"Oh. I was not expecting visitors so soon," the Philologist quailed from over his scroll, droopy eyes examining the two armed Sangheili with a slight hint of alarm. Ahkrin faltered for a moment, and he betrayed himself by sharing a concerned glance with Jeann'ee. "Seer," Ahkrin intoned with respect, thinking on the fly. "I did not think to see you here; you know High Charity is currently under threat?" "Oh... yes. The human ships. Worry not, child, the Forerunners will protect us." the Philologist muttered softly, lowering his scroll and working his stone chair towards an aisle of other stacked rolls reaching up to the ceiling of the dreadnought. "I try not to place my life in the hands of absent gods too often. I don't plan starting today," Jeann'ee said to that. "That is yours to decide, child, but I'd rather you didn't speak such blasphemes inside this most holy of places. Sangheili in my day were never so rude. Of course, that was a long time ago." Ahkrin raised an eyebrow and looked hard at the philologist. He had to be one of the oldest prophets he'd ever seen; he didn't so much sit in his stone chair as [i]fold[/i] in it, and his dewy eyes were the colour of mist. "Forgive me if I sound rude," he decided to impose. "But how old are you, noble priest?" Even that seemed a herculean task for the philologist, who sat there for almost a minute muttering three-digit numbers under his breath whilst shaking his head. Finally, those milky eyes settled on him with an answer. "I have seen two-hundred-thirteen commemorations of my birth," the philologist proclaimed, and the sharp intake of breath they both took wasn't feigned. "Yet the commemorations ceased many years ago." "Surely you should be retired, seer?" Jeann'ee inquired, both of them realising that the priest posed no threat to their mission; it was doubtful he'd even be able to tell them what year it was, much less ask for their favour and authorisation. "I was," the philologist croaked out. "In the latter years of last age, my apprentice succeeded me and took up the mantle of caring and interpreting for the Oracle. But then he ascended to the hierarchy with the other two, and I was recalled back to my post. They will not give me another apprentice and small wonder, now that the Oracle is in quarantine." "Quarantine?" Ahkrin demanded a little too harshly, forgetting he was speaking to a far-too-old man for a moment. He cleared his throat, and added more softly: "I was not aware the Oracle was being kept in a quarantine." "Yes, it's a tragic thing," the philologist droned back. "I fear my apprentice was not altogether responsible in his stewardship, and allowed the Oracle to come to some damage. I am... forbidden to see him." He turned back to face them, and tears were glistening in his eyes. [i]Age has addled this man's wits,[/i] Ahkrin decided, feeling a little pity for the old man, stranded in this pristine mausoleum with none for company. "Mercy... he let the Oracle be harmed?" Jeann'ee asked then, and with a start Ahkrin remembered that indeed, before becoming the most venerable hierarch the prophet of Mercy had been the philologist of the dreadnought. "You need not ask for mercy, my son. The Forerunners are as forgiving as they are great," the priest smiled. "No, [i]Mercy.[/i] The hierarch. Your former apprentice," Jeann'ee corrected with annoyance, looking over to Ahkrin impatiently. The philologist blinked with confusion. "He took the name of Mercy?" he asked them, and when they nodded a rusted laugh escaped from his mouth. "An ironic choice. You see, before he served as my intern, my apprentice was best known as the sanctum's chief justice. That was of course before he was found guilty of corruption; he had sent many innocents to their death. He was given to me as penance for his crimes and was an able pupil, but he most certainly wasn't a man you could call merciful." [i]Mercy was the chief justice? He's kept that well-buried. The public see him as the wise counsel of the hierarchs; the counter-balance to Truth and Regret's sometimes rash youth.[/i] "None of them are," Jeann'ee spat. "Philologist, it's of utmost importance that we see the Oracle. Can you help us?" "I can," the philologist acknowledged, but he didn't move an inch. "... who did you say you were again?" The temperature of the room dropped by a few degrees. "We didn't," Ahkrin interjected before Jeann'ee could blow their cover with some impassioned speech about his noble goals. "I'm Descol'ee, my colleague is Jeann'ee. We've been sent by the sanctum, to ask the Oracle for guidance in this troubled time; our holy city sits in a pit of lions, and it shan't be long before they realise we've not brought our whip." "Yes, the sanctum said they'd be sending people," the ancient seer said to that. "I didn't realise you'd be speaking to the Oracle, though. How exciting." "... the sanctum told you people were coming?" Ahkrin demanded, suddenly feeling very uneasy. His fingers twitched as the philologist nodded. "Of course. To reactivate the dreadnought's weapons. A momentous occasion indeed, one not seen since the time of Cabal. Curious though, that they sent you Sangheili." "Curious? Why?" Ahkrin snapped, not liking where this was going at all. Jeann'ee was being awfully quiet... "Because the sanctum told him to expect us," a new voice interrupted from behind, a baritone so instantly recognisable that his worst fears were realised. Not wasting a second, Ahkrin drew his weapon out and swung around his arm to fire. He found it caught in a grip of steel, and it took all his training to hold back the screams as his bones cracked. Canines leered inches from his face, bearing the vile musk of blood and rotten meat; beyond them, he could see Jeann'ee pinned by the throat. "Fortune that we should meet here, Descol'ee," Tartarus growled. "The hierarchs are most displeased with you." * A deathly silence had descended upon the halls of the Janjur Qom temple, juxtaposing with the death they saw all around them. Everywhere they walked, Sangheili were slumped against the walls; the foul stench of blood polluted the air. Zharn didn't seem at all bothered by the mangled corpses they found, merely giving them cursory glances and occasionally rattling out a little autopsy; clawed, teethed, torn apart. He spoke as though he was commenting upon the weather, apparently unaware that he was making her stomach turn. And his pace was not one accommodating her smaller size; he rushed along in a near-jog, and she found herself panting as she struggled to keep up with him. Then with relief, Savara saw Zharn finally draw to a halt and, frowning, reach for a small device on his wrist. After a moment she recognised it as a communicator; standard issue throughout the military, no matter the rank. "What is it?" she asked him. He looked up at her as if he'd forgotten she were there, and shook his head. "Interference, I think," he answered in ponderous tones. "Strange, though; it's on a frequency band few know." She didn't miss the wince as he saw her face brighten, but didn't let it deter her regardless. "What if it's Sorran?" [i]But why would he try to contact Zharn? Or even know he's here?[/i] "It's [i]not[/i] Sorran," he told her gently, and might as well have told he he was dead again for all his bluff. "Most like it's just random chatter falling into the wrong channels." "But what if it isn't?" "Then it's probably Ahkrin," he came back bluntly, and she found herself starting to dislike his candid demeanour; the man had no tact or empathy. [i]Much like my father.[/i] "From the way Pel spoke, it sounded like your friend was in more trouble than we are. What makes you so certain he is alive?" she demanded, and felt a small pang of satisfaction when she saw him flail for words. "... I just know," he settled with lamely, stalking past her with hunched shoulders. "And yes, I'm aware of the hypocrisy in that. But I know Ahkrin better than I know myself; he's no wet-behind-the-ears sapling like Sorran is-- [i]was.[/i] A mere Ossoona wouldn't get the best of him." "Sorran was no 'sapling!'" she screeched at him, and if he wasn't wearing his fleetmaster's armour she would have slapped him about the head. "You do him no service." "No service?" Zharn wheeled around on her, spluttering with disbelief. "I should be with my fleet; with my men! Instead, I'm baby-sitting my dead brother's..." "Your dead brother's [i]what?[/i]" she demanded shrilly. "His concubine? His whore?" That earned her the death glare, but she paid it no mind and returned the stare. If he thought his stature and position intimidated her, he was wrong - she'd spent a lifetime standing up to her father, and Zharn was a mere infant compared to him. After what seemed like ages, he broke eye contact and sighed. [Edited on 12.17.2012 4:20 PM PST]