Sigmund was just about to play into the conversation further by asking how he’ll distinguish the Rubedo bottle from the others if all of them are completely covered in seals, but Makhus interrupted him with an offhanded gesture at the Tablet. “Does the sickness show up as a trait?” he asked.

“Ah, I… Have not checked those,” he confessed, raising the Tablet and skimming his attributes again. “I should do that.”

The fingers of his left hand hovered above the projection as he tried to discern how to get to his traits. He couldn’t remember how - he knew how to, but the memory just wouldn’t come to the forefront no matter how much he muttered into his beard and furrowed his brow. Makhus watched and waited, and with an almost palpable effort to not sound condescending, advised to “Swipe to the right, like on the old model back at recruitment.”

Sigmund couldn’t help but laugh at himself as he did as Makhus suggested. “Must still be a bit foggy up in the ol’ noggin,” chuckled the bald soldier through his beard as he waited for the Tablet’s projection to flicker to the next readout.

TRAITS Lesser Swordsmanship Lesser Gunmanship Lesser Fog Intolerance Greater Rubedo Tolerance Greater Ignis Tolerance Metabolic Rubedo (Stress-triggered - Unique) Victory Echoes (Unique)

For a while, he stood there reading the list over and over. “Hrm… It makes sense, up ‘till the last two,” he thought aloud, turning the Tablet so that Makhus could see. The swordsman briefly averted his gaze, but looked once he realized it was intentional rather than just a slip-up. He skimmed the list, furrowed his brow, rubbed the stubble of his chin, then remarked “Fucked up how chuggin’ the essence of fire can turn ya flame-retardant. I’m pretty sure the second to last one is yer sickness.”

A few minutes after the last of the three soldiers left to use the Tablet, Zelsys remembered something. She reached for the bolt handle of her gun, giving it a solid turn and a backward yank. The empty shell jumped out of the chamber and she caught it, expecting it to be cold - strangely, even this long after being fired, the brass was still almost painfully hot. The rather loud mechanical noise caught Zefaris’s attention, and her eye twinkled like a binary star at the sight of the shell.

Zelsys didn’t know what the symbol on the back of the shell said, but that didn’t mean the blonde had to know that. “C’mon, you’re good with a gun. What does the symbol on the base of this shell mean?” she asked, tossing the shell over. The rune was a little deformed from the impact of the striker, but she thought it should be perfectly legible. The markswoman eagerly caught it, turning it over in her fingers and examining it inside and out.

“Low-yield,” remarked Zefaris, chuckling at the fact. “If this is low-yield, wouldn’t high-yield just rip your arm off from the recoil?”

“Of course not. I’d just be able to propel myself a couple dozen meters,” Zelsys responded, only half-jokingly.