[b]Portugal![/b]

It is one thing to be told that these people are half-blind, half-deaf and completely without the sense of smell. It is another to see the work of art that the Warriors of Ceron have made out of their ignorance. 

The Portuguese simply can't see colours the same way civilized people can. They can't see the ultraviolet or electromagnetic spectrum with their naked eyes, their hearing is too weak to allow them to echolocate or hear noises in certain pitch frequencies, and the only creature on the entire planet capable of perceiving something remotely close to the true colour spectrum was a certain kind of shrimp. "Don't blame me," Demeter shrugged, aglow in a verdant laboratory cloak made of white flowers. "When I started all I had was some contaminated water."

But the drab, thoughtless ignorance of the Portuguese is fading away as you get deeper into the heart of the city. Here and there buildings are painted in vivid, ultracolour gashes of pink and violet, like the rents of massive claws. The locals can't even see these colours, have no idea their grey buildings have been redecorated so. Real music starts to clatter above the tinny din of mechanical speakers, fast moving and complex patterns that speak of relaxed violence, inaudible to the teeming masses but perhaps as a whine that the most sensitive of them might manifest as a purposeless headache. Everywhere there are scentmarks, some too complex for the locals to perceive, some reaching down as incomprehensible compulsions or aversions. 

And in the centre of the city, the tallest skyscraper - no longer an unremarkable glass box but a criminal palace hidden in plain sight, painted floor to ceiling with the refined violence of the Shogunate's warsign. Endless spools of text runs by, honouring fallen warriors and recounting legendary deeds; invisible vanity. A swirl of optically camouflaged cables spread out from the building in a mad weave, connecting to nearby buildings. At the highest level of the building the burning pulse of a small Engine - enough to power this entire continent and have enough left over for the Star Kings to run their esoteric weapons to deadly effect. The Ceronians have hooked their device into the local power grid, stabilizing the electrical grid enough that a stray ELF strike won't cause a city-wide blackout. From atop their tower the Star Kings look down at their new subjects and begin remaking the society to suit them.

Psuedowolves lurk in the shadows, blended in amongst the crowds, aware and awake with the senses of hunters, deadly knives hidden under their shirts. They move like gangsters, like predators - brushed with the beginnings of biomantic ascension so they can serve as agents for the Ceronians. They are the beginnings of a new dark age, a supernatural mafia from beyond the stars, the heralds of death for whatever society has grown here. In its place six billion people will be remade into the instruments of banditry, their civilization militarized until it can be traded for a greater prize.


[b]Dolce![/b]

"The Crystal Knight defeated," said Liquid Bronze, nodding. "Defeated. Impervious? Where is Impervious?"

The oldest Summerkind you have ever seen is wheeled out. He looks like a skeleton, beard down to his ankles, eyes faded in his sockets, hooked up to multiple external symbote organs that are pumping and filtering his blood. He blinks awake blearily. "Lord Bronze?" he rasps. "Why... why have you kept me alive?"
"Impervious!" said Liquid Bronze. "You remember when you said, and I quote, 'I think the Crystal Knight is an up and coming political figure, with a bright future in the Skies'?"
"Lord... Bronze?"
"And you said I should worry about her?"
"Yes... her focus on the underworld crystals... I remember, it was so long ago..."
"Well," said Liquid Bronze, "I just thought you should know that she went and got herself killed. In a servitor riot! Olympus above!" 
"My lord..."
"And I hate to say I told you so, but I thought you'd appreciate me closing the loop on that little theory of yours," said Liquid Bronze as the bunker rattled under direct cannonfire. "Because, as I said at the time, I am fairly confident that Biomancy will never be usurped as the ultimate technology."
"... her death does not mean... the concept she represents..."
"My goodness, man!" said Liquid Bronze. "You're still arguing with me? Don't let me say that I don't respect it, but when I get new evidence I change my mind - do you?"
"... No, I take it back..." the old Summerkind bites the words. "You were right."
"Oh!" said Liquid Bronze. "Did I get through to you at last?"
"Yes, lord," said Impervious. "Now may I please... respawn?"
"In a minute," said Liquid Bronze. "Just, I'd like you to elaborate a bit - we're not the only people present here after all."
Impervious sighed raspily. "You were right. I was... wrong. The Crystal Knight was never a threat to you. Biomancy... will never be surpassed. May I please die?"
"What?" said Liquid Bronze. "I'm not going to [i]kill [/i]you. Who do you think I am? We had a respectful disagreement and I finally located the right facts to convince you that I was right. That's what a healthy culture of debate means, Impervious. You're free to speak your mind whenever you want."
Impervious sighed. "May... may I request a tour of duty on the front lines, Lord Bronze?"
"Of course!" said Liquid Bronze. "Men! Take my friend to the armory, get him a gun and suit of armour. See, Impervious? The bigger man doesn't hold grudges."
"Yes... sir," rasped Impervious as his hospital bed was wheeled out.

So the direct answer to your question is: Impervious. Even if he himself is not long for this world, his coming reincarnation will likely share some of his attitude towards Liquid Bronze on an instinctive level. The broader answer to your question, though, is any of the older Summerkind - the older the better. The young ones are too lost in the awe of seeing Liquid Bronze outdebate one of their kind's greatest warsages that they haven't fully processed how fucked that encounter was. They just don't have anything to compare it to.

20022 politely clears his throat and looks at you. Liquid Bronze seems to have lost the thread, and 20022 wants to know if you'd prefer him to finish the thought from here.