-THREADS SO ABOVE AS BELOW-

The Fight Palace halls never truly fall silent. They are alive with a constant low murmur, voices drifting from unseen corners—laughter, rumors, arguments carried just below the threshold of clarity. Furries linger in every wing, their presence a mix of locals, 'lovers', and a smattering of clueless visitors gawking at the grandeur, even occasionally a few yammering like disgusted prudes. The halls crowd, but the weight of time presses upon it resolute to stand, the ancient stones themselves echo, betraying far more than they let on.

Despite the energy, the air feels heavy here—an uneasy balance between celebration and something older that refuses to be forgotten. Amber light trickles through the dark hallows anachronistically, filtered into pale shades of brown. Modern marble alongside centuries-old statues and etchings, ever-ongoing renovations and constructions amongst the Palace's long line of uses.

Dickory strides through the throngs with aloof finesse, his fedora just so—enough to cast a shade on his grin, yet not enough to hide his deep outward satisfaction. His dark-tuxed feline ensemble remained as sparkly as ever: white cufflink around his neck, a gray tie cuffed around that, and a throbbing lack of pants. The real kicker though, was his micro-uzi made straight from Zirona-TEC Industries, pinpoint precision, 9MM parabellum. A rubber-lined grenade or two pokes discreetly from his vest, because no matter how relaxed he looks, Dickory’s never truly sober, or at real peace. Michelle should know, staving off the open-air terrors of life on the outdoors.

Furries and tourists glance his way—some with confusion, others modest hesitation, none daring to linger too long. Whoever this half-dressed investigator is, he doesn’t look like someone you approach without reason.

His yellow eyes gazed sidelong often to Michelle. Her presence beside him is almost a contrast: light, casual, similarly bold. Tan shorts ride high, her froglegs used to the cold of the stone that makes marble floors, striding barefoot. Her tight vest—aside from its intentional leaving open of upper buttons—hugs her athletic form, her green skin dappled with freckles that catch mysterious glances from generous patrons. It's not easy being green.

“Place reeks of old-world concerns,” Dickory mutters, cutting through the crowd’s quiet din with his voice—dry, gravel-throated, and unimpressed. “More dust around here than the bowl I fired up this morning.”

Michelle snorts faintly, though her steps remain peppy, playful, as they weave through the Palace’s loitering patrons. “Though, maybe that dust has some history to it.” Her tone holds its usual sardonic warmth, cutting through the tension like butter. “Wouldn’t surprise me if a few dead gods got ground up in here," she chuckled slightly. "You’d probably still try to smoke them.”

Dickory bares a brief fang in a resigned grin. “Guess it depends on the gods.”

Pieces of original stonework preserved like fossils, popped from reliefs where they now stood. Michelle sensed a shadow... the breath's ushering to this door.

“A huge wood door that isn’t even on the map,” Dickory muttered as he beheld its carved frame. Michelle sneered. "You sure won't find this one on the tour." Michelle reached out and traced the curves of the frame. "In Devotion to the Charger, Gavreck, and his Forevermore, Chung Poe." Dickory's eyes widened in slight bemusement. "Shit, I wish was up on my ancient Swiss cheese."

Dickory wrestled with the rust of the wooden door, its hinges groaning and trickling its darkness to their catacombs. When it finally swung open, a wave of stale, heavy air hit them.

“Smells like a damn crypt,” Dickory muttered, peering into the dark. "Wonder who died here?"

Michelle said nothing as she stepped past him, squinting into the gloom. Her instincts hummed—this wasn’t just an old room. It felt preserved. Forgotten, but purposeful.

Dickory sighed, clicking his tongue. “I didn't predict I'd need to whip a smartphone out here. Or a torch.” He reached for a lighter he usually reserved to take a few tokes with, when he needed that "medicinal" dose bad.

“Oh, I'll give you a torch, alright.”

Michelle raised her hand, fingers splayed. A faint hum thrummed in the air as she focused, calling up the NRG she’d been trained to wield since childhood. Her palm began to glow, the light a soft but steady blue-white that spread out, pushing back the darkness.

Dickory blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Convenient.”

Michelle ignored him, stepping deeper into the room. The glow from her hand revealed the walls—stone walls, carved with lines and symbols that ran in spirals like fingerprints. Dust clung to every surface, but the carvings cut through time, sharp and deliberate.

“What the hell is this?” Dickory murmured, running his hand across the grooves.

Michelle knelt closer, her glowing hand hovering just above the stone. “Lineage. These are records of the Mining Kings.” She traced a spiral, reading the etchings as if they spoke to her directly. The Gathering’s stories and symbols came rushing back, threads connecting in her mind. Gods... maybe her enclave was right all along! “Names… and dates… their history is all here.”

Dickory’s brows furrowed as he crouched beside her. “This goes back centuries.” His eyes narrowed as he pointed at a name. “Hey, wait a second. What’s that?”

Michelle’s glow fell on the name, etched with sharp precision.

Chung Poe.

Dickory frowned. “That’s gotta be a mistake. This name repeats. Look, here—and here.”

Michelle moved her hand along the wall, the light illuminating Chung Poe’s name again and again, across spirals that contoured various tally marks, separated by endless days into, indeed, generations. Her voice was low and affirming. “It’s no mistake. Someone recorded him across time, like he never left.”

Dickory’s face paled. “So what are you saying? He’s immortal?”

Before Michelle could answer, faint crackles echoed in the still air. Her light caught something just beside the doorway—marks seared into the stone.

“Hold on.” She stepped toward it, her NRG glow sharpening to reveal the details. A claw mark of deep reliefs, with edges that still smoldered faintly as if the stone had just cooled.

Dickory swore under his breath, backing up. “That’s fresh.”

Michelle reached out slowly, her fingers hovering near the burnt groove. Her NRG light reflected off its charred edges, making it look almost alive.

“He was here,” she whispered, more to herself than to Dickory. “And he left this for us to see.”

--------------------------------------------
The Atrium – Palace Convention Center

The court of the Convention Center hummed with activity—a constant shuffle of tourists, fighters, and convention-goers crossing its intricately designed navy-blue carpet. At the center of this grand hall rises the peculiar mining structure: a tall, hollow framework of thin wooden beams, interconnected at their joints with aged metal. Though skeletal in build and climbing skyward, it looks fragile, like a relic balancing on borrowed time. The structure offers nothing practical—no platforms to stand on, no monuments to read—just an empty, towering illusion of industry against the ornate railings and elevators that surround it.

At its base rests Dragurr’s Tavern, snug but welcoming, like a secret corner in an overstuffed hall. The small mahogany bar gleams, polished to perfection, with a navy-blue sign curling its white-painted letters above the counter.

Behind the bar, Friz—a gray frilled lizard—leans comfortably, his red frills fluttering faintly as he chatted up a patron. His apron was crisp, hiding nothing about his pride, the mischievous glint suggesting that Friz was rarely ever about the straight and narrow. He loves fighters, loves stories, and definitely loves the kind of dealings that happen under the table.

Dickory padded silently toward the tavern counter, his movements smooth and lackadaisical. His tail flicks languidly behind him, an excitable flourish beneath the looseness of his prance. His yellow eyes, drawn to the dearths of humanity, wandered briefly to Michelle with lingering interest.

Beside him, Michelle strode light as a whisper, her bare webbing gliding with the lush carpet. She desired function over flash, with khaki choices delivering that promise in high-ride fashion sense. The faint dappling of her green skin caught the fluorescent glow of the atrium, and her light grin said she was now perfectly at home. What a grand turn.

Dickory lets out a low murmur, his voice rugged but clear enough over crowd noises. “Place has to be holding its breath under all this navy.” His yellow eyes glared strongly toward the mining structure. “Keep us all distracted while trouble brews thousands of years right under our paws, huh? I guess they'll tell us all about it later, too.”

Michelle snorted. “My people always stopped to ask the why, the how. It might've been all they had, when they were displaced. To not question is to know false death.” She flicked her gaze toward Friz, perched behind the bar, and gave Dickory a nod. “Now, let’s see if our friend’s feeling generous.”

Friz cocked up from polishing a glass, his frills betraying quick flutterings of thrill as Dickory and Michelle approached. “Well, well—look what my rig dragged up! Barefoot and just what I like!” His gaze lingers playfully on Michelle, then flicks to Dickory with somewhat approving chagrin. “Guess you brought ol' Tux to class up my little spot. What’ll it be, sugarinos?”

Michelle leans casually against the bar, her voice carrying a calculated ease. “It might depend, Friz. You feeling chatty today?”

Friz tilts his head, his frill fanning wider as his smile sharpened, displaying his fangs. “Depends on the chat! What you buying?”

With practiced subtlety, Michelle slips a folded note under the counter, her fingertips flitting around long enough to suggest intent. “Consider this one... an advance. What do you know about Chung Poe?”

The smile flickers on Friz’s lips, but he masks it quick with a soft chuckle, palming the note with the smooth motion of a professional. “Ah. That’s the name you’re pulling out today?” He leans closer, lowering his voice as his frill settles. “What’s a bounty girl and her sharp-dressed cat doing nosing into a nightmare like that?”

Dickory’s grin flashes a sharp edge, fangs catching the light. “We’ve got our reasons. Just tell the story, Brian Jacques.”

Friz chuckles dryly, running a different-color patched finger among his frill. “Fair enough. Chung Poe... Wow. Well, old man’s got more years on him than this Palace. And he wears ’em all like a boulder he can’t drop. Seen-it-all demeanor, chip on his shoulder the size of my little mining rig, here.”

Michelle narrows her gaze, her tone even. “How dangerous would you gauge?”

Friz pauses a beat, setting down his glass with care. “Dangerous like a rusty knife you left sitting out on the stove. You think you’re in control, then suddenly you’re the one bleeding, poisoned. Chung’s survived more deaths than most would dream of—and left plenty in his wake.”

Dickory flicks his tail, a toothy grin parting his lips. “Sounds like a guy who's kept a long, long secret.”

Friz siezes them both carefully, still the flirt never leaves his tone. “Oh, he’s got secrets all right. Worlds in his head you wouldn’t want to peer into—trust me. You find Chung Poe, and you’d better hope you’ve got your affairs in order. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers diggin’ up his past, whatsoever.”

Michelle straightens, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “Appreciate the tippin', Friz ol' chap.”

Friz’s gaze softens slightly as it drifts back to her, his tone turning playful again. “You know, sweetie, for another note, I could tell you about someone far less cranky—and a whole lot more fun.”

Michelle grinned flirtatiously through practiced ease. “You’ll know when I’m ready for that round, Friz. Don’t lose sleep on it. My trail's blazing hot.”

Friz laughed, his frill flapping wide open. “Suit yourself, Green. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He palmed the note deeper under the counter, nodding toward the crowd. “If Chung’s on your trail, I’d grab a drink, personally. Would be a shame to lose two customers as entertaining as you oddballs.”

Dickory stepped back, tipping his fedora with a devil-may-care grin. “Pleasure doin’ some good biz, Friz. Save a round for if we’re still breathing.”

Friz smirked, the faint ambiant chuckle following them as they turned. “Anytime, Dickie. Don’t forget to come back barefoot—I hate shoes, myself.”

Michelle and Dickory exchanged a glance as they melted into the atrium crowd, their steps in sync.

Dickory tilted his head, his voice a low murmur. "So, old man Chung’s some kind of undead vigilante or just a stubborn bastard who won’t let history kill him off?"

Michelle’s tone was thoughtful, the usual playfulness tempered by a flicker of concern. "Maybe both. But if the stories are true, he’s more than just a relic. He’s a warning."

They walked in silence for a moment, the buzzing energy of the convention around them muted by their thoughts. The towering mining structure loomed above, its fragile frame casting intricate shadows on the ornate floor.

Dickory finally broke the quiet, his tone light but edged with determination. "Warnings are just invitations written in bold. We’ll dig this up, Green, one way or another."

Michelle smirked faintly, her gaze fixed ahead. "Let’s just make sure we don’t end up as footnotes in his story, Cat."

As they disappeared into the bustling corridors of the Fight Palace, the air seemed to shift—the ancient stones humming faintly, as if aware of the threads being pulled. Somewhere in the labyrinth of history and shadows, Chung Poe patiently now waited.