[Demeisen’s first order of business, after securing clothing, is going in search for information. What he has so far is a pitifully small amount, and even if he did nothing but speak to people for the next week without rest, it would still be scarcely any larger—at least by Culture standards. When one is used to having the secrets of the known galaxy laid out at one’s fingertips, word of mouth seems pretty paltry by comparison.

But it is all that he has to work with at present, so he arms himself with what funds he has been provided for essentials, and he delves into what passes for the entertainment districts of Kenos’s cities. He visits sleepy little pubs and bustling cafés, lofty libraries and beautiful parks, seedy clubs where the smell of intoxicants hangs heavy in the air. And he talks. And he listens.

For days.

Many of the friendlier locals can be persuaded to give up a seat at their tables or cover a drink for a new shard-bearer, but it isn’t charity that allows him to keep his pockets full despite his bar-hopping. In fact, the amount of funds on his person increases as the days tick past, owing to the trail of dice tables and card games he leaves behind him.

Eventually he’s ready for the second phase of his investigation, which brings him to drug dens in Highstorm and Springstar—perhaps even in Kowloon, given his days of tireless exploration. Charity won’t avail him here, but that’s just fine, as he doesn’t need it anymore. He plops himself down next to patrons who seem lucid enough for conversation, his perfect teeth already clamped around a pipe that cannot possibly do anything for his non-organic “physiology.” He draws deeply from it, then removes the pipe on an exhale to flash a smile at his new companion.]

This seat taken?

[Eventually, Demeisen’s search leads him back to Springstar, and specifically the coliseum filling part of its entertainment district with its bulk. He is not done with his search; he will not be done until he finds convincing answers to all his questions, and at his current pace, that’s likely to take months, if not longer. If he’s going to be here for that long, he may as well indulge his interests as well as his curiosity.

The man in the stands does not look like any of the humans wandering around this city, regardless of how cosmopolitan it might be. There is an alien quality about him that manifests most obviously in the hump of his shoulders and spine, the stoutness of his thin torso and the unusual lankiness of his legs. The fingers tapping idly on one long thigh are too stubby, with too few joints. To one accustomed to the idea of elves and other nonhuman races that resemble humans except for a few differing features, he might not seem human at all.

Which would be correct, actually. But that has nothing to do with his appearance.

He has secured a seat at the front, with a prime view of the sport going on below. When he arrived, a combatant was facing off against some sort of many-toothed, copiously-tentacled beast, which vanished the moment it was slain—perhaps Displaced elsewhere for ease of clean-up, as it had seemed real enough before that point. Now, a new combatant and a new creature duel below, to the screams and hoots of the coliseum’s many onlookers.

Demeisen looks like he’s reading the morning news.]