[i]We're fuc­ked.[/i] Jeann'ee had never been one for field work; he could plan, he could order, but he couldn't [i]do.[/i] He didn't know how to break out of the bone-crushing grip one of Tartarus' brutes had locked him in, nor where to strike with a knife, or even interpret their body language. Moreover, he didn't know how to surprise the panic building inside him. All he could do was listen, and hope he thought of a way out of this. Tartarus was speaking to the philologist once more, who seemed a little more lucid now he'd been stirred from his elderly daze. "You are certain the Oracle is disconnected from the ship?" he spoke down to the elderly prophet. The philologist was in a gravity chair, unable to otherwise keep pace with the Jiralhanae - even Jeann'ee was struggling to match their long strides, and found himself shoved roughly onwards when he fell behind. He'd been with their kind before - worked with them - but Tartarus' pack were something else; each stood at least two heads taller than him, and vein-popping muscle could be seen even through the thick shaggy brown and black coats they all wore. He didn't doubt one could knock his head off with a swipe. "The sanctum placed him behind an isolation-bolt," the philologist finally answered, and when Tartarus frowned decided to further elaborate. "A lock, effectively cutting the Oracle from anything technological even if he should be reactivated." "If it interfaces with the ship, it could try and leave again. It would tear High Charity apart, and leave us defenceless." "The Oracle is not an 'it!" the philologist snapped, and seemed to rise a few feet in that moment. "He is the instrument of our lords, and you will show him the proper respect." To Jeann'ee surprise, Tartarus didn't bite the San 'Shyuum's head off in response. Instead, the elder brute inclined his head with respect. "My apologies, seer. It was not my intent to blaspheme." "Forgiven, my son," the philologist replied, reverting back to that fatherly tone he seemed to live in. The prophet then looked back, and his milky eyes locked with Jeann'ee's. He spoke again to Tartarus. "What will you do with your prisoner?" "What do you think?" Tartarus huffed, and the promise of death was held in that exhalation. "Not in the keyship," the philologist dictated in no uncertain terms. "You will not sully these holy grounds with your brutality." "As you wish, seer. We will dispose of them elsewhere." [i]Wonderful. At least our deaths won't upset the Forerunners.[/i] Jeann'ee tried to distract himself from impending death by looking at the halls they walked past; he'd never seen the inside of the dreadnought, and was disappointed by the reality. It looked little different to any Covenant ship he'd seen save for deviation in aesthetics and materials. There were corridors, glyphs, overhangs, doorways. It all looked very... mortal. He didn't have long to ponder this, for what the philologist said next interrupted everyone's train of thought. "Them?" the philologist quizzed. "But you only have the one prisoner." It was as though the world went silent, even the ship. Tartarus frowned into widened eyes, his muzzle hung ajar and his fists clenched as he spun around, looking first at Jeann'ee and then the space several yards behind him. Ahkrin was gone, and so were his two escorts. The Jiralhanae who had been directly in front of them stood frozen, wondering how they hadn't noticed their absence. Tartarus pushed through his pack and looked around wildly, as if he'd find Descol'ee hiding behind one of them. "Find him!" Tartarus roared, a bellow that seemed almost sacrilegious in the otherwise tranquil halls. "Find Descol'ee, and bring me his head!" [i]I love you, Descol'ee,[/i] Jeann'ee thought, fighting to stave off a grin. Perhaps Tartarus saw something dancing in his eyes though, because in the next instant the chieftain shot a hand out at his neck and nearly lifted him from the ground. "Where is he?" Tartarus demanded, spittle hitting Jeann'ee in the face. He kept his mandibles tightly shut, terrified of the foul-smelling saliva getting into his mouth. "I don't know," he said, once the bombardment had ceased. "Knowing Descol'ee, probably in the one place he can cause you the most trouble." Tartarus roared again, and threw him to one side. Another Jiralhanae stopped him from flattening against the bulkhead, wrapping a tree-trunk sized arm around his neck. The others in the pack had fanned out through the ship in a searching formation, chattering amongst each other in their languages of hoots and calls. The philologist was examining all the chaos with a disapproving expression, as if he disliked the racket the brutes were making in the gods' vessel. Jeann'ee worried the prophet would say something to Tartarus - in his rage, the brute might forget his place and strike out. "Packmaster, we've found two bodies. Titus and Perseph," a shout came, some hundred metes further down. [i]Perseph, no [/i]-us[i] suffix. Not even a fully grown man, then.[/i] Jeann'ee felt a little sorry for the dead youth, robbed of life before his prime. But it was hard to keep any lingering upset over the killing of a brute. "How were they killed?" Tartarus yelled back; interestingly, the Jiralhanae seemed to dislike using communicators when possible. A remnant of their pre-Covenant aversion to technology, perhaps. Bombing yourselves back to the dark ages would do that. Jeann'ee zoned out as the Jiralhanae relayed back the details; broken spine, snapped neck, both deaths instantaneous; classic Descol'ee. Tartarus seemed to take the ease with which his men had been dispatched as a personal insult. "I'll look for him myself," the elder brute decided, drawing out his stone hammer and lumbering down the halls. He turned back to the philologist and the Jiralhanae who held Jeann'ee. "Carry on to the Oracle, but do not enter without me. [i]I[/i] will be the one to speak with Him. If you see Descol'ee, kill him." Jeann'ee's captor nodded, and pushed him ahead, wielding his gun like a cattle prod. The Jiralhanae turned to the philologist. "Lead on, seer. The humans could attack at any moment, we must activate the dreadnought's weapons." As they walked, the philologist took a contemptuous sniff. "You think the oracle will do that?" the philologist asked. "He is not a computer program to be ordered around, he is an Oracle. They serve none but the Forerunners. You will have to activate the weapons manually." "That will take days!" the Jiralhanae whispered harshly. "Time we do not have. The Oracle could activate them instantly - he will comply, or when the station falls he will perish along with it." "By all means, try," the philologist surrendered as he glided beside them. "But don't be disappointed if he does not stir; his concerns are greater than our mortal affairs." "Then why do we venerate him?" Jeann'ee wondered. "If he cares not for our Covenant's future, then he is no oracle." "That's heresy!" the Jiralhanae behind him growled, and Jeann'ee braced himself for a slap about the head. Before he could, the philologist put up a hand. "Blind acceptance is heresy, brute," the aged San 'Shyuum disagreed. "Our Lords did not want us to follow all they left behind without question; they left us tests, that we might prove ourselves worthy - the holy warriors who guard their treasures; the parasite. Perhaps that their oracles are so tight-lipped is no less a crucible." [i]A crucible I intend to surmount,[/i] Jeann'ee vowed, wondering if he'd get a chance to speak with the oracle himself. [i]Come on, Descol'ee.[/i] Had Ahkrin just left him? Abandoned his own reasons for seeking the oracle and fled with his life? [i]I know we're not friends anymore, in the strictest sense, but surely he wouldn't leave me to these brutes?[/i] His Jiralhanae captor stole a glance at the philologist and, confident the San 'Shyuum was out of hearing-range, leaned in to whisper in Jeann'ee's ear. "As soon as the Oracle brings the dreadnought online, we're going to take you home and torture every last morsel of information out of you," the brute promised him, and Jeann'ee felt a shiver go down his spine. "You will tell us where Restraint's last guard is, and where he's taken the former-hierarch's data." "Last guard?" Jeann'ee wondered, trying to keep fear out of his voice. "You mean that boy, Sorran? I have no idea where he has gone. Ahkrin might have had a notion, but it seems like he's slipped your net." "The assassin will either give himself up, or we'll tear you limb from limb." "You're holding the completely wrong man hostage," Jeann'ee told the Jiralhanae, and he would have laughed if his life hadn't been in such perilous danger. "He'd probably pay to watch that." "Then why are you here together?" "I was in the souvenir shop, he was looking for the nearest public toilet. We were just exchanging pleasantries when you all strolled in." "Funny," the Jiralhanae answered in a tone which said he hadn't found it funny at all. "Philologist, are you quite sure I can't kill this one here? Surely the Forerunners find its griping more offensive than a bit of blood." "If you want the Oracle to grant you a boon, defiling his sanctuary is not the way to go about it," the philologist impressed. "We have prisons. Why not throw him in one? The last I knew, Jiralhanae did not have permission to kill Sangheili as they saw fit."