The armory was a dull and dimly lit place with a stifled, woody atmosphere. It had a vague resemblance, Neil thought, to a Cracker Barrel gift shop. Everything that wasn’t a weapon or piece of armor was made of wood, by someone that he could only assume didn’t know what they were doing.

Mismatched pieces of metal equipment were stacked high in crates shoved off to the far walls, on the floor, on shelves, and dumped in a massive trough at the center of the room.

By the door, there was an old barrel of iron shortswords that looked shoddy even to Neil’s inexperienced eyes.

He pulled one free and gave their attendant a dubious look. The blade was a dull gray, almost black in the room's dim lighting, with a pitted edge that Neil wouldn’t trust to cut paper.

“Technically,” the soot-smeared man folded his arms, even though Neil didn’t say anything.“We’re the armory surplus. All the good stuff is already spoken for. You’re welcome to whatever you can find, though. Yours to keep.”

“Is Argus hazing us?” Neil asked, turning to the group, who scattered to find hidden treasures among the junk-ridden isles. “It feels like Argus is hazing us.”

Really, Neil thought, his practice sword was sharper than this garbage.

Thomas shrugged from across the store, dented iron helmet in hand. His outfit was as changed as the rest of them, with the notable addition of a maroon tunic.

“We’re basically level one, man,” he said, lifting the helmet. “Starting equipment’s always shitty. Everyone knows that.”

Sounds of agreement murmured across the room.

The attendant scowled at the noises—and the Heroes that made them—before turning back to Neil, hands moving to his hips. “If you don’t like it, then don’t take it.”

He was a man in his early thirties, with dirty blonde hair that was more dirt than hair. He was broad of shoulder, thick of chest, and unfortunate of overbite.

He also looked like he was taking the Heroes’ comments personally.

“Sorry,” Neil blinked, setting the dull and heavy blade back in the barrel. “Did you… make these yourself?”

The attendant’s scowl melted into something more akin to a sneer. “And what if I did?”

Neil blinked again, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “No reason,” he said, in a light, hopefully placating voice. “It’s… err— better stuff than we could make, right guys?”

His eyes sought his companions’, for support, and he found none.

The attendant’s brow furrowed, and upper lip curled. “Gee, thanks.”

Neil winced.

“No, I just meant— I mean—” Neil gestured pointlessly as his words betrayed him. “You’re doing a great job, man. Really.”

The soot-smeared man stared at Neil with a palpable force.

“Do me a favor,” he said in a dry voice, pulling an old iron key out of a pocket. “Lock up when you’re done looting my store.”

The weight of his glare eased from Neil, swinging around to bear upon the rest of the Heroes, who found themselves suddenly fascinated with rummaging through their bins of junk.

The man rolled his eyes, tossed the key at Neil, and left—muttering something about gods and fools.

When the man was gone, and the store-room door closed safely behind him, June sauntered up to Neil, wearing an old iron helmet designed to fit in a head twice her size. She shook her head, helmet swiveling loosely.

“There’s just no pleasing some people.” Her voice had a muffled, tinny echo.

Neil sighed, ignored her, and went about with his own rummaging.

…

…

“Still think we look hot?” Neil muttered, raising his eyebrows at June.

“I’m June,” she said in a dry voice. “I’m always hot.”

“Wow,” Neil blinked at her. “Been sitting on that one for a while?”

She shrugged. “I’d like to take credit, but you can thank the ‘wonderful world’ of online dating for that one.”

“Kind of obvious, in hindsight,” Neil raised his eyebrows. “It was staring us in the face this whole time, huh?”

“It was,” the corner of June’s lips pulled back in a half smile. “But yes, actually, I do still think we look hot. In a… post-apocalyptic-scavenger sort of way.”

An optimistic part of Neil hoped that piles upon piles of miscellaneous equipment parts were just poorly organized. There must have been a usable set of equipment somewhere in the room.

There wasn’t. They could have found better gear in a thrift shop, or the dumpster outside a Renaissance fair. The clothes beneath their latest add-ons were fine, but they looked like kids set loose on the bargain bin at a Halloween store.

“You,” said Neil, pursing his lips. “Have incredibly low standards for hotness.”

“I do, don’t I?” June smiled fully at him, a glint of humor in her eye.

Neil frowned.

After an hour of searching, the only equipment he could find that even fit him were two mismatched leather vambraces. He had a sneaking suspicion that both were meant to be worn on the left forearm, but he made do with them as a set.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. There was more that could fit him.

He and Jackie, to each other's mutual horror and fascination, had identically sized hands and feet. Neil willingly surrendered a left-handed gauntlet and a metal shin guard to her in trade for the vambraces.

The larger woman also snagged the only reasonably-sized helmet in the entire storeroom, unanimously bequeathed to her as the one most likely to throw herself into danger. Her outfit was completed with a wicked-looking longsword, fastened safely to her belt.

June and Anne found nothing that fit them, though Anne now sported a wooden staff that might have once been a spear.

“I’m telling you, it’s not good for my build,” said Thomas, folding his arms. “It’s too heavy, I need to stay agile.”

“What are you talking about? It’s great for your build,” Jackie insisted, stepping towards the larger man with an unwieldy plate of metal in her hands. “It fits you perfectly.”

Thomas stepped away from the woman, frowning. “I don’t care if it fits or not, I’m not stunting my growth with that thing.”

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Neil rubbed his chin, watching them. There was only one full cuirass in the armory, and only one person big enough to fit in it. Thomas, for whatever reason, refused to put it on.

“They’re at it again, huh?” Pete shook his head as he walked up to Neil and June. “What are they fighting about this time?”

Pete also couldn’t find any armor in his size, though now sported a dented old kite shield and an iron short sword.

Neil grabbed the same, because there wasn't any particular reason not to. They were the only two things the armory had in abundance. The sword might not have had much of an edge, but it would still be a bad time for anyone who got hit by it.

He sighed, hand moving up from his chin, to massage the right side of his face.

“June found some decent armor for Thomas to wear, and he doesn’t want anything to do with it,” Neil summarized. “I think he might be scared of fat-rolling.”

“Fat-rolling?” Pete’s eyes trailed to the larger man. “You mean—”

His eyes widened.

“—Is that why he keeps talking about his ‘build?’”

Neil sighed again, nodding. “I think so, yeah.”

“That’s a videogame thing, right?” June asked, looking between them.

Neil smirked. “When is it not a videogame thing with Thomas?”

Pete frowned. “After how scratched up he got with those rats, you’d think he’d want some better armor.”

“You’d also think he’d know that this wasn’t a game by now.” Neil added, absently scratching at the faded claw mark scored across his chest.

“You’d think that the peanut gallery would learn to keep their opinions to themselves when they’re talking about people ten feet away from them!” Hissed Thomas, voice raised just short of a yell.

He and Jackie were both looking at them.

“Sorry.” Neil waved sheepishly, warmth flooding his face. ‘Oops.’

“And it’s not a videogame thing,” Thomas continued, shoulders up and voice defensive. “Wizards don’t wear armor for a reason, people. It messes with their magic.”

Neil blinked. ‘What?’

“And since when are you a wizard?” Asked Jackie, folding her arms.

Thomas raised his chin at the woman. He was taller than her, but not by much, and she could be intimidating when she wanted to. “Since Argus gave me a book on magic, thank you very much.”

At that, Neil’s lips tightened.

Jackie breathed in a long and deep breath, closing her eyes.

“I’ll ask again,” she said, when her eyes finally opened. “Since when— are you— a wizard?”

“Since yesterday.” Said Thomas, folding his arms and giving her a hard stare.

Jackie pursed her lips, nodding her head fast, a peculiar fire in her eyes.

“Hey peanut gallery,” she turned, looking directly at Neil. “Is Thomas a wizard after a day of having a magic book?”

All attention was pulled to Neil, including a quizzical frown from Thomas.

“Err—” Neil shifted his balance on his feet. “I mean, if he got the same book I did, I doubt it.”

Basic Exercises was, essentially, a book of focusing exercises. The preface warned against skipping ahead to more advanced sections until the foundational stuff was mastered, which involved a good bit of meditation practice.

Even if Thomas was some sort of wizarding savant, you can’t squeeze a month of meditative exercises into a day-and-a-half of time.

“The same book you did?” Thomas scrunched his nose as if tasting something sour. “Argus didn’t say anything about giving you a book.”

“I think,” said Jackie, iron in her voice. “You’re missing my point here, Thomas. You didn’t tell us about your book. Your plans on becoming a wizard. And you didn’t come to yesterday’s meeting.”

“I was busy,” he claimed, “You know, reading? Expanding my mind with the wisdom of the ages? I don’t have time for meetings.”

“You don’t—” Jackie set her jaw. “You don’t get to blow us off like that. Especially if you keep pulling stunts like you did in the cellar—and do I even need to mention your little ‘twisted ankle’ you got back in Vergandale?”

Neil blinked and leaned over to June. “Is there a story behind Thomas’s ankle I don’t know about?” He whispered.

“I’ll tell you later.” June whispered back, gesturing for him to keep quiet.

Jackie and Thomas were facing each other once again.

“I’m doing my best!” Thomas exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “What do you want from me?!”

“Stop throwing yourself into danger, stop throwing these tantrums, and put on the goddam breastplate! I’m trying to help you!” Jackie yelled back.

“Aww, they really do care about each other,” June said in a sickly-sweet tone, mischief glowing in her eyes. “Now kiss.”

Neil couldn’t say for sure if she intended for Jackie and Thomas to hear her, but hear her they did. Their response was unanimous.

“Shut it!”

…

…

In the darkest corner of Castle Retmor’s dungeons, Phineus grinned.

‘Finally,’ he thought, drawing a finger through the blood vapor curling upwards from his cauldron. ‘Something useful.’

He so hated that he was forced into this dreadful cliche. Still, when all one has to work with is an iron cauldron, one does not let it go to waste. The surprising efficiency of the apparatus dulled the boiling feeling rising in his throat, and he forced a calm over his mind.

Megalomania was an indulgence only the young and senile could afford. He had a job to do, for Hell’s sake.

Every second he wasted congratulating himself was another opportunity for his spell to fail. Energies of the divine tended to react… violently, to the raw forces of the arcane, with few notable exceptions. Living tissue, fortunately, acted as a sort of emulsifier for most sorts of exotic energy.

It was by this principle that the Heroes—even their extra—were so resistant to both forces. Therefore, this resistance would take both forces to overcome.

It was especially fortunate, then, that reanimated tissue qualifies as ‘living’ in every aspect other than the political.

It was a pity he couldn’t give his pets a proper burial, but…

‘Waste not, want not.’ He thought, glancing down at the tumorous brew of blood and fur, simmering in the cauldron.

It hissed and boiled and snarled up at him, like a drowsy beast.

Hardly a setup worthy of a College-trained magician, though Phineus doubted anyone but a master could accomplish what he had, given his limited supplies.

With only an iron pot large enough to fit a grown man, twenty dead rats, and a single hair from the head of a Hero, he would bring a country to its knees.

This was why he became a magician.

Or, at the very least, he would bring Argus to his knees. The steward knew nothing of the workshop in which he dwelled, hidden beneath the cells—nor the more recondite experiments he performed there. He had borne a thousand insults from the fool, and he would pay them back in turn.

Phineus waved a pale hand through the cloying red vapors, coaxing them into a wineskin.

‘Soon,’ he thought, lidding his cauldron once again, and stabilizing the spell within. ‘Soon.’

Argus had until winter.