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[wizardprodigy]

One of the Nexus' many features is, surprising no one, a portal. It's a portal with a black center and for the longest time, it's pulsated with swirling fingers of white light. It's fairly nondescript as portals go, and while the air around it tingles, any attempts to go through the portal simply lead… well, to the back side of the portal.

Today, it hums.

Today a wave of not-quite purple washes through the swirling arms, and the hole opens up to a library.

A library with a tiefling inside it, who pokes his head through, looks around for a moment, then withdraws.

A few minutes, then an hour passes as the portal goes dormant once more, no sign of the tiefling or his library visible through the center. Time ticks by, minutes and hours passing by before finally, the portal sparks once more.

This time, when it opens, the center of the portal is reinforced by a golden metal frame, and the tiefling comes through with a satchel laden with books and scrolls, dragging a table full of mechanical and alchemical contractions behind him. There's a giddiness to his movement and he grunts and curses the table where he wants it, even when he has to frantically rescue some of the instruments from falling. Then, once everything is settled exactly how he likes it, the real fun begins.

At least for the tiefling.

He spends a few moments recording readings from the array of instruments and meters, muttering excitedly to himself before plopping on the ground and digging through his satchel. Amidst the scrolls and books, he finds one of the many pamphlets explaining the Nexus and its rules. Regarding it with narrowed eyes, he pulls out an hourglass and sets it aside, returning his focus to his research.

The hourglass is flipped three times before the tiefling looks up from his work, tail swishing on the ground behind him, and he poses his questions.

"Has anyone here determined what happens if you don't ask a question? How long can you go without asking a question before something happens? Why is a question required? How poignant must the question be to be considered acceptable? Is a simple "How are you?" enough, or must it be philosophically intriguing?"

There's a pause in the tiefling's barrage as he scrunches his nose, scowling deeply at nothing. Then he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and relaxes, adding on his final question. "I suppose I might as well ask if anyone has seen a man named Lorroakan, by any chance? Human, red hair, thinks very highly of himself, and has a temper that Devil's would envy."

((Hello, I am new. I know it's been quiet but nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? So here I am. Venturing.))

Comments

[stormwings]

Martyn had been in the library researching, mostly on alien mental health, alien hybridization, and, at the moment, a pile of books on the table related to brainwashing and military programming. When his own world's books failed to help him with his current client he had made his way here.

All the noise hardly bothers him, nor does the obviously non-human being that has taken over the space nearby. The first questions go unnoticed but that description has him looking up from his reading with a smirk that verges on a chuckle. "If you hadn't given a name I might have thought you were looking for my little brother."

[lost_and_foundry]

Barcus watches from a safe distance for a few minutes as the tiefling bustles in, drops instruments everywhere, collects himself, and begins researching. He's privately rather charmed; it's the kind of thing he would have done himself if he were A) unoccupied back home and B) a little more confident in his ability to defend himself physically. Because of course you want to learn everything you can about a new phenomenon, a portal to a whole new world. He's already taken note of dozens of materials that are rare to nonexistent back home, things he can absolutely find uses for.

It actually takes him a little while before he realizes he recognizes this tiefling. Tav, the Last Light Inn, Baldur's Gate, Ramazith Tower. Barcus took little note of him until after the battle with the Netherbrain, because he had tunnel vision that was focused on Wulbren, but he's had occasion to learn a little more about him since.

Interesting that they should both find their way here, but at least the gnome can approach him without anticipating hostility.

"Well, the first and only question I've answered here was a wordless hissing noise while the asker pointed at a shop window. It seems to have counted, so I don't think poignancy matters."

"Lorroakan?" He gives him a quizzical look. "Last I heard, Lorroakan--" Wait. It's possible they're from different timelines, isn't it? Maybe the less he says, the better. "You're Rolan, aren't you? Are you...still his apprentice?"

((not quite ready to drop Dammon in here yet but in the meantime these two are nerds of a feather so I'm sure they'll have fun))

[ayatantreasure]

"Maybe it balances out from people who ask a bunch of questions." The answer comes from a child, perhaps no more than fourteen, who is openly inspecting his odd devices and gizmos. On first glance they appear perfectly human, despite the oddness of being clad in a full set of bronze armor, but there are signs they may not be. A bright golden glow within their pupils, not quite like the glow of a tiefling's irises. Deep purple scarring around one of those eyes, and little metal ornaments embedded into forehead and cheeks. And for those with the senses for such things, a strange infusion of energy permeates their being, like a creature from the Void itself.

Their behavior, however, could not be more human. Or more child. They sink to the ground seiza-style, placing their hands on their knees to lean forward and look at one of Rolan's more esoteric instruments. "What is it?"

The child is not alone, either. It looks almost like someone in a suit of armor, if that armor was crafted to look like natural flesh and muscle, painted white. There are no eyes on its head, only glowing spots here and there in symmetrical places across its entire form. Its hand rests on the hilt of a sword at its side, ready to draw but not on edge, as a bodyguard might be. A long blue scarf winds around its neck, though whether this is a concession to the cold or some inscrutable fashion statement, who can say. The bodyguard remains silent, lurking behind the child at its full height, looking for all the world like a stoic guard watching over some noble's young heir as they play.