They crossed through the gate at this point, and Zel confidently answered as they reached the base of the stairwell, striding towards the basement door instead of the stairs: “Right on this floor… I think.”
A few steps later, another question came to mind: “Blood-red walking tank?”
“Yeah, big damn thing, I’d say about half again as tall as the other walking tanks, a good bit fatter too, painted blood-red with a white crossed-out zero on the chest. Moved more like a living thing than any of the Iron Brotherhood tanks I’ve seen,” nodded the norseman.
Finding the baths wasn’t exactly difficult, and, unsurprisingly, it turned out to be two vast, communal baths sized to accommodate the plurality of the sect’s expected numbers, with its own separate changing rooms - despite the fact there was only one huge pool, filled with pristine, steaming water, and not a speck of dust in sight.
They used the separate changing rooms as was appropriate, but neither bothered with modesty afterwards, as it seemed that they had gotten the same idea - to get the paint off as quickly as possible and be done with it.
As they walked out of the changing rooms buck-naked and half-covered in crusted, bloody paint, the two exchanged looks, though no eye-contact was made.
Zel felt the norseman’s gaze skim her naked body, and he made no attempt to hide his appreciation of her nude form - less than surprising, it was expected, in no small part because she found the walking ice sculpture of a man attractive just the same, but… That was where it ended. No tension, nothing.
One of the recliners next to the pool, curiously, had a number of personal effects next to it, as if someone had been using it recently. Perhaps Ozmir had been using the bath.
After ogling each other for a few seconds, they wordlessly got in the water, cleaned the paint off, got out, and got dressed. As they made their way to the surface proper, the question of Jorfr’s desire to join the sect - and the Slayer’s Guild to boot - came up. While Zel was in no position to answer the latter, she had no reason to refuse his first request, and Jorfr soon departed stating that he had business to take care of.
Zel fully intended to continue prioritizing her preparation for Ubul, from ensuring she would be in peak condition when the blue moon rose, to getting up to date with the governor and trying to facilitate official military aid, with a first round of vetted recruits being the second on her list of priorities.
Later in the day, Zel joined in overlooking the would-be recruit vetting process, finding it to be mostly as expected. It was taking place in the front courtyard, traces of the battle still visible, albeit only barely - the courtyard had, in however long she had spent away, been transformed into something… Strangely familiar, something that Zel recognized but couldn’t put a name on.
“Reminds me of training camp,” Zef remarked, walking up the stairs towards her.
The attribute reader from the apothecary had been hauled to the courtyard gate, and was being used to perform a basic background, attribute, and trait check upon the candidates. Those who met the Kargarians’ criteria were taken through a gauntlet of various tests clearly meant to estimate their actual combat ability, from raw striking power, to accuracy in the case of those who used ranged attacks of any sort, to full-on live sparring with multiple scenarios. Four circles had been marked out on the soil a little ways away from the training equipment for this purpose.
Of the four scenarios, two pitted the candidate against a single opponent and two against multiple. The first was a large, imposing Kargarian wielding naught but his own fists, and the second an armed, much lither and androgynous figure with a veiled face, bearing a wooden sword. Both wore variations of the same thing, a quite lavish uniform bearing the Krishorn family sigil, clearly insinuating they were some personal guards or mercenary retainers for the clan.
The third and fourth scenarios both involved noticeably less standout people, the intention clearly to test one’s ability to manage unfavorable numerical odds.
There were promising faces here. Some familiar ones, some unfamiliar, but a great majority of them were, to say it simply… Normals.
Zelsys looked over the courtyard, and she felt it. The contrast.
On one side was the churn of people, young and old, attempting to join a sect not just without possessing any capabilities beyond normal human ability, but being entirely unable to even throw a proper punch.
On the other, the steady progression of those already capable. Between, in the margins, struggle.
Some few, through confluence of natural ability or legitimate personal growth, passed the initial attribute check, and of them, a surprising number left before they even got to the sparring portion - not because they were compelled to, but because they failed to take proper care in the striking tests and hurt themselves. By her account, some two-thirds of the candidates fell under this classification. The others, though, held promise, and perhaps a scant four or five stood out such that with a mere glance Zelsys could discern a greater presence. The Mercenary, with his mismatched armor, fancy gun, and big stick was among them, alongside a coal-skinned, ember-eyed islander, and two Ikesians. The fifth… She wasn’t sure.
She turned her attention particularly towards how those who “failed” were treated, and had found relief in the fact they were politely recommended further training, joining the militia or, when it reopened, the Slayer’s Guild, and to look out for training programs that the Newman Family would run through the Guild in the future.
“Training programs?” she raised an eyebrow. It was among the sect’s business ventures explicitly mentioned in the Black Deed, true, and Zel had given it quite some thought, but had never mentioned it to anyone but… Zefaris. When Zel turned to look down at the blonde, she was met with a self-satisfied look staring back at her.
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