Faerie: Despite the relatively small size of the crowd, Rahja's question seems to go unanswered amidst the ritual silence and awe of the crowd as the deities form an ocean and continents to work with. There is no doubt that she could make herself heard, it may make a bit of a scene depending on how it is handled (especially if interrupting a faerie "god" is considered taboo).

Emanacal: For a moment, Thorezor screws his face in thought before running off to a small table on the side of the room, holding a good deal of local and planar atlases, history books of the empires and even personal diaries that the young dragon shouldn't have had access to (not that much can stop the curiosity of a young dragon without involving serious injury).

Spreading everything out at Wero's feet, Thorezor keeps messing with his jaw and tongue, as if trying to lick his eyes in the same manner as those clones. At last, the wyrmling's jaw is heard to pop and Thorezor starts talking intently, showing no signs of even stopping for breath.

This time, however, Wero can't hear a word that the young dragon says. He feels the words instead, wrenching the dragon's perception out from his body and across space, stopping briefly at the ruins of an old bandit hideout that had been smashed, burnt, disintegrated, covered in the better part of a mountain, burnt again, and left forgotten for years.

From there, Wero feels his senses plummeting... deeper and deeper until he sees into the deepest reaches of Hell. Down on Nessus, Wero can see a particular fiendish foe, one who should be dead after all of the trouble you and Celestica have gone through, walking towards the palace of Asmodeus as if he owned the place.

Launching back up, Wero appears to orbit around his own planet for a rotation or two before being sling-shot to the next-nearest planet in the empire's control... and off to the next... and off (past a confused archmagister) to the newly abandoned colony where you descend at break-neck speeds, snapping back into your body the moment before you hit the ground.

Thorezor, smiling dumbly, holds up a roll of parchment as his mother holds the young dragon tightly. Even before the panting guard at the door announces his findings, you already have a good guess at what he's about to say. After all, your divinations found the same thing.

"Our initial scouts report a lingering magical aura down where the mining colony stood"

The parchment:
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Werominaknacuinithascuinodrakoi'laschomniwaelityrm pri'i'olyca'soinacknagarsshakhandragonnasrakkuh'mr akis'vil'il'alizveil'nacknimuantaidosckuulsprashty rnakrashanxiphilis'kambroshaen


Sargti:
"I am Olog. You are a chromatic dragon, an apparent ally to our "Paragon" in opposition to all that his god should have taught him. Make that funny!"