Scene #918: Up to Snuff

Owner	Pose
Bitter Medicine	For an Ivalice native, the nature of Autochthonia might be a lot to take in. For a multiversal veteran, the impact might be somewhat lessened. A priest might see a lot of people ripe for conversion, or perhaps a bizarre oxymoron--the words 'machine' and 'god' used to describe the same entity. Faruja, the visiting Elite, is all three of those things, and Bitter Medicine knows it. The Exalt has warmed up to the Union considerably this past couple of months, but he still has his doubts. It seems to him like a powder keg waiting to go off, and every argument held between a certain power-armored superhero named Armsmaster and someone of less intense convictions is just more proof for that hypothesis. Bitter Medicine has always been sure of his faith--when one can stand upon his god's very body and see proof of his works every day, there's no room to question, at least not in his mind. However, he's not a member of the clergy. He doesn't view things the way a clergyman would--will Faruja cause trouble here, trying to convert people for his religion? Will he see the Great Maker as some sort of affront? Every guest that Bitter Medicine has on his world causes him to ask these questions. Which one will be the load-bearing apparatus which finally buckles? Luckily, Bitter Medicine is not a man who bothers with formality or manners. He acts the same way with everyone--blunt, dry, and retiring. He doesn't need to devote any energy to false pretenses. Unlike so many, /many/ other people here and abroad, he isn't going to try and predict what the cleric will do, tailor his actions and expectations around him, or coddle and nurture his opinions. He'll just treat Faruja the same way he treats everyone else, and if that causes some great explosion of sludge and misery, he'll be right there to pick up the pieces. Just like always. The Alchemical stands waiting outside of Multiverse Arrivals and Departures Building 4, one of eight buildings stationed across the Pole of Metal. This one is in Gulak, Bitter Medicine's home nation, and it's stationed in the metropolis of Thutot, a strategic ploy by Gulak's Tripartite to make a fine sum from the city's status as a pilgrimmage site and tourist attraction. The customs process is founded on the principles of efficiency, expediency, and politesse. Assess any potential problems, do it quickly and thorougly, and do it without making guests feel unwelcome. If they're on their game today, Faruja should be coming through any minute now...
Faruja	Those ready to welcome one Inquisitor Faruja Senra might be on their game, but he certainly is not. Despite a reputation for punctuality, he's late, though not without polite messages. A rather cheery message from one of his subordinates offers apologies, and reports of battle injuries. Seems the Inquisitor has been busy, and the demands of his mere flesh-and-bone body have overcome him. But the priest-slash-churchcop-slash-diplomat isn't one to skip a meeting. And so, after equal amounts stubborn adherence to protocol and abusing what remains of his magical reserves to the fullest, he arrives two minutes late at Multiverse Arrivals and Departures Building 4 in Gulak. From the scowl on his face, he must feel it's a personal failure of some kind as he limp-walks heavily towards one Bitter Medicine, Alchemical Exalted. Despite it all, he forces a warm face. "God's blessings upon thee, oh, Ser Bitter Medicine!" Offers the rat, pausing to bow and cross his chest in Ajoran fashion. He dangles just a few seconds too long to rest. He's had a rough day. "Mine deepest apologies for mine tardiness, recent...events in the multiverse delayed mine arrival, as Acolyte Strawberry hath hopefully explained." Smile! For now, at least, there's little signs of the noted zealot objecting to Autochthonia. The lump in his fine silk robes, however, would show that he's come armed. It never hurts to be safe, after all.
Bitter Medicine	Bitter Medicine looks a dour figure. He's every bit the opposite of Faruja's radiant demeanor, from his pallid skin to his foreboding leather uniform. He nods to the cleric. "Mrnh," comes his eloquent reply. Then, a beat later, he offers a rote greeting. "Hail, comrade, and welcome to the Autochthonian metropolis of Thutot." With that done, he returns the gesture, doing his best to imitate Faruja's motion. "I got the message, yeah. Don't sweat being a little late," he says. "Especially not if you were doing your civic duty." The fact that Faruja came here injured and still managed to make it within a two-minute margin doesn't escape the Exalt. It's one point in the priest's favor. Apparently, so is the weapon hidden in his robes. "Be prepared to use that," he says, pointing to the outline. "Gulak's liberties cast long shadows. Unlikely that we'll run into trouble in Thutot of all places, but it never hurts to be cautious." He is of course biased, being part secret police and part societal garbage man. The Exalt's gaze pierces the rat for a moment. Yes, they've definitely been in each other's presence before--he recalls sitting behind Faruja when Toph and the ever-popular Armsmaster had their sparring match. "Hrn." That was a good fight. Well--now he can put a name to a face. "So. Before I show you around. Any questions?"
Faruja	There's the slightest of twitches to Faruja's fuzzy brow at the short greeting. As a diplomat, he should be insulted. As a common blooded nezumi? Some part of him sings with joy. Though he tries for a carefully warm look of friendly diplomacy, the Exalt may well note the inner war of feelings in subtle movements and twitches. If he's studied the nezumi race. There'd likely be texts out there in the multiverse on the subject! Faruja had expected informal, but the lack of Ivalician protocol has him scrambling for manners. "Assisting a friend." He admits plainly. Then, there's a slight smirk, relaxing just a touch. "Better for health than a mere physical regimine. Dame Beifong offers a most...intellectual and physical experience when assisting her, despite her claims to being a 'down-to-Earth' person. Which she is. But events conspire otherwise." Shrug. Toph is different, surely. Faruja, despite obvious signs of injury and fatigue, forces himself to /look/. Mystical senses extend at the Exalt's warning, and a hand floats into his robes. He might not have much left mana-wise, but his weapon is more than good for many a threat. "Shadows...may well be hallowed, for the Lord sheds His Light and offers shadows all the same for those whom find comfort in more...discrete actions for the safety of the Faithful. And yet, the cold Darkness oft breeds Heresy. Of what shadows doth ye speak, Ser Medicine?" Cue one paranoid eye peerin about. Faruja similarly remembers the event! Duels are always a pleasure. He takes a long sigh. "Right. Ye seem an honest man, therefore, I shall speak it plain: what God doth thineself and thine people serve? For the Children of the Faram serve but one, though He, Blessed Be His Name, hath many monikers amongst the Multiverse. I hath found a name for thine 'god'. God of Machines. Indulge a simple preacher..." He pauses, looking at the Exalt meaningfully. Time to set the tone of meetings to come!
Bitter Medicine	"Heresy is exactly what I mean, comrade Senra--from seemingly harmless but ultimately pervasive and detrimental beliefs, to death cults like the Voidbringers who harbor gremlins and behave in ways inimical to continued life on Autochthonia. Then there are things like political corruption, crime... it's my job and the job of my caste to sniff those things out. Here in Gulak, the fact that citizens have a higher degree of autonomy and freedom means that heresy, corruption and crime have more curtains to hide behind." Gulak is... a strangely put-together place. The nation is a series of spherical chambers, put together like a bunch of grapes. Looking up, there's no sky--only a hodgepodge collection of metal lit by artificial means. Thutot's chamber is by far the largest of these, but even this chamber is 30 miles across at best. The Alchemical sighs, and in that moment, he'd look very much at home in another setting--a setting of streetcars and mobsters and blues clubs. "You eventually learn to just love the nation." Getting too attached to individuals can be dangerous in Gulak. A look back at Faruja. The brilliantly cut diamond in Bitter Medicine's forehead twinkles as he turns his head. "I can respect that," he says. "Plain is good. We worship Autochthon. Technically, he's more than a god, even though we call him the Machine God. He's actually a Primordial, something that came before the gods. Primordials are... hard to pin down. Chiefly because all but Autochthon and Gaia are either dead or imprisoned, to my understanding. In any case, the best way for me to describe him is like this." Bitter Medicine taps his foot against the ground. "You're standing on his sleeping body at this very moment."
Faruja	Faruja's head tilts in pure surprise and confusion. Someone who knows of Heresy? He listens all the more carefully. The Inquisitor licks his muzzle before speaking, feigning dry lips for time to think. Silence. He listens utterly, waiting to respond until Bitter is done. "...Let us put aside religious issues. This /is/ an unofficial meeting." He says first, even as his hand reaches instinctively for his weapon. Clearly, the rat isn't a fan of Bitter's god. There's a slight pant before he masters himself. Managing to /not/ strike an ally, he keeps the Church's honor intact. A deep breath out. It's hard to not simply hate Bitter. But there's more than a little common purpose here. He focuses on that, tail lashing. "Heretics, knaves, and criminals. We share many things. And /that/, methinks...may well be an avenue for cooperation. If not alliance. Surely ye understand the thorny path of religious purpose." When Bitter taps his foot to the ground? Faruja spits upon it. Scowl! "Begging forgiveness, I cannot walk upon unhallowed earth." With more than a little pain in the act, he casts a float spell on himself. It works, even if he's all but draining himself. There's a narrow look to Bitter, just to show where he stands religiously. Then, he forces a smile. "But methinks ye wished to show me about thine civilization." Easier topic for both, ho!
Bitter Medicine	"Is that supposed to offend me? I'm very easy to work with." He arches a brow imperiously at the deliberate gesture of disrespect. "First and foremost because I've been ordered to. Second, because if I don't, Autochthon will die a slow and painful death, and the past four thousand years will have been for nothing. His only crime will have been caring for mortals. So, spit on him, shit on him, disrespect him however you want. It doesn't bother me, and he's not even awake to /be/ bothered. The worst you could do wouldn't even compare to the cruelty of his own brothers and sisters." The Exalt rolls his neck, having started off the discussion on such a positive and forward-looking note. "Anyway. This is Thutot. She's the first Alchemical Exalt to become a metropolis, and so she's a popular pilgrimmage destination. Jarish disputes that claim, but most of the Octet agrees that ours has more legitimacy. That kind of pisses them off."
Faruja	Faruja Senra, pauses, and then grins, suppressing a laugh. "Partially. The other end of things is far more personal. As an Inquisitor of the Most Holy Church of Saint Ajora Glabados, I am forbidden from holding any God above Faram. Even if I must offer insult to foreign agents." A slight tilt of the head. "Therefore, I shall not say I mean nay insult. However, nor shall I say that such matters aught detain us when those of...mutual interest...may be seen to. Understand?" Faruja is clearly walking a tight rope of political and religious concerns, here. And he walks it with grace and balance. He latches upon the rope extended by Bitter tightly. "Mmm. Mere rivalry amongst civilizations, or someting deeper? Might a diplomat be wary of the various city-states in Autochthonia?"
Bitter Medicine	"I understand. I empathize. I'm not clergy, but I am work-minded. And blunt. I don't care about what you think of Autochthon, as long as you don't go around converting people. And that is a personal request from me to you, not from a Regulator to an Inquisitor." "I'm the last person you want to ask about diplomacy, comrade. If I come in, it means diplomacy has failed. Or, it was never an option. There's a lot of rivalry and nationalism in Autochthonia, but it's only that. The most you'll see is heated debate. Gremlins are the real threat. If you want advice from a native to a traveler... stay away from Jarish. Very fundamentalist, very religious, probably not your kind of place."
Faruja	"Message received." Faruja replies, uncharacteristically bluntly for the Inquisitor. There's a sigh that may well be of relief. The mage laughs. "How fortuitous! A man whom says what they mean is a...rare person in Ivalice. How refreshing." Sigh. "I shall not preach the Good Lord whilst upon diplomatic missions in thine realm, good Ser." Not /quite/ what Bitter asked, but it's as much as he can budge on. "There art zealots, and then there art fools. I shan't walk into a den of Here...ahem.../alternate ways of worship/ without forethought. ON mine honor, before the Light of God." A deep bow, and another crossing of the chest. It may well have significant meaning. "Come. Tell me of these 'Gremlins'."