The Grand Battle S2G1! [Round Six: Eddelin City]

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

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It had been nearly an hour since Arkal had begun his work. After a quick request to the snail to be quiet and let him concentrate, the smith had managed to craft a sword, a shield, a hammer, a club, a lance, a morningstar, and the front half of a suit of armor from the walls of his nonexistant prison. He now had a veritable arsenal that he couldn't see or touch.
He'd started calling the material the walls weren't made of "Stuff", for lack of a better alternative. And an hour of working with it had taught him surprisingly little.
The exact nature of the Stuff was a mystery. But the blacksmith's senses were becoming more honed to it; he still couldn't see it, of course, but he was now able to see where it was pointedly not existing.
That turned out to be most of the room. There was a lot of Stuff.
In fact, it seemed there was never less Stuff. Whatever Arkal took from the walls was quickly replenished; unsurprising, given its ethereal nature. Clearly, Arkal's smithing was not going to let him chisel out an escape route.
His only chance, then, was understanding the Stuff's true nature - how it worked, what it was. But as he finished the back plate of the armor, he also felt he had learned all he could from working with it. If he was going to discover anything new, he would have to try using it.
He donned his newly-crafted armor, and promptly fell to the floor under its immense weight.

Yskalt the snail was perplexed. What was the glorious human overlord doing? He'd been sitting there for nearly an hour, just hammering away at nothing. And then he suddenly fell over. Was this truly humanity's champion?
He matched the Order of the Silver Hand's prophecies well enough; he was human, he had a glorious beard, he was well-built, he was here for a battle, and he carried a silver object. Granted, Yskalt had been expecting someone younger, but clearly that was merely a limitation of his inferior nonhuman mind. A human would have realized that the hero could just as easily be someone older and more experienced.
But was this the one they had been waiting for all this time, ever since the Order's founding two weeks ago? He hardly seemed up to the task.
He shuddered. His faith was wavering. He wished he could speak to one of the prophets, surely they could reassure him, tell him that this was indeed the savior, and that he would bring about humanity's ultimate triumph.
But that was no option now. The wicked Hector had found the Order ten days ago, and locked away most of its members. Only one of the four prophets had evaded him; the second had been executed promptly; the third driven to madness by the Jailer; and the fourth was deemed the most dangerous, and held in the most secure section of the prison.
Indeed, Yskalt's only solace in this time was the thought that humanity would ultimately triumph, even without the Order's direct aid. At first, he had been delighted to see the human savior, sure that he would destroy the inferior nonhumans and bring divine perfection to the Place. Now he found himself wondering if the champion had succumbed to a heart attack.

It was hopeless.
What could Arkal do? He had fought the Amalgam before, before it had attained as much power as it had now, and he had failed. It was only through sheer chance that he had even been able to create a weapon that was remotely effective.
This was beyond him. He was useless here. The Amalgam would win, no matter what he did. He might not even be able to escape if they assimilated him again.
And would they even do him that favor? He had turned on them. They'd see him as a traitor to humanity, and make an example of him.
He couldn't turn to the others to help; if he couldn't craft a worthwhile weapon, what use was he to Jen? And Xadrez was stubborn. Even if he could be convinced to help, he'd be more useful without Arkal getting in his way.
There was no chance. Certainly no chance that involved him.
He was doomed. He would never see his home again.
He would never see his sons again.
No.
He would see his sons again.
He would be a father they could be proud of.
A father who faced overwhelming odds, for the sake of what he truly believed in.

"So that's what the Stuff is," he said suddenly.
Arkal stood up, picked up his anvil and forge, then picked up the rest of his intangible arsenal with one hand. Their combined weight was less than a feather. But they'd get the job done.
He walked out of his cell, towards the snail.
"You can talk again," he said. "I'm done."
Yskalt breathed a sigh of relief.
"Forgive your unworthy servant, oh exalted human," Yskalt begged. "I was beginning to doubt you. I see I never should have."
"If you want to get out of here, you're the one you need to stop doubting," Arkal replied.
"Only a man who knows himself is truly free," the Jailer added.
Yskalt simply stared at his savior oddly.
"I do not understand, oh valiant human. I am an inferior. I have always been inferior."
"Well, if you want to stay in this prison for the rest of your life, keep telling yourself that," Arkal shrugged. "So tell me more about what exactly I'm going to do here."
"I know little," Yskalt apologized. "I have but heard the prophecies secondhand. Our prophets would know more, but..."
Yskalt turned towards one of the other prisoners, a small urn with an alligator's head sticking out of it. The alligator mumbled something incomprehensible; Arkal thought he could make out the words "toast" and "yellowjacket".
"That is one of our four prophets, and as you can see, he is not the most informative at the moment. If you wish to speak to another, the easiest way would be to search the deepest part of the prison. But..."
Yskalt turned towards a doorway in the distance.
"I know little of that place. Only that it is where they keep the prisoners deemed most dangerous. As such, I imagine you would have a difficult time getting out."
Arkal smiled.
"I'll manage."
He walked off. Just before entering the door, he turned back to the snail.
"I hope you find your way out of there. I'd be lying if I said it were easy, but it's within your power."
He walked through the doorway. Yskalt simply stared at him, puzzled.
But then again, how could his inferior nonhuman mind possibly grasp the wisdom of the divine?