Rosemary walked out onto the balcony, a cold gale rippling through her body. She shivered, clutching the hems of her cloak and swallowing herself in its red cloth. She could not remember a time where she had not worn something like this. Only at the gala, with Sunala, had she let her back lay bare.
Part of her had hoped it was the beginning of something. The beginning of… a healing process.
But then, after InterGuild, after Adaya’s rants…
She shuddered, and not from the cold. She would wear her cloak forever now, she thought.
Mallory walked up beside her. She had donned a heavy coat, her thermos in one hand, her bright eyes looking out towards Stellaluna. There was a subtle, uncomfortable silence between them. For the Steamer knew where her guildmate wanted to go. There was the distant sound of gunshots ringing out. Six, seven. A thundering boom in the distance that made Rosemary tense up. She almost made for Joseph's bed, where she had left her sceptre.
But Broon's words halted her. As did the stern look on his face. The way his hand held onto Kilnriv too securely, too surely, too readily. She could imagine him now, facing off against... whatever was in the museum.
There were shouts in the distance, and only Rosemary's more sensitive ears could pick them out over the sound of the wind outside. Mallory had not heard.
“It's more intense than I thought,” she whispered to the Steamer.
“Joseph's going rogue?”
At this, Rosemary gave her a hard look.
“He wouldn't,” she said, “Don't think of him like that.”
“Rosemary,” Mallory said, “Mind if I'm honest with you?”
The Steamer leaned against the railing.
“Joseph's kind of an ass,” she said.
“Because of everything with Tek?”
“Yeah,” Mallory said, “More than that. There's this look in his eyes that's gotten... more intense, I should say.”
“You hardly even talk to him,” Rosemary said, “He's a good guy.”
“Look at the way he's using Phineas,” Mallory said.
“He's not using Phineas,” Rosemary snapped.
“Rosemary, listen-”
“Phineas came to me, Mal,” she said, her voice raising over the wind, “We, together, went to Joseph.”
“Alright,” Mallory said, “And how do you know he's not going to just... toss you by the wayside as soon as he can get home?”
That stopped Rosemary.
“Tek's one of the nicest people in the guild,” Mallory continued, “And Joseph just straight up lied to him. Used him. And I know that he wants to get home and everything, but he's setting a precedent. That's all I'm saying.”
“...And, you think,” Rosemary said, “That he's gotten violent with Broon and Ezel.”
Mallory grimaced, then nodded.
“...I'm not hearing this bullshit,” Rosemary said.
She strided over to the bed, and picked up her sceptre.
Mallory stood between her and the door.
“No, Rosemary,” she said, “No.”
“Get out of my way, Mal,” Rosemary said, “I'm going to help Joseph.”
“And fight Broon?”
“He's not fighting Broon!” Rosemary screamed, “He wouldn't!”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he's my friend!” Rosemary said, “You think he's an ass, but he's just...”
She had trusted people before. People like Sunala. For just a brief, heartbreaking flash, doubt crept in.
What if she was wrong about Joseph, too?
He was her friend. Right?
He wouldn't...
She faltered.
Then, she steeled herself again. Her sceptre glowed like a miniature sun.
“Get out of my way, Mal.”
“I can't,” Mallory said, “Broon's orders. Wakeling's orders.”
“Then come with me,” Rosemary said, and added, almost pleading, “Please.”
Mallory glared hard at her guildmate. Her friend. She had been in the guild for a few years before Rosemary had joined up, but she had shown her the ropes, the ins and outs of guild life. Though they were near enough the same age, Rosemary was a younger sister to her.
The Steamer sighed.
“Alright,” she said, “Okay.”
***
The insect buzzed into the next exhibit, spear shining like silver as he thrusted it at Phineas. It struck true, the Deep One letting out a gurgled gasp of pain as it tore through his scaled shoulder. Blood, black and soap-like, shining like oil, flowed free from the wound as Joseph swung at the spear with his soul's arm, though the insect dove and zipped back, landing on the wall opposite, the wood instruments and bone fetishes rattling around him.
Joseph only had the eagle's arms manifested, and they mirrored his own as he raised them up, stepping past Phineas.
The insect rushed forward, and Joseph steeled himself for the next volley of spear thrusts, heart pounding as steel flashed towards him. He sidestepped, feeling the wind rush past his ear as the insect stabbed forward. His soul's arms came up to block, cold pain racking his body for their trouble, but it gave him an opening for his human fist to rush forward and collide against the insect's head. The creature staggered back, letting out a grim curse.
And he zipped away from the soul's arcing right hook, ducking beneath it, showing that Joseph's strike had not done as much as he would have hoped. His hand ached from the punch. Striking the bug was like striking stone.
An exoskeleton. Stupid. He would have to be careful going for the head, for he wasn't wearing gloves, and even human skulls could break fingers, bruise knuckles.
He grabbed Phineas and dragged the Deep One back. The room was the insect's, the way he was flitting about. So Joseph positioned himself in an archway between two galleries.
The insect would be forced to attack him head on. And Joseph was ready for that.
Beneath him, Phineas had reopened his tome, his breath labored and hurried. He was unused to pain.
And the spear rocketed towards him, instead of Joseph. A miscalculation, Joseph bringing his soul's fists on the insect, who sidestepped and thrust downward, pinning Phineas's hand into the pages of his book.
Phineas let out another gasp, pointing a hand at his assailant, and a wave of black enveloped the world like a cold, dead serpent. The insect was thrown back, letting out a shout of surprise as it carried him into the opposite wall like a wave. It held him there, the entire false night freezing in place, the entire room covered in black, frozen liquid.
Joseph pulled Phineas to his feet, and the two fled. Down the other exhibit, up another flight of stairs that led...
To a locked door.
Joseph's claw tore through the wood, and he shoved through, knocking it off its hinges. Phineas let out a rasp of shock at this as Joseph, in a mad dash, all but dragged him into an adjoining passage. There were offices up here, most likely the administrative areas of the museum.
Perfect.
At the end of the hall was a door with a golden plaque that read 'Sir Ivan Prostagmos, Head Curator.' Joseph pushed through, eagle's talons tearing through the wood.
“Joseph,” Phineas said, “What are you doing?”
But Joseph ignored him, pushing into the dark study, now illuminated by his cobalt glow. There was a desk with a pile of paperwork that this Prostagmos had left for the morning, along with a small, silver statue depicting some sort of samurai. Stolen, probably.
“Joseph,” Phineas said, “What are we doing here?”
His friend crossed over to the desk, opening it up and rifling through it. When he found nothing, he began looking through the stack of papers, throwing each one away after reading it.
“Joseph,” Phineas's voice became tinged with slight fear, “We came here for the sarcophagi, not for... this.”
But the metahuman ignored him, finally finding what he was looking for, his eyes scanning a worn, folded piece of paper.
“Joseph,” Phineas said, and he sounded small, “It… it hurts.”
The Deep One's wounds still had not re-stitched themselves, like when he had been shot on St. Malendia's. Instead, the bleeding had stopped, but pain still bittered Phineas's body, made it difficult to move. That last spell had taken much out of him.
“There,” Joseph said, ignoring him, “A communication between this guy and....”
His eyes narrowed as he realized the letter's full contents. They were not in the usual script that Prostagmos used, but rather a clipped, simple affair, the letters small and quick and messy. It was signed by Agrippa.
“They require that Inweth be stored in the northern galleries, in the Alia Artificialia exhibit,” Joseph looked up at Phineas, “Do you remember where that is?”
The Deep One hesitated.
“The sooner we get to the exhibit, the sooner you can get out of here,” Joseph said, “Come on.”
“I do,” Phineas said, and he plucked the pamphlet out of his bag, opening it up. Half of the brochure was smeared with his blood, “It's in the corner. Tucked away. Practically hidden.”
“Good,” Joseph said, “Can you walk?”
“I can.”
His gait was hobbled and stuttered. But he could, with a bit of pain, an ounce of effort, keep up with Joseph as he read over the brochure once more time, before stowing it away in his jacket pocket.
“Let's go,” Joseph said.
***
The cyclops was a menagerie of magical artifacts. Bracers lined with wands were donned on each wrist. The spellslinger was loaded up now with magical bullets that Ezel could hardly deflect with her own water whips. Her cloak allowed her to fly, which she did now, hovering a few feet off the floor. Occasionally she would pull some bit or bob from a pocket, sand that she flung at Broon that exploded on contact with skin, or a flock of butterflies held in a locket that pushed the half-orc back.
But while she had her eclectic collection, she did not have the experience that Broon possessed, from his years of endless violence, of living alone in the wilds for his childhood, his time as a sellsword before the Amber Foundation, his experience fighting in wars on the guild's behalf. He took each new artifact with aplomb, grimacing and growling, his blade's runes flaring with each swing.
A wand slipped into the cyclops's hand, and she unleashed a green-tinged gale. Broon stabbed forward, the tip of his blade shearing through the wind as he rushed forward. He brought the blade back around at the last moment, swinging it towards the cyclops, who flew upwards away from the half-orc's wild yet calculated slashes.
A thin stream of water wrapped around the cyclops’s leg. Ezel pulled downwards, wrenching the cyclops towards the floor. She slammed into the ground, which cracked from the blow, pulling out her spellslinger in response-
Kilnriv cut through its muzzle, battering it away. The cyclops's eye was wide with panic as she pulled out another wand. A stream of white light burst forth from its tip, striking Broon in the jaw like an uppercut. He was thrown upwards, falling onto his back with a grunt.
Ezel's whips snapped at the cyclops, whose cloak billowed back to life and carried her upwards. This time, the whips found naught but empty air as the cyclops rose, expelling another beam of light at the demigod. Ezel ducked down, rushing forward to Broon, the bolt flying over her head, punching a solid hole in the floor behind her.
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The half-orc was already up on his feet. He glared at the cyclops, who was floating away from them, discarding her wand. Only two shots in it – a weak enchantment, indeed. The replacement wand cast a glowing green light, more of a rod, and as she pointed it at the two of them it extended forward. Broon brought up his sword in reply, the two weapons clanging together, sparks flying as Ezel's water whips bounded for the cyclops-
Who dove, barreling out of their reach, pulling out a strange, gooey glob of something, throwing it at Ezel's foot. It slobbered against her boot, and as Ezel spun as the cyclops rushed past her, she found that she was stuck fast to the ground.
The rod extended both ways as the cyclops positioned her flight so she was between Broon and Ezel. It rushed behind her, catching Ezel in the side, and she let out a gasp of pain as it whipped her back, her entire body save her ankle getting carried with the blow. There was an audible snap as her ankle twisted and broke, and she landed on the ground, her foot blooming in pain.
The rod rushed towards Broon, who once more parried with Kilnriv, letting the flat of his sword scream against the rod's extension as he bored down on the cyclops.
The blade flung true, cutting a deep slash against the cyclops's thigh. She let out a ragged scream of pain, flying upwards from the half-orc-
Who dropped Kilnriv, the blade letting out a keening clatter as it hit the floor. He reached out a hand, jumping into the air to grab the cyclops's foot, holding her fast like she was a balloon.
He didn't have quite the strength as Ezel's water whips. Those were like nature incarnate, a slice of a waterfall brought to bear. His arm bulged with the effort as he pulled the cyclops down. They were face to face for a moment-
And Broon clobbered her in the face. The cyclops stuttered back for a moment, dazed.
It was a situation he had been in before. His opponent stunned. All he had to do was pick up Kilnriv, and he would be done with it. He had killed before, even beings as young as the woman in front of him now.
A quick strike, and that would be that.
But he was not on a job for killing. He knew those jobs, and this was not one of them. He needed to get Ezel up. Find Joseph and Phineas.
He had not come to Melmaen to be a murderer.
The cyclops took a few more steps back, stumbling, falling onto her butt. She was wincing. Broon stepped forward, grasped her cloak, and pulled it free from her neck, tossing it aside, watched it flutter down the stairs out of the corner of his eyes. He unstrapped the bracers, throwing them away, too.
“Don't try anything funny,” he warned her, “Got it?”
He had hit her harder than he had anticipated. She nodded, her eye bleary, her nose broken.
She was done for the night. Broon turned around, his breathing ragged, his jaw aching from the shot he had taken. He had been lucky that time. Anything stronger than that, and the magic would have burned his face off. He went over to Ezel, whose eyes were scrunched tight in pain. She had completely twisted her ankle.
He went to one knee.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“Broken. Badly,” Ezel gasped, “Need to get this stuff off.”
She extended a hand, and the puddles of water that had splashed on the floor after her downing began to ripple, flow around her ankle, down towards the pile of goo that held her to the ground.
They could hear footsteps. Heavy. Metal-booted.
And out stepped the crusader, from the seeming shadows. A monster from Tsaeyaru, and Broon did not use that term lightly. He had worked with Archenround, his guildmate, who was also from that strange, post-apocalyptic plane. But the man who stood before him was the same sort of man who had torn out his guildmate's tongue, branded her a demon. He was a crusader, and Broon could tell that much, by the way he walked, by the old insignias on his beaten-car armor, a chain that wrapped around a six-fingered hand. Archenround had shown him that symbol, once.
She had shown the symbol, and quickly erased it, her face stricken with ghost fears and ghost memories.
The crusader stepped forward.
Hell, Broon's sword was out of reach, just a mere, agonizing few feet away.
The crusader lifted his weapon. It was a chainsaw that had been retrofitted into a sword, hilt and all. It began powering up with no apparent ripcord, and the night became alive with its gargling whine.
The half-orc's heart pounded. Ezel had clocked their new opponent. The water stopped welling around her feet...
And shot forward at the crusader.
He sidestepped it, striding forward, but it was time enough for Broon to dive for his sword. He grabbed it, stood tall, as the crusader swung his chainsword. Sparks flew as Kilnriv clashed with the strange blade, the sound of grinding metal screaming out of the museum.
The two exchanged a series of strikes, trying to get past the guard of the other. Parrying the chainsword was like nothing Broon had encountered before. Each strike sent racking vibrations up his arm. His blade shivered with each teeth-gnashing bite of the crusader's weapon, and had Kilnriv not been a unique weapon with powerful enchantments, it would have broken.
Even then, there were nicks on Broon's sword.
The crusader was pushing the half-orc being, forcing him on the defensive. Broon was a fine swordsman, one of the finest in the guild – it was either him or Tiger, truly – but he was not used to an opponent like this. The crusader moved with a grace that belied his heavy armor, swung his sword true, his stance at once both perfectly defensive and offensive.
At one moment, he got past Broon's guard. The chainsword tore through his side. Broon let out a gasp, taking a few steps back. He nearly stumbled over Ezel, who was still stuck to the floor.
He had to get out of here. He had to get them out of here. Away from the battle...
But Ezel was still stuck fast.
The crusader surged forward again. Broon met his assault, the two blades ringing out once more, the chugging cough of the chainblade thrumming over their din of steel.
A flick of his wrist, and a swing. Broon managed to get past the man's guard, stabbed forward at the crusader's head. The crusader moved to the side, but Broon kept going forward, into the man's guard, and Kilnriv's crossguard caught the man in the teeth. He let out a grunt of shock as Broon full-on tackled him, shoving him to the ground. The two became locked in a wrestling match. Broon dropped his blade once more, but the crusader refused to relinquish his, and found it awkward to use in such close proximity. Broon brought up a fist, shot it down into his enemy's head. Once, twice.
Only then, did the crusader drop his chainsword, one hand brought up to block Broon's next strike, his other balling up into a mailed fist, which he cracked against the half-orc's temple. Broon saw stars as he felt the man throw him off. Both of them stumbled to their feet once more. Both found their swords.
Both clashed against one another, the chainsword whining, Kilnriv's runes glowing bright.
Then the runes dimmed. Went out completely. The chainsword cut completely through, snapping the blade, driving its edge into Broon's chest. Were it not for his armor, he would have been dead there, as the teeth of the chainsword grinded against his breastplate, tearing free metal and tearing through the leather underneath, continuing further into mottled green skin. Broon fell to the ground writhing.
The crusader stepped over him, a wicked smile on his face.
Then he stopped.
***
There was a warning in Sir Ahklahan's head. A private ding, magically produced, that meant that somewhere was getting near the sarcophagus. He let out a grim, quiet curse. The half-orc beneath him was finished. The woman was trapped. He could get to them at his leisure, even if they were captured by the guards and thrown into the jailhouse.
He had let his impulses guide him. He whispered a shamed prayer to Ion, his god, and stepped away. He did not regret the violence he had imparted – violence was a blessed thing, divine punishment to be delivered to the pagan. Rather, he regretted that he had let himself get away from that which he had sworn to protect. Agrippa was his lord, and though he was second lord to Ion, he would still render unto Caesar.
He stepped away, back into the dark halls of the museum. Towards his exhibit, squirreled away in the back corners. Hardly looked after, the room that held the sarcophagus was at the very end of a series of more impressive galleries. It held only a few artifacts, none of real note.
Yet there were intruders heading there.
A part of Sir Ahklahan wondered why. A part did not care.
He strode forward.
***
Phineas had started to slow down as they went through the back galleries. His wounds, still unhealed, bogged him down. Joseph turned to him.
“You can't heal?” he asked.
“N-Not yet,” Phineas rasped, “I need time.”
They both knew that that was something they didn't have. They could hear the roar of what sounded like a chainsaw behind them. The scraping echo of steel on steel. Broon was facing someone else with a blade.
No, they didn't have time.
“The sarcophagus,” Joseph said, “When we get there, what do we do?”
“I do not know, Joseph,” Phineas said. He pushed himself, gasping a bit in pain as he caught up with him, “What did you try to do, before?”
“On the airship?” Joseph said, “I crawled back inside. See if it sent me back.”
“What will you do now?”
“I don't know,” Joseph said.
Phineas stumbled. His scales had become pale and sickly. He brought out his tome, the pages sticky with inky blood. He flipped through the book, trying to find his healing spell. Like the one on St. Malendia's. Joseph's insides twisted. He wanted to hurry. Wanted to get to the sarcophagi. He was being rushed again, like back on the airship.
It occurred to Joseph that, had he had time, had the Steamer on the airship so long ago not been about to flood the room, that he could have solved the mystery. Gone back home. To Earth. To his life, there.
Part of him screamed 'what life?'
Part of him wanted...
Wanted what his brothers had. What his sister had. And he could not find that here. Not truly, he told himself.
Becenti's face flashed in his mind. But Becenti was not his father.
He picked up the pace. He had no time. He would only have a few minutes with the sarcophagus, before the guards broke in. He needed to be gone by then. Back to Earth.
Back to Nai Nai's house.
Phineas stumbled. Joseph turned, his eyes wide. Phineas was taking too long. Joseph's heart hammered as the Deep One pulled himself back up, and continued on. His rasping became quick as Joseph was all but jogging now.
There was someone after them. He could hear the sounds of metal boots thudding against the marble floor.
The final exhibit before Alia Artificialia was a meager, barebones place depicting the last paintings of some ancient culture. They were simple cave paintings, stylized hunters stalking after mammoths. One of them wielded fire in hand. It was there that their pursuer caught up with them. A monster out of some holy nightmare. He held a sword in hand, though instead of a blade there was a chainsaw, one that began to whirl to life as he strode forward.
“Joseph,” Phineas said, “Go.”
Part of Joseph was relieved. It gave him more time to look at the sarcophagus. He rushed into the room.
And heard Phineas throw waves of night at the crusader. The Deep One would hold him off, long enough for him to look at the sarcophagus. Activate it. Go home.
He did not notice that Phineas's face was full of fear. That his webbed hands shook. That the crusader cut through the magic more easily than he anticipated.
***
There were only three items of interest in the Alia Artificalia exhibit. The room was small. It held two vases, both of them without feature. It reminded Joseph of art projects that he had been forced to do in high school, his hands wet and muddy with clay as he made some semblance of a pot with his hands, pinching handles onto their sides.
They flanked Inweth. The sarcophagus looked exactly the same as it had on the Fortune's Favor. Pure, solid gold. The head, an eagle's head. Like Joseph's soul, really, the way its hands melded into talons, which were curled up around its shoulders. As though Inweth were hugging itself. Joseph reached out a tentative hand, placing it against the coffin's golden surface.
***
Phineas let loose a torrent of black, like the kind that had immobilized the insect monk. The Crusader of Ion tore through it, blade in hand, his eyes wild, his laughter ragged. The chainsword in his hand whirred by faith alone, that much Phineas could see. It ran on prayer. On devotion. On things he could only dream of, that his mother told him about, what some cults sometimes did on her behalf, back on Amzuth.
It was a violent thing, this sort of faith.
It carved through Phineas's magic, his pacts, as though it were butter.
***
Joseph's soul drew out of his back. It mirrored Inweth, stared at it, face to face. With his sharpened vision, Joseph could see just how... pure the sarcophagus was. How it was unblemished. How it seemed to have been newly polished. He could see his soul's reflection on its glass-like surface. The scars on its beak, its torso, its arms.
The eagle's talons were careful as he pried the sarcophagus open. The inside was mundane. Before, on the other side, on Earth, he had heard voices. Like a choir. A chorus. A crowd, beckoning him inside, their sounds alone pulling him into the multiverse.
Nothing like that, here.
Here, there was nothing but emptiness.
Joseph was alone.
His soul dissipated. He crawled inside.
***
And the crusader broke through, his blade swinging wildly at Phineas. Wild, yet controlled. The work of a monster tamed by something more than himself, disciplined into using the blade as a blade, and not as a club. And Phineas understood how he had gotten past Broon, past Ezel.
The Deep One threw up a wall of night, red eyes festering on its surface. It served to deter the crusader for a moment, allowing Phineas to think, to flip through the pages, to find something that would kill his enemy.
For kill it had become.
He found it, and as the chainsword drove through the inky wall and carved through, Phineas pulled the spell from his page. He fed the spell memories of his childhood, a couple of errant, random weeks, and as the crusader showed his face he flung the spell at the man.
Who let out a snarl, and was thrown back. The spell, invisible, clawed at his face like a rabid cat. Phineas raised his tome into the air, and tentacles snarled from the pages, rushed at the crusader.
Who had enough of his foresight to deflect them, knock them away. He reached up to his face, his gauntleted fist closing around the spell, and he tore it away with a roar, coughing and wheezing as he did so, his face a torn wreck of stringy skin and-
Phineas molded one of the tentacles into a beetle-black point, and sent it flying. It tore through the crusader's chest, and he let out a howl as he stumbled to his knees. The tentacle hardened into a spike of magic, breaking away from the tome. Phineas, exhausted, fell on his rump. His tome fell out of his hands, scattered on the ground.
The crusader coughed up blood, then took a deep, shaking breath.
He rose, his entire body shuddering like a scarecrow in a storm, to his feet. He held his blade in hand, whispered a few words to it. The chainsword started up again, its roar breaking the silence of the night.
Phineas hurt. The spell had drained him, used him up. His wounds bled. He hurt so much.
But…
But Joseph was relying on him. Joseph, who was his friend, who had been the first person to really talk to him, get to know him, in his time at the guild. Joseph, who wore both anger and kindness, war with peace, whose eagle showed his true self.
The crusader stepped forward.
***
...After a few moments, Joseph got out of the sarcophagus. He had sat in there, waiting for something, anything, to happen. For the myriad realities to open up around him, for the rainbow deluge of Imagination, for Inweth to send him home.
Home. His heart pounded at the mere thought of the word. Memories flashed in his mind. Of his father. His mother. Their faces were set in the usual way they looked at him, one in anger, the other in veiled disappointment. Part of him missed them. It was the same part that hoped they would, one day, be able to look at him with something other than disdain.
It was why he wanted to get back to Earth, for he could not impress them out here. They would see his metahumanity as an aberration, his eagle a monstrosity.
That, which was part of him. His very soul.
...And yet more memories came to Joseph. Of playing cards with Phineas while the dishes cleaned themselves in the kitchen. Of talking with Rosemary at the lighthouse, her presenting him with a shirt from Prime. Becenti and his long talks, the old man's eyes alight as he spoke of the history of Epochia. Mekke sparring with him in the garden maze. G-Wiz helping him learn how to dance. Barbara's helping him find books in the library, the toucan an endless repository of information. Tek giving him a chance at InterGuild.
When he thought of home, that painful word, Joseph was appalled, surprised, to find that he thought of the orange, evening halls of Castle Belenus.
He stood there, in front of the sarcophagus, his world spinning.
“What the hell am I doing?”
And then he heard a scream behind him. Phineas's. He had never heard him scream before, not like this. Pained. Desperate. Like a deer caught in a trap.
This was not worth it. Even if he made it back to Earth, this was not worth it.
Joseph spun around, and ran out of the room.