[Ilpholin's Office - The Hatteress]
"That's a satisfactory exegesis of what crafts the classification 'starfighters' encompasses, I suppose."
Originally Posted by Reinholdt
[Ilpholin's Office - The Hatteress]
"Soooooo.... they're basically just spaceships that are also airplanes, right?" Ilpholin doesn't exactly know what they are, to her chagrin.
"Do you own one?" Still sounds like it'd be a useful asset either way.
The Hatteress dispassionately affirms, nodding softly in compliance with the attributes that she deems comprise a relaxed nod. Ilphy's perspicacity of Roxanne's time seems, to Roxanne, limited thanks to the concrete disconnect between their reputed tech levels or, for a more pinpoint isolation of what Roxanne believes to be the issue, a disjunction in the names of terms referring to specified technological items. She doubts that the average Nexusian's vernacular endorses cumbersome words that could never roll off the tongue regardless of how often practiced they were or are. Tachyon pulses are probably called subspace communications or something by the general populace of this realm, she thinks.
"I do have a starfighter, yes. I stowed it a kilometer or two from this location when I first arrived. The Hatter and I have been working on replicating organic ships I've smeared into the crust of planets via deceleration trauma, so those will be at our disposal once we're sure they're tolerably safe to release. They're tiny, but they're at least on par with their larger counterparts."
Originally Posted by Zefir
"Yeah, btu sadly he survived. After all I was able to kill some of his battel mages. They are a real mess. But it was exiting to feel how the last bit of magic fled from their bodies and disapeared into the whole vortex of magic surrounding us. Also I got to blew one up."
As he speaks a rising obsession came up. He really seems to enjoy this killing mages thing more then expected. Just by thinking of it Zefir sems to shake in exiting. His whole body starts to speak. The wings spread wide small flames at his mouth and the scales appear to shine in a bloodthirsty way. He barly keeps controll of himself. and then Clarissa asks a question and the whole thing fade away.
"Surgical bay? That doesn't sound nice. Isn't there a new hospital open we could head to?"
That was weird. Very, very weird, in fact. There's no question in Clarissa's mind that Zefir has serious, serious mental problems. Yes. She'll need to sort those out too. Can't have him running around goring unicorns and stepping on magical gnomes and all their supernatural kin. Wanton destruction and bloody slaughter is all well and good, until it becomes an obsession. Addiction obfuscates the mind's view of a situation, and then people start slipping up...
And no good can come out of someone slipping up in this particular profession.
"You indubitably need surgery to cure your illness. A dash of head shrinking might not hurt either, but that's a job that we'll need to rope a Psychonaut into if we want it done right."
"Why are you not comfortable going under the knife here? Would you rather have a stranger restore you to your previous state? That'd be easier on me, and I'll tag along with you if you are dead set on trying out this new clinic you mentioned, but they probably won't let me scrub in to operate on you. Their methods might be unfavorably prolific or outlandish too. I've never thought that scar tissue was attractive, and I can't guarantee that you'll even be alive when they finish with you if they prohibit me from patching you up myself."
Clarissa, ruminating on this matter as she is, soberly rubs the back of her head and then proceeds to shrug dismissively. She wouldn't ever give her consent to letting a complete stranger repair her physical form. Then again, Zefir's body is his own to do with as he pleases, so this choice on where the operation should take place isn't her's to make.