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| - Barracks Over three hundred beds are bolted to the rocky walls of this cavern three high, a metal partition-slash-ladder between each of the beds giving some tiny bit of privacy. The floors are of textured metal, and gleam in the harsh overhead lights. A long, squat industrial refresher unit adorns the center of the room, with dozens of lockers lining the long ends of it. A thick metal door leads out to the residence deck. Father Weymouth is currently cuffed to one of the bunks in the barracks. His head is bruised where he fell and struck his head in the woods on New Luna. Cradling a pulse assault rifle, the Zangali wanders into the barracks. The guy cuffed to the bunk doesn't get any particular attention as he heads towards the footlocker. Father Weymouth grumbles quietly to himself, studying the sandals on his feet, when he hears the thumping footsteps of the Zangali. He peers around the rim of the cubicle containing his bunk and his eyes widen. He stands, but cannot get much more than his head out of the bunk area as he cries out: "Mosterer mostest! Keeperer and protectorer! I am your humble servant!" Urfkgar grinds to a halt before his neck pops as he rotates his head in the direction of the greeting. Scratching a shoulder with his free hand, he asks simply, "What?" "I am Father Urfkgar Weymouth, a Junior Acolyte in your holy order," the priest replies. "I was detained by the merciless, dark-hearted Lucius - the Souleater - and brought to this place. Have you come to free this servant?" Urfkgar continues to scratch at his shoulder while he seems to consider this. His conclusion is, "Urf Urf. Urf no stupid softskin. Stupid softskin no Urf." "Such wisdom," Weymouth marvels, eyes glittering with newly formed tears. "Small wonder that millions chant your name on the High Holy Asylum days in Sealeport! Blessed are those who follow the Keeperer and Protectorer, the Mosterer Mostest. Throw bar." Urfkgar's own eye remains fixed in a mostly indifferent glower, but he is apparently interested enough to ask, "Why stupid softskin stuckeded here?" "I passed through some kind of temporal rift, I am given to understand," the priest answers. "From the information I have gathered since my arrival, it would seem that I am from one thousand years in your future. Others might be petrified and paralyzed with shock by such a turn of events, but I am energized by it, Mosterer Mostest, for it has brought me to your very presence!" "Urf no care. Urf know Urf mosterer gooderer bashererer. Urf know Urf mosterer gooderer marine. Urf know Urf Zangali smart. Stupid softskin no need say morerer times," grunts the Zangali before he points down at the deck. Rewording his previous question slightly, he asks, "Why stuck here?" The human looks down at the deck. Tilts his head. Ponders. His eyes widen a little as he seems to understand. "Lucius, the Devourerer of Souls and Destroyerer of Dreams, brought me to this place and affixed me to this bunk while I was unconscious. I do not know why I have not yet been freed. However, I have been fed. Not carrots, oh-no, for Lucius cannot touch them, you see, but the mush isn't entirely awful and seems to provide adequate sustenance. Throw bar." Urfkgar grunts and nods before he shifts to get a look at how Weymouth is secured to the bunk. Sounding slightly dubious, he asks, "Stupid softskin want throw bar Urf?" Father Weymouth blinks at the Zangali. "Oh, Mosterer Mostest, that would be sacrilege of the highest order! A Junior Acolyte throwing the blessed icon of our holy order? Perish the thought! But if the Mosterer Mostest wishes to throw bar this humble servant, then your humble servant must concede and accept such a blessing. Throw bar." "Urf know Urf mosterer goooderer," retorts Urfkgar before he continues while eyeing the cuffs, "Urf no want throw bar stupid softskin. Stupid softskin want scram? No scram stupid softskin floaty place. All stuck stupid softskin floaty place. Scram stuckeded here." Father Weymouth frowns. "Well, it hardly matters if I am stuck here, Mosterer Mostest. I am displaced from my time by a millennium. Where would I go when I cannot even return to my own *when*? I may as well get used to the idea that I will never return to the abbey in Sealeport or ascend to Senior Acolyte." Urfkgar grunts and scratches at his shoulder. He says, "Do stupid softskin stuff here. Urf no care. All stupid softskins do stupid stuff." He stoops down to get a closer look at the cuffs and gives them a casual tug before standing. Then, he keeps talking, "Urf do stupid Sanc stuff. Urf no care. Go Sanc. Go here. Stupid new stupid Zangali. Stupid new stupid stuff. No Zangabro. Urf do Urf stuff. Urf no care. Stupid softskin want do Urf stuff. Stupid softskin need no care." Father Weymouth considers the looming Zangali. Smiles faintly. "You are much taller than your pictures gave you credit for. Throw bar. Blessed be the Mosterer Mostest!" He bows his head in reverence. "Stupid softskin stupid," announces Urfkgar before he points at the cuffs. He asks, "Want go? Want no go?" "Oh, yes, Mosterer Mostest," Weymouth says. "I want go." And here's where the rubber hits the road as it were. The Zangali tries to live up to his reputation as the mosterer mostest and snap the cuffs or the leg of the bunk, whichever comes first in order to free his disciple. The cuffs snap easily, freeing Father Urfkgar Weymouth. The priest boggles at the simplicity of the Zangali's gesture and then prostrates himself on the deck before Urfkgar. "Blessed be the Mosterer Mostest, Keeperer and Protectorer! Your humble servant is most appreciative for his freedom! Such a boon, gladly given, is an honor beyond compare. Throw bar." Urfkgar grunts vaguely as he straightens back up. He answers simply, "Urf know." Father Weymouth gets to his feet, rubbing the raw, red skin of the wrist where the cuffs were hooked. "Thank you," the priest says, inclining his head in deference to the Zangali. "I am forever in your debt, Mosterer Mostest." The Zangali snorts and says, "Urf Urf stupid softskin. No need say mostererer gooderer all times. Urf know. Stupid softskin go stupid softskin want go. No scram floaty place. Time scram floaty place. Urf say." Father Weymouth nods. "Your humble servant will scram on the next available flight planetside, Mosterer Mostest." He reaches into one of the pockets of his robe and takes out a slightly battered-looking carrot. He gesticulates with the carrot before himself. "Throw bar." "Yup," agrees Urfkgar as he moves back towards the footlocker. Father Weymouth grins, clearly dazzled by his encounter with the progenitor of his religion. He tucks the worn carrot back into his robe and then steps out of the bunk cubicle into the main room of the barracks. The Zangali eyes the footlocker a while before moving over to produce a few crumpled papers, taking a seat with his back against it. He begins to sort the paper in his lap. Father Weymouth scurries toward the door leading to the residence deck, muttering: "Keeperer and Protectorer, hallowed be his name. Mosterer Mostest! In his name, all things glorious!" And then he's gone.
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