I will tell you all I know for certain, and all that I believe may be true. However, this information does not come for free. In return, I would like your group to provide one security droid for the cavern.”

She sputtered. “You fuckin’ what? I don’t have control over that! And you’re a real shithead, demandin’ somethin’ like that before I even know what info you got.”

Tuuya smiled a bit morbidly, a few needlelike teeth showing.

“Oh, I’ll pay for it. But I don’t want you acting all high and mighty and refusing me on principle.”

Sochet grumbled, and the worm swarm knew they had hit home.

“Fuckin’ - fine. Sure. Whatever. I’ll pass it on to Arigah. Cocksucker.” She muttered.

“Sticks and stones, Izzanu.” Tuuya said with a gleam in their eyes. “Now listen closely. In fact, you may want to take notes; this is quite the strange tale, and there is a great deal to it.”

To the bronze’s credit, they didn’t give them any more lip; just took out a somewhat stained notebook and a pen, eyes expectant behind their orange-tinted glasses.

“I asked you for a security droid. Imagine one smarter and more powerful than anything you’ve seen before, but capricious and unbound, answering to no one but itself. A multi-bodied shapeshifter, a troll mimic, fully capable of taking over others’ bodies with technology and leaving no trace.”

The woman’s eyes grew wide and a bit fearful. The pen paused in her hand as the drinker’s words sank in.

Tuuya’s lips twisted in a grim smile, knowing they had her attention now.

“It was called the artifice.” 

—-

Sochet looked utterly drained by the time they were done, hands covered in pen ink smudges as they took off their glasses and rubbed at their eyes wearily.

Tuuya couldn’t find much humor in it; they had had to excuse themself to drink some blood to keep their energy up and even now, they sat slumped back on the couch in the space near the waiting room.

“Fuckin’ hell.” The bronze said after a few moments. “I expected something wild, but that’s…” 

They shook their head. “Fuck, I don’t have words.”

“It is rather a terrifying and unique phenomenon.” Tuuya agreed, ears flicking slightly. “Or it was, seeing as it’s dead.”

“You sure it’s dead? Like a hundred percent? That it’s not faking?” She asked with a clear, fervent hope that the answer was yes.

“I cannot be entirely certain.” They admitted. “But I don’t see what it would gain from lying. As I said…I suspect it is behind the disappearance of Civitrecce. The timing of its death and the the city vanishing when the empire attacked it are too close to not be a coincidence, I feel, given that is where it came from and what seems to have been its motivation for its actions.”

They stretched their arms, tilting their head to unstiffen their neck, and looked at the bronze.

“I cannot provide you with a way to get Civitrecce back. I can give you a contact who might be able to assist with that, if you can persuade her.” 

Sochet looked stunned.

“Wait, really? Please tell me it’s not another freak.”

Tuuya’a lips twitched in an amused smile. “I think if anyone called Maidel a freak, he would be very upset. Sensitive soul, that one, but he’s also a reliable and helpful sort of fellow. And he’s entirely troll, so don’t fret.”

The bronze breathed out a sigh of relief, then paused.

“Okay, well that’s rosy, but what the fuck is he gonna do all by himself?”

“He is a powerful psiionic.” Tuuya explained. “One of the strongest I’ve ever seen. He teleported a small town once, buildings and all, every troll intact - and that was sweeps ago. She has been honing her powers since then, and I am sure she could do more than that now.”

The hunter whistled.

“Well goddamn. All right. I’ll hit her up, then.”

“A word of warning, though.” Tuuya said, holding up the pointer finger of their right hand once more. 

“He is not a fighter, despite his power. I very much believe it would be intelligent to send this Alpha you mentioned, or something like it, along with him if he consents to search for the city.”

Sochet shrugged. “That’s Arigah’s call, not mine. But I’ll let him know. Thanks.” She said, extremely grudging. 

Tuuya gave her a wide, needle-toothed grin as they wrote down the greenblood’s handle and gave it to them.

“My pleasure. Have a safe trip back.”

Sochet snorted as they took the slip of paper, shoving it in her sylladex and walking out of the room without a goodbye.

Tuuya jauntily waved her off, even though they knew she couldn’t see and wouldn’t look back.

Fucking exhausted, could barely tell where they were going, knowing damn well they’d probably lose a dozen more people before they found somewhere safe.

If such a place would even take them in. There was one oliveblood in the whole group, and they were the highest caste troll there was. Everyone else was yellow or below. 

Right now he tried to focus on helping the poor mauled brownblood. They were young - shit, they could barely be seven, though almost everyone was small and skinny for their ages. He murmured to them gently as they whimpered and he cleaned them off, then did his best to create the most healing salves he knew out of his plants.

The salves were half-shite and he knew it. He wasn’t very good at using magic for that yet.

None of them were docterrorists; the best they had were the farmhands who knew first aid and some treatments, but a good portion of those were for beasts, not trolls.

Fuck Auresh and his stranglehold on education. They were going to die out here because no one knew bugger-all, and because no one had been allowed out except for him.

He finished with the brownblood - Merryl, he learned their name was, and gave them a pat on their good shoulder, telling them to let him know if they needed more bandages or the like. 

Those, at least, he could make fairly easily with his powers.

He gave a grateful nod to the two older trolls tending to them - he didn’t know the maroon woman, but the other rust, Jonnin, was very calm and level-headed. Merryl should be in good hands.

He tried to ignore the awed and fearful looks of the other villagers as he went to help some of the fire-starters.

He couldn’t exactly afford to hide his differences anymore. 

Was there a word for what he was? He didn’t have a bull’s notion, to tell the truth. He mostly didn’t care, because who gave a rat’s arse when there was far more pressing stuff to worry about.

But what Cris had said kept gnawing at him, much as he tried to swat their words out of his head.

He still felt like a troll. 

Mostly.

He heard the crack of a gun, and -

“Ow, FUCK!” He swore as a bullet grazed his shoulder, looking around wildly for the source, eyes lighting up green defensively as his ears pinned back.

Couldn’t be a Silverpool troll; Auresh had taken away guns sweeps before most of them had been hatched.

Another bullet landed directly in his chest and he screeched and warbled in pain, just like his lusus had before the poor old bird had died a sweep ago.

“STOP SHOOTING ME!” He bellowed. “Fucking hell! You’re going to hit someone else and then I’ll really kill you!”

For while he was hardly having a good time, he knew this wouldn’t take him down. 

His body was already pushing the bullets out, and the wounds leaked a mix of red blood and pale amber tree sap. 

Mercifully, the shooter stopped.

A voice with no clear source seemed to come out of thin air. One with an accent he’d only heard in trolls from far away; the speaker definitely wasn’t from Albion.

“Well, damn, beastie, seems you got reason left in you after all.”

They seemed amused, as if this was all so bloody hilarious to them.

“Fucking - of course I do!” He snarled, irritated and impatient and still hurting. “Now why the fuck did you shoot me? Is this your territory or something?”

“Y’ain’t no troll, that’s why. I seen ya in the daylight, creature, soaking up its rays and not gettin’ burned. I seen ya turn yourself to wood and plants and I seen how you don’t breathe. Now, I haven’t caught ya nibblin’ at your crowd here, so maybe y’ain’t a troll eater, but I still don’t trust ya.”

Veraci seethed, the vines from the buds on his horns writhing around his head.

“‘Course I’m not a fucking troll eater, you cow! This is my village! Our hives just got destroyed! We do not need any more fucking problems, thanks! So piss right off and I’ll forget this happened, how’s that sound?”

What he really wanted to do was find and kill them for being such a pain in his arse, but he couldn’t afford personal vendettas right now. Not with so many people to protect, no matter how shite of a job he might actually be doing at it.

He still had to try.

“Mmm…nah. I got more questions for ya.”

“Bully for you, I don’t feel like answering.” He retorted nastily. “Next time try quizzing me before sinking lead into my chest, you fuckin’ dolt.”

The voice chuckled, and for some odd reason, its sound varied, dipping up and down like -

A radio channel, Veraci realized. They were projecting their voice like they were on a radio show.

But he couldn’t see or hear hide nor hair of any tech. Not that he was an expert - thanks Auresh - but it still seemed odd.

“Sorry, lemme make m’self clear: answer me or I shoot ya again.”

“Fuck ooofff.” He groaned. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Ya do now, beastie.”

“My name’s Veraci, you rat bastard.”

“So why’d yer village get destroyed, huh?”

“Forest spirits.” He said bluntly. He did not have the patience or energy to lie at the moment. “If you don’t believe me, go to hell.”

“Nah, sounds likely enough.” The voice said thoughtfully. “So’s that what ya are? A spirit in a troll body?”

Veraci hesitated. “I mean. I was hatched a regular troll. I still feel like myself, not like I’ve been possessed or anything. But it’s none of your business.” He said roughly. 

“And don’t you dare fucking imply I destroyed my village. I tried to keep it alive, I - ”

“It’s true.” A Silverpool troll piped up timidly. “He brought us food and supplies when our lord ignored us. We’d have starved if it weren’t for him, had no new books or tools or anything.”

“He made bandages and ointments for us.” Said another troll.

“He told us stories.” A young wriggler interjected.

“Yes, he’s a little…weird…” another troll said hesitantly. “But we don’t have anyone else. We never have. So don’t kill him, or we’ll all die out here.”

“Hmmm.” Said the voice. “Either he’s got some damn strong mind control, or y’all really are loyal to this freak.”

“M…mind control?” Someone said, afraid.

“Yah. Wouldn’ be surprised if he could pull some shit like that with that pollen he can make. He killed some beast that got a sniff of it, made it all drowsy and peaceable before he speared it with his wooden limbs.”

Veraci wanted to strangle the speaker with his bare hands as fearful muttering swept through the Silverpool trolls. Just how long had they been watching him? And he hadn’t noticed them? Ugh. 

He really was exhausted.

“Oh for the love of - no, I’m not mind controlling the lot of you.” He said in exasperation, holding his hands up and out flat. 

“I’m not a psychic, you know what my psi is! Making sleeping powder is a hell of a lot simpler than actively controlling someone.”

“How would you know?” One troll demanded. “You’ve tried it, haven’t you?”

Veraci was so fucking done. 

He knew the speaker wanted him to explode, wanted him to lash out and make himself look bad. 

So he’d be buggered if he gave them what they wanted.

The maroon put a few fingers to his temples, steadying himself, then spoke again.

“Yeah, I tried it once - to see if I could control Auresh.” He said in a low, hard voice. “Didn’t work well, barely managed to cover it up before he noticed. Does anybody wanna give me shite for that, or can we move on?”

A silence stretched among the Silverpool trolls.

Veraci sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Look. I’m not asking you to think I have moonshine coming out my arse. I’m asking you to trust that I want to get you to safety. Can you all do that for me?”

Muttering swept through the crowd as they discussed it with one another.

The radio-like voice chuckled.

His fists clenched.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He said to the voice quietly. “Is killing me really that fucking important to you? Why?”

“S’what I do, Veraci. I kill monsters. How do I know ya can’t infect other trolls t’be like you? How do I know ya won’t get more powerful and turn into a bigger problem? Ya got magic, I can tell. An’ your psi is worryin’ enough.”

“Fuck you, you’d kill me just for being a mage or a psiionic?” He spat. “You’re insane. And for your information, no, I can’t do that, not that I’ve ever tried, because unlike you I’m not an asshole. You think this was what I wanted for myself or anyone else? You think this was what I hoped for?!”

He spread his arms again, burning with frustration.

“I was under a blueblood lord who didn’t care if any of us lived or died, you prick! I got the power to help myself and the others, so fucking sue me if I use it! Don’t you judge from your high hoofbeast until you get down here in the dirt and see what it’s like! We were chattel! I was the only one who could pass the forest safely! Anyone else who tried got killed!”

A long pause stretched through the entire group of trolls, and everyone went so quiet in the wake of Veraci’s yelling that they could hear the bugs and animals rustling in the brush.

The mage bared his teeth, sharper than most maroons’, eyes glowing so strongly green they radiated trails of misty light into the night.

“A’ight.” The voice finally said. “I believe ya.”

“Oh thanks.” He said sarcastically, slowly clapping his hands. “Thanks, I really needed that. I wanted your approval so bloody bad, you don’t even know.”

“I’m comin’ out now, an’ no one better try anythin’ or I’ll shoot.”

“No promises.” He growled, keeping a sharp eye out for the speaker as they stepped into the moonlight.

Who was…a brownblood. A perfectly ordinary brownblood, long-haired and a bit chubby, probably a girl? Hard to tell, though.

But that gun they were holding…it made him shiver. He wasn’t sure how well his bloodpusher worked any more, or if it still existed, but if he had one, he knew it was running cold.

“So what’s the occasion?” He said in a hard voice. “What are you going to do now? Better not be anything stupid.”

Truthfully, he still hurt like hell from the wounds even though they’d sealed themselves, and he’d be at a major disadvantage in a fight, but the shooter didn’t need to know that.

“Nah.” They said easily. “M’here to help.”

Veraci stared at them and then cracked the fuck up.

“Brilliant! Love to hear it. Uhhh, you can help by pissing off.” He said, overly solemn. “Thanks so much, good-fucking-bye.”

They raised their eyebrows.

“Y’need help, Veraci. Your trolls look bad. I got some supplies I can share, an’ I know a place that might take some of ya in, the younger folk at least.”

God, he wanted to throttle them with vines and call it a night. He wanted to spear them with thorns and leave their body for the crows.

“Fine.” He said, tone harsh. “Share what you’ve got with the youngest and weakest first. Everyone else, do not fucking interfere, this is not turning into a free-for-all. I know you’re all hungry and tired, but I am on my last drop of patience, so don’t test me.”

He realized, belatedly, that he felt something strange on his face and his hands. 

He looked down.

Thorns, small ones, pushing through the skin. 

He hadn’t meant for that to happen.

Fuck. Could the shooter be right? Would he transform further without even wanting to?

He silently watched them hand supplies out, arms crossed as his thoughts ran a million miles an hour. Luckily, no one seemed to be causing any problems.

He hardly realized when they came up to him and cleared their throat. He saw them looking at his thorns. He turned away, self-conscious.

“Hey. Would ya get cured, if ya could? Of what’s happenin’ to ya?”

“Dunno.” He muttered. “I definitely don’t want to go full plant, that’s not on the agenda. But if it meant losing all my magic and even my psi…fuck. I don’t know. That might be a death sentence itself.”

A maroon with no powers was basically as good as dead, after all.

“Hmmm.” Said the brownblood, scratching their chin with their free hand. “Name’s Sochet. I might be able to help ya. Not me personally, I ain’t no mage, but could still be possible. What say I travel with ya for a bit, help y’all out til we get everyone sorted, then we can tend to you?”

He squinted.

“I do not fucking trust that you suddenly want to help me, Sochet.”

They chuckled.

“Hones’ly, I don’t really wanna, but I can tell poppin’ ya would prob’ly piss off a lot o’ these folks an’ they might come for me. An’ I do wanna help them. S’why I became a hunter; protectin’ us what the higher folk don’t give two shits about.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. I don’t have any other options, so welcome to what remains of Silverpool, I guess.” 

They grinned. 

“Thanks, lovin’ the hospitality.”

He sighed deeply.

They give a snort, and you take the act of continued breathing as an opportunity to press your luck.

“Do you really want to kill me? I haven’t done a thing to anyone here. I’m sure we could get along quite well if you weren’t so intent on putting lead into my skull.”

“Now that’s a darn lie.” They drawl, and you try to shift a little before the barrel gets pushed in harder. 

“My legs are falling asleep.” You offer up, and it’s not a lie, either. 

“The only reason you ain’t dead is because I need to know what you are. I can tell it’s something, so don’t bother shoveling crap.”

“I consider myself a troll of many talents. More seriously, I’m not quite sure. There was an incident a little while back with those louses, but I don’t know for certain what that was more than anyone else does.”

If you say ‘horrorterrors’, they’ll either shoot you if they’re superstitious, or they’ll laugh and continue trying to shake the truth out of you.

Their voice hardens into a tone that wouldn’t be out of place at a mirthful and seadweller diplomacy meeting. You’re just so pleased they’re interested, and not looking at the most uncomfortable floor.

“More details, mister fish, or you start losing parts.”

“I grow those back.”

The short brownblood peers around the barrel of the gun that’s about four fifths of their height. They don’t look much older than 8 sweeps, but their voice sounds more aged.

“Just what the heck are you?” They demand, and you roll your eyes. “Also, prove it.”

Obligingly, you use the claw of one hand to rip off another almost to the point where it would be painful, not that such slight discomfort would even register as much of anything these nights. Almost before the break is clean, the keratin starts re-weaving, growing back into a point. 

The lowblood whistles, and you shift a little again. 

“So what, you’re a psiionic violet? They cook you up in a lab? That doesn’t explain what I felt.”

“I started to grow things back a tad too well after the louses came, had a few rare symptoms...”

The floor is so very uncomfortable and so very satisfying to see them sway on as you finally press hard with your foot on one of the loose planks in the floor, giving you the second you need to kick them over and take their gun before standing up as they writhe on the floor.

You’re long gone by the time they so much even manage to push themselves up. 

“Maybe I should just give a quiz.” You murmur to yourself. It’s a silly habit, but there’s so much you can’t talk about anymore. “’What is Thrixe Varzim?’ Your answers can be ‘bored, amused, annoyed, or unimpressed’.”

You take the gun out of your sylladex, the only reason you came to the town, the reason you couldn’t just take the bullets and shrug it off. You’ll return it soon enough, eldritch inscriptions and all.

You push through the flap of the tent, and let your hood down, shaking out your hair. 

The troll you’ve come to see turns around, eyebrows raised expectantly as you clear your throat.

They pause, breathing hard, not knowing Platar mentally counted all their sentence stops.

“But it takes a toll on me, even with support.”

Sochet interjects with a curt tone. “Speakin’ of, how the fuck did ya do that. Ain’t you only supposed to be able to do shit with psiionics to draw from?”

Cherie coughs a few more times. “Normally yes…but I have been…bolstered. Though it only goes so far. I won’t be able to do that again for a night or so without harming myself.”

Platar might be able to detect a faint magical aura in them. However, Cherie themself is not a mage, only a psiionic.

"So what stopped checking the power of this Chronological Stasis Beast? How could a city being moved lead to this happening?" The hemoanon asks.

Cherie looks grave. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out. This is why I’m meeting with you. I have…I am sure Chimer told you what I tried to do.” They say, looking at Sochet. 

Sochet answers, blithe and flippant. “Y’mean the part where you tried fuckin’ with time and space to make yerself liege of yer own little world? Yeah, she told me. S’why I don’t feel bad ‘bout Platar pointin’ that at ya.”

Cherie sighs. “I admit I did wrong. My sweeps away from Civitrecce have opened my eyes. Learning what my psi is really for has as well. Like I said, I don’t know for sure why this is happening…but I have my theories.”

"As the saying goes: ‘Belief comes with vision.’” Platar keeps the machete raised all the same. 

"How did you know our identities? You appeared ready for confrontation, but we have only arrived very recently. I do not make news appearances for at least an average of one or two nights. Also, they do not get my name right." He adds.

Sochet snorts, but their expression is fond. “Shoot, Platar, never change.” 

Cherie takes out a golden compass with symbols around its face, clearly not of the common north-pointing kind: it is old, but in excellent condition. Of the four arrows, the longest one points at Platar. The other three swing about. 

“This compass is a complex tool, but among its uses, it can point to whatever the user wants to find…as well as answer questions posed to it, so long as one knows how to ask and interpret the meanings.”

Unlike them, it lacks even a faint magical aura. It is simply strange technology. 

"You asked it to... find people looking for you?"

“I have known about the grayshifts since they started. I have known that Chimer Latrai might send people for me. I didn’t want to reveal myself until I was sure you could be trusted to not kill or capture me on sight.” They state plainly.

Sochet sucks in a breath. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

"It is not magical, yet it knows things that it has no way of doing so." He pauses. 

"May I see it?" The hemoanon asks, offering his other hand.

Cherie smiles at that, handing it over. “Magic is not the only strange force in the world. Haven’t you learned what my ancestor’s sect worshiped by now? A being of infinite possibility, but not a mere magical entity - one that has always existed. Quantum physics. The very fundamentals of matter itself.” 

Sochet ponders that. “…So if something is possible, normally, the compass can find it? Or figure it out?”

Cherie nods. “Yes. It can’t predict, or invent. It has no creativity. It can simply retrieve knowledge. It responds to consciousness and intent.”

"Where is the nearest rebel enclave?" Platar asks, squinting at the device.

The long arrow stills and the three others point to different symbols around the edge of the glass: a monkey, a tree, and a spyglass. 

Sochet, dry: “Damn, that solves everything. Think I prefer a computer.”

Cherie’s lips purse. “You have to learn how to read it.”

Sochet’s tone is deadpan. “I’ll pass.”

"This would be an invaluable tool to myself and others...if I had any idea what this meant." He shrugs. "But that learning can be saved for later." 

"Anyway, since it appears you wish to cooperate, it would be safest to move indoors, where others cannot spy upon us. We need to retrieve Civitrecce. You will assist us with this." 

He lowers the machete. Slightly. It's at more of an angle now.

Cherie blinks and politely does not comment. 

They nod. “I have a place nearby. It’s a short walk.”

They show the hunters to a hive extremely well concealed in part of the ruins - though this part is not so worn down. It is surprisingly comfortable inside, though not nearly as fancy as the apartment building in the capital. Still, Cherie seems at ease, and unbothered by Platar’s threats.

Sochet looks amused. “Shit, you like this place so much you set up shop here? Seems kinda lonely and dull.”

"It is similar to my hive. I understand the desire." Platar remarks. "Although my climate is much more preferable."

Cherie does not respond to either of their comments, instead sitting down in a blue armchair and taking out an elegantly bound journal full of observations. 

“This is where I keep all my notes about what I have discovered.” They say. 

“Between my powers and the compass I’ve figured out a few things…one of which is that the grayshifts are impervious to knowledge seeking. Any such abilities seem to simply stop working when one tries to obtain information on them.” They sigh.

“So I ask about its aftereffects on trolls and the environment instead.” 

Platar remains standing, still keeping his weapon at his side for safety's sake. "After-effects? Did it subtract a few sweeps from our lives?"

Cherie shakes their head. “No. As far as I can tell, it can’t do that. It isn’t toxic, nor does it make the body break down like radiation might. It makes things…stop. It prevents new thought, feeling, action…the only reason I could do what I did is because I was prepared. I knew it might happen.”

Sochet whistles. “Okay, well, that’s fuckin’ terrifyin’. But what does that have to do with Civi? I mean I’m gonna guess this possibility creature is also the artifice that nuked itself movin’ the place. Aside from that, I can’t make out a damn thing.” 

"That seems dangerous. Everything stops. The world stops. The universe stops. Complete cessation of entropy. No death. No life." 

Platar inhales through his nose after he says this, which sounds a bit like a wind tunnel started up.

"But yes, the city. It left a tear in the world when it departed." He continues, glancing at Sochet. 

"Not just in the ground, the air is torn apart. Perhaps the shock of such an event caused other things. Removed whatever was stopping the Stasis Beast."

Cherie nods gravely. “I am not your enemy, Hacalo. I understand your mistrust, but if I don’t work with you, we are all in danger.” 

Sochet blinks. 

“A tear? Shit. You know anything about that?” She says, looking at Cherie’s journal. 

Cherie takes a breath, takes out a water bottle and drinks some, then begins talking. “Hacalo is right. From all I know, the possibility entity - what the sect called the Celestial Body - is a natural part of the universe. Simply using its abilities will not damage reality, or my own would, and they don’t. 

I think this situation was…different. Something was wrong with the being itself. Maybe it was somehow sick, or an equivalent. Either way, that wrongness is what caused the problem, I believe.”

“And what attracted the other entity. Or broke its restraints. I am still trying to figure that out.” They muse, their expression both intrigued and frustrated.

"I assume simply restoring the city is not enough to prevent the continued events? Then what can be done? This being does not sound like something that can be merely approached and dealt with." Platar observes.

Cherie pauses, expression thoughtful, before they speak again. “No and no, I think. No, restoring the city won’t stop it, but…no, it probably can be reasoned with. The stories are surely not all true, but supposedly, my ancestor met the Body - my psi exists as evidence that it favored us somehow. 

If that being could reason like a troll, then perhaps the gray entity can as well…though I don’t know how one would communicate with it. But I have to believe it is possible. It cannot be fought, only repelled temporarily.” 

The blueblood sighs wearily. 

Platar shakes his head. "Reasoned with? No. We should build restraints, new repulsive effects. Keep it locked away forever so this does not repeat. But that is not relevant until we can determine where it ‘is’ and how to even handle it." He thinks for a second. 

"Also, not my decision to make at the moment. People always argue at me, tell me diplomacy is better."

Sochet pats his back. “If it makes ya feel better, I’d shoot this thing to pieces right alongside ya if we could.”

The cobalt looks a bit weirded out by that.

Sochet then looks at Cherie. “Well that was a load’a depressin’ shit, but at least we know more now. What’s yer contact so we c’n keep in touch?”

Cherie writes it down on a sticky note - Sochet sees with amusement that they leave their journal untouched. She gives them some of the candies she bought from the shop, though she keeps a few for herself. 

The blueblood is surprised, but takes them gratefully. 

"How do I read this device? Can more be made, or is the technology lost?" Platar asks.

Cherie looks dryly amused. “It took me sweeps to learn. And you can’t replicate it. It’s powered by the Body, which is a form of energy in its most basic state.” 

Sochet whistles. “Damn. Better give it back, then.”

"What better night to start than tonight, if it were to take sweeps?" He points out, still handing it back over to Cherie.

“We got slightly more pressin’ issues, Platar.” Sochet points out. “Arigah is gonna wanna know all this, though he’ll be none pleased.”

"I have only known him a short time. But he very rarely is."

Sochet chuckles. “Yeah, but he’s funny, so it ain’t so bad.” 

Saying so, the two take their leave, back to report to the tealblood who sent them here. 

–

Some hours later, a polite knock sounds on Cherie’s door.

“Come in.” They say, knowing it can only be one of three people - the hunters are long gone.

As it opens, they blink - it’s two of them, in fact. 

The tall red-haired receptionist from the museum - Nyzere Olorik - ducks their head to avoid brushing their horns on the ceiling, smiling gently as they sit down. 

The shorter troll - though he still has several inches on the blueblood - is a cuspy violet, with shimmering fins and a slender tail currently twitching in irritation. His long white hair and light purple eyes further make him stand out, though not in an unappealing fashion. 

Cherie has always considered him beautiful, but knows Kafuul Dakunm has no interest in them. 

“If another imp comes sniffing around here, they can have you.” Kafuul mutters to the cobalt, giving them a resentful look while his fins twitch along with his tail. 

“The hemoanon’s not an imp.” Nyzere corrects gently. “I checked.”

“Well, lah dee dah.” The violet retorts, a few purple arcane sparks dancing around his horns. 

“I still don’t want that gas-masked nalonma or his sidekick around, and definitely not pawing at the compass. There’s something up with him, some strange entity’s touch. Nothing eldritch, but I still don’t like it. We’ve got our own folk and those Civitrecce trolls to protect.”

He looks between Cherie and Nyzere, expression both annoyed and grimly determined.

“I went to a lot of trouble saving them, I want them to stay saved.”

“Hacalo and Izzanu aren’t coming back.” Cherie promises, relatively certain of that. “I told them what they needed to know - and nothing they didn’t.”

“I know.” Nyzere says, slightly amused.

Cherie blinks, then looks embarrassed as they remember - of course the olive knows.

“I can make them be talkative.” Platar offers.

Sochet puts a hand on his shoulder. “How 'bout we maybe don't piss off the local legis and make everyone hate us just yet, fireball. We c'n save that for if they actually turn out to be shitheads.”

“Hate is irrelevant, but as you wish.” Replies the hemoanon. “I’ve found being direct before has saved me a lot of time.”

Sochet looks slightly annoyed, a tad concerned as well. “Do I gotta spell it out for ya? Dolcez could still be around, y'know, or they could have contacts here keepin' an eye on things.”

The look through their orange-lensed glasses is grim. “We dunno who or what they're mixed up in, an' even the damn mob not bein' able to find where they've been for the last sweep don't put me at ease. I might not be much of a people tracker, but I can smell somethin' is off already.”

They give Platar a meaningful glance. “So how 'bout we don't make 'em flee again and go subtle for the moment.”

The gas-masked man considers that. “I’m not sure I can really do subtle. You might blend in, but I stick out wherever I go.”

Sochet snorts. “Yeah, that's why Arigah sent both of us, buddy, but you'll come in handy if we get in a pinch.”

“Which we just fuckin' might.” They add darkly. “Blueblood, mixed up in shady shit before according to Latrai, then fucks off all the way from Civi over here? The hell were they lookin' for, anyway?”

Sochet looks at the sky. “Well, we ain't gettin' any younger, let's see if I ask real nice and pay a fee or whatever if the legis will answer shit for me.”

One small bribe later and visit to the local legislacerators’ office later, the pair learns Cherie had a swanky apartment here, though they've long since moved out. There’s little else on them, as they weren't involved in local politics or other usual highblood social activities. 

Sochet sighs, but at least they have a former address to start with.

“Though how the hell the two of us are gonna talk to whatever fuckin' highblood probably moved in after without being laughed outta there, I don't know. You got any ideas?”

“That don't immediately involve violence and gettin' the cops on our asses.” They clarify with deadpan humor. 

“In my experience with highbloods, this usually means they want to descend ever further into depravity. Or they want to escape papparazzi. Or both.” Platar remarks. 

Sochet cracks up at that. “Ah, shit, when you’re right, you’re right. Could easily be both.”

“If you want to go about it the slow way, we can simply pose as an imperial inspection team. Normally this would be considered high treason, but in the interest of serving greater imperial interests, I suppose it can be excused this time. Highbloods do so love to cooperate when they are told of the many perks they will already be getting anyway in the fleet.” The hemoanon muses.

Sochet blinks. “Words I never expected to hear out of your mouth ever. Though nah, we probs shouldn't do that, what if talk got back to the real imps? You’re onto somethin', though…”

They muse, mind flipping through ways to get the new apartment inhabitant to talk.

He shrugs. “I have used it occasionally, by accident. Some people assume I am a military member on sight. I never correct them.”

Sochet pauses, then cracks up. “Shoot, that just might work. Maybe we don't gotta do anythin' but act like we expect 'em to answer and they'll spill.”

He nods. “Frequently, people don't question me when I walk into places. I supposes it has to be due to confidence. Or appearance.”

Sochet, dryly amused: “Due to no one wantin' to bother th'guy in the gas mask who looks ready for an apocalypse. Let's go see what this dip has to tell us, if anythin'.”

The apartment building is fancy enough to have a door troll, but sure enough, the doorman looks intimidated enough by Platar that Sochet cheerfully asking him to call Miss Dulskh Sterim, the cerulean who now lives here, is taken without complaint.

Though he mutters something that sounds like 'imperials here' under his breath as he makes the call.

A few minutes later, a casually - almost sloppily dressed - cerulean comes down. She's kind of rumpled, wearing a backwards baseball cap and a patched jacket as she blinks at them, looking a bit sleepy and confused. 

"Yeah?" She says, tone not exactly friendly but not hostile. She also sounds a bit curious, and she looks at Platar, ignoring Sochet.

He takes it in stride, mostly expecting it. "You inhabit an apartment a person of interest once used. We are looking for them for questioning. Cherie Dolcez. Was there anything unusual left behind when you moved in?" 

He hisses this through the filters on his mask, turning the nearly opaque lenses squarely towards her in an unblinking gaze. 

The blueblood squints. "Whoa, whoa, slow down. I've barely had my fuckin' coffee, gas mask...sheesh." 

She takes a travel mug out of her sylladex and drinks from it, apparently not too bothered by his demeanor. She lets out a satisfied sigh after she does so, then shakes her head, pushing a few messy strands of hair out of her face. 

"What'd you want? Asking about Cherie? Why do you care, they've been gone for ages...eh, whatever, not like we were friends or shit. Don't care if they're in trouble." She concedes with a shrug. 

"But no, they didn't leave anything. They were weird, though." She says, thoughtful, blue eyes clearly thinking back through memories. 

"Short little troll, always dressed so fancy, always talked really soft. Said they'd found what they were looking for, so they didn't need the place anymore. Sure, whatever, I didn't care." She says with a yawn. 

"That's really all I know. Oh - they fuckin' loved candy, does that matter at all? Almost always had a piece or two on them."

Sochet looks amused. "Eh, never know, might be." 

Dulskh squints. "Are you an imp? You don't look like an imp." 

"I'm an assistant. Takes all types, miss Sterim." Sochet answers smoothly. 

Dulskh considers that, then shrugs and looks indifferent.

"What kind of candy? Any kind, or a preferred brand? Did they say what exactly it was that they were looking for?" Platar asks. 

Dulskh groans. “Man, what’s with all the questions? I just said we weren’t friends, you think I remember? They ate all sorts of shit.” She sighs deeply, screwing up her face as she thinks.

“Yeah, fuck it, I don’t remember what they liked in particular. If I had to guess, they probably bought it from the bougie shop not too far from here, go bother those folks.”

Then she scratches her neck. “No, I don’t know what they were looking for. All they said was that they’d been looking a long time. I don’t remember anything else.”

Sochet nods. “Thanks for th’patience, just one last thing: you ever remember them say anythin’ about psiionics?”

Dulskh looks confused, almost suspicious. “What? No. Bye.”

The cerulean goes back up to her apartment, out of patience for their questions.

The pair of investigators walk back out into the hot, humid night. 

“Well, nothin’ groundbreakin’, but at least we c’n check the shop.” Sochet concedes. 

The candy shop isn’t too far off, and a couple different employees know exactly who the pair is referring to when they describe Cherie.

They’re more positive about the cobalt than Dulskh was, noting that they always bought a fair bit of candy and took recommendations for what else to try, and were very polite, if odd. 

They seemed to be a bit….forced in their optimism, but - (the employees shrug) - they paid well, so…

“Did they have a habit of getting any brand in particular? Anything unique or harder to get than others?” Platar inquires.

The employees look thoughtful and talk to each other. 'I dunno, they liked those fancy chocolates with orange in them right?' 'Yeah, that was a favorite…they also really liked green apple candies too.'

“You buying a present for them?” One troll asks.

Sochet shrugs. “Yeah, might as well.”

The employees perk up at that, sensing a chance to make a sale. 

Sochet senses an opportunity. “So you haven’t seen ‘em in a while, right? Bet they’ll be missing their favorites.”

One employee nods. Yeah, no one's seen them in…half a sweep? No, longer. Maybe they moved to one of the nearby villages; they were out in them a lot, looking for their ancestor or something.

Records of him anyway, another one chips in.

Platar opens his notebook to write all this down. 

“Did they ever mention any village specifically? Or seem particularly excited one night when they last came in?” He asks. 

The employees chatter among themselves for a moment. Two walk off to get more work done, but the remaining troll looks thoughtful. 

“Most of my shifts weren’t when they came in, but hold on a sec, let me ask my manager. He probably talked to Cherie the most.” 

They’re gone for a few minutes, but then the manger comes out, a tealblood man in an immaculate suit and a thoughtful expression. 

“Ah, asking after one of my best customers? I do miss their patronage, please take them a package of our wares. You don’t get sweets like these in the villages!” 

He laughs a little. Sochet smiles politely, and he thinks. 

“No, they did not mention any village specifically…though…I know they were looking in Zattanou and Attiegakro…lovely places for the weaving, and there are some old heathen relics there.” 

Sochet ponders that a moment. “Heathen relics?” 

He waves a hand dismissively. 

“You know - old sects from hundreds of sweeps ago! Now, what can I get you?” 

Sochet will buy a small pack of a few candies before they go, to keep up the charade.

Platar is indifferent to candies, but notes that whichever village is closest on the map would be their next stop. He was hoping they'd be someone who needed a specific brand of candy that would need to be regularly delivered...

Sochet snorts as he mentions that idea. “Would’ve been nice, but you know as well as I do things don’t tend to work out so smooth. At least we’re gettin’ somewhere, if in a zigzaggy way.”

“‘Sides, if they were still gettin’ regular deliveries I bet the mob could’ve found ‘em.” She adds. “Wherever they are, they’re way off the grid.”

The closest village on the map is Zattanou, far less urban than the capital with several more trees, even though it’s only about an hour away.

It is populated almost exclusively by lowbloods, with the occasional olive or two among them. The bronze and hemoanon are looked at with curiosity, though not hostility.

Sochet looks a bit blank as they arrive and look around. “Welp. I guess we can see if there’s some kinda historical display or somethin’ and start there. Unless you’ve got another idea?”

“That sounds like a solid idea, given Cherie's goal.” Platar agrees. “There might be a historical dig going on nearby as well that could have answers.”

Some investigation later it becomes clear that there is no dig and as the candy store manager said, the place is known mostly for its weaving. 

However, when Attiegakro is mentioned to a few intrigued trolls hanging about, there is more recognition; that village is known for its museum on the old sect that used to hold sway here. 

“Strange people!” Says one troll, “They worshiped the stars and cosmos themselves, believing it all connected by ethereal beings.”

“No, that’s not right,” Scolds another troll. “They were witches! That’s why the empire stamped them out.” 

The first one snorts at that and reminds them that magic isn’t real. 

Sochet buzzes internally, but keeps her expression casual and thanks them for the info.

“Odd sounding religion.” Platar muses. “Can't say I’ve heard of it before. Must have been wiped out some time ago. Have any of you seen a blueblood recently?”

“A blueblood? No, not for a while. We’d remember one, eh?” The second troll laughs. 

The first one frowns, looking more thoughtful. “No, I don’t remember a blueblood recently, but…wasn’t there one a while ago?”

The second troll shrugs. “Some short one, maybe? I didn’t see them. Anyway, of course you haven’t heard of it! it’s been dead for over four hundred sweeps, about.”

Sochet is curious. “Why’d the empire wipe it out? They let lowblood folk religions stand.”

The second troll raises a finger, wagging it. “Witches, I told you! The trolls were found guilty of making strange weapons and casting spells."

The first one rolls their eyes, clearly finding that bullshit but not wanting to bother arguing.

“Strange weapons? Like what, little sticks that cast spells?” Platar asks.

The second troll grins. “No, no, that’s what all the stupid media says! This was a wicked blade that could cut the world itself! Imagine!”

The first troll puts a hand on their friend’s back and one over their own face. “Stop terrorizing the tourists, Nkubii, oiii.”

“...Can't any blade already do that? I have a knife right here, I could cut the dirt up.” Platar says, puzzled.

Nkubii, remorseless despite their friend's embarrassment, beams at their audience, then waves their hands. “No, no, remember how they were star lovers and all that? This blade could cut through, cut to other planets without leaving Alternia!”

Their friend looks at the sky and hoping for patience.

“So it was a sword that could cross the stars in an instant to strike at other planets? If anything the Empire would have taken that for itself, really.” Platar says.

Nkubii is impatient. “No! I give up, you understand nothing. Go to Attiegakro, they’ll explain it.” 

Their friend sighs in relief and walks away with them while looking apologetically at Sochet and Platar. 

Sochet snorts as the two leave. 

“What a pair. Interestin’, though.” She says in a low tone. “If Cherie’s ancestor was mixed up in this, that could explain why they dropped off - if they were tryin’ to do the same shit these guys did.”

“Their ancestral records could be easily involved with this sect.” The hemoanon agrees. “The weapon sounded fake, but it could be a misunderstanding of a very long range power or other magical nonsense.”

Sochet’s eyebrows raise. “Don’t be so sure. Remember why we’re here. Accordin’ to Latrai, that thing was old as hell despite bein' advanced tech. Could just be a coincidence, but I’m not exactly leanin’ toward that. Anyway. Let’s water up and ship out.”

“A sword to cut planets just sounds very impractical. If you tripped you could destroy your own planet.” Platar reasons.

Sochet’s mouth twists. “I don’t think that’s what they were tryin’ to say, hones’ly. Gotta remember Standard isn’t these folks’ first language. Think they more meant some kinda portal maker, and don’t that sound familiar.”

“Yes, they're called cars. Or in space terms, ships. But I get what you mean. So a more accurate translation would be cutting the space between worlds.” Platar responds.

Sochet rolls their eyes as he mentions cars and ships, then nods approvingly. “Yeah, that’s what I figure. Let’s see what this other place has got for us.”

Attiegakro is both bigger and a bit more tense than Zattanou. No one is rude to the pair, but it’s clear people are wary of Platar and to a lesser extent, Sochet. 

However, the sect museum is indeed open and tickets are fairly cheap.

“Paying to look at ancient history... It still feels like a bit of a ripoff.” Platar grumbles, though he still buys their tickets. At least the museum is air conditioned, he feels.

The receptionist is a very tall troll of unclear caste, with dark glasses on and red-dyed hair. They politely offer a guided tour if the two want one. 

Sochet is blunt. “Eh, I’ll be honest, we’re more lookin’ for records of one troll in particular. Would be last name of Dolcez, prob’ly.”

The receptionist smiles. “Oh, Liehde Dolcez? Yes, he was the founder of the Adherents of the Celestial Body. I can show you his exhibit, though it isn’t very big.” 

Sochet pauses, then follows right along.

Platar mentally sighs, thinking that of course they were the sect leader. That always bodes extremely well. He follows the other two, resisting the urge to chastise the dye in the receptionist's hair.

The exhibit is in fact not very big. There is a very old painting on a stone block meant to resemble the man. He looks very like the description they were given of his descendant, if a bit thinner and somewhat taller. 

The descriptive plaque reads that Liehde saw a beautiful creature of light appear to him one night and impart wisdom, teaching him how to create tools to help his people in their time of need. 

It notes that while obviously this is false, the Adherents were found to have anomalously advanced technology for their time, and as they were not part of the empire and refused to join, they were destroyed. 

Sochet kind of sighs at that. Cool, she thinks, now they’re out of leads.

Platar squints at the painting of the ancestor, then asks the guide if that same guy stayed here in particular. Or did the sect stay apart from the village proper?

The receptionist explains that no, as far as they know, he didn’t, but this was so long ago that records are patchy. The sect came to several locations in this area far after his time following a diaspora from another region some ways away, but they were all picked off in the end. 

Sochet, turning to look at them: “All right I’m just gonna be upfront. You ever meet his descendant? Did they come here lookin’ for him?” 

The receptionist is placid. “Mix Cherie Dolcez passed through, yes. I believe they are still in the general area, though they do not live in the village proper.”

Sochet, relieved: “Finally.”

“That narrows the search radius from ‘entire continent’ to "multiple square miles.” Platar remarks.

Sochet looks at the receptionist. “You got any more info than ‘general area?’” 

The receptionist laughs a little. “Try the ruins not far from town. They’re close to the jungle, but not far enough in that you’re in danger. I’ve heard they show up there sometimes.”

Sochet sighs. “‘Course they do. Well, thanks.”

Platar says that he generously assumes Sochet does not want him to burn the brush away to make their path into the jungle easier.

Sochet, deadpan but a little amused: “Damn, you know me so well by now. Thank ya kindly.”

Then they frown. “Plus who says this ain’t a trap? Maybe they’re waitin’ for us with some buddies. Don’t wanna give ‘em any extra warning we’re comin’.”

“That's why I also brought a machete. Even if it's harder to get to than my proper strife specibus.” Platar replies.

Sochet nods approvingly. “I got a knife of my own, but it ain’t as good as that. Better restock on bug spray and shit before we go.”

The pair do so, and the bronze takes one last chance to try to get more information on their target.

The shop trolls say similar things to the receptionist when asked: Cherie is seen once in a while, but they don’t cause any problems. Sochet inquires again about any odd psiionic activity, but receives no new information.

Later, as they go toward the ruins, she brings it up to her partner. “I gotta admit I’m stumped, Platar. So they’re out here doin’…whatever…but not bein’ shady in any obvious way. You got any ideas?”

“In my experience, that usually just means the perpetrator has learned to be more subtle, they've found some new avenue to exploit, or they are still performing 'shady' things but far enough from where they live that it doesn't trace back to them.” Platar answers. “Extremely rarely does anyone simply 'stop' being a menace to society.”

Sochet shrugs. “Eh, it happens. But you’re right it ain’t common. ‘Specially with blues and up.”

“Or, fourth option, they died and someone's taken over their life to be a blueblood. But that has only happened once or twice.” The hemoanon adds. 

Sochet pauses. “…That’s sure a fuckin’ idea. Hope it’s not that, we might need their powers if we want to set Civi right. Or learn what the hell is up with the grey shit.”

“In that event, we may have to actually investigate this supposed teleporter sword. But I hope it doesn't come to that. I don't have the patience to go digging up old relic sites.” He says.

Sochet, chuckles. “You and me both, pal.” 

The ruins are, as the receptionist noted, not far into the jungle. Platar and Sochet don’t have to cut through too much undergrowth, though they remain on guard against giant bugs and carnivorous plants. Fortunately, such creatures are deterred by a pair of healthy trolls openly wielding weapons.

The ruins themselves are strange, warped by millennia of wind, remnants of buildings made from clay and stone, overgrown but not entirely: someone clearly cuts back the worst of it, and there aren’t any animal dens. 

It’s almost strangely silent, though some insect hums and rustlings can be heard. 

Waiting near an old mural in the center is Cherie themself, who seems to be expecting them. 

Yet their expression is calm, and they hold no weapons in their hands. They raise them in surrender. 

“Platar Hacalo. Sochet Izzanu. I know why you’re here. I am willing to help you. If I don’t, then - ”