The Spectacular Exhibition (S3G2) [Round 2: Space - Abridged]

Originally posted on MSPA by Mirdini.

---

Nemaeus walked up the spiraling staircase, his sword's crackling breaking the silence between his footsteps. The tower was much larger than it had first seemed, giving him plenty of time to think. He still wasn’t sure what he expected to find, much less do once he finished climbing - there was no guarantee the drake would even get close enough for the sword to touch it. Even if it did, without the pelt’s protection Nemaeus would be hard-pressed to find an opening large enough to swing at it. One wrong step and he’d be ashes.

Well, beating the odds is what a hero’s supposed to do, isn’t it? I’ve just got to get in character.

He shook his head wryly. Despite his best efforts fate had seen fit to cast him in this role; all that was left was to play it out. At least he cut a dashing figure in his pinstripe suit, mythical sword in hand - a murderer seeking redemption at the peak of an ancient ruin. Details mattered. This was a story, after all.


Tria sat on the ground, watching Nemaeus walk away. She wanted to say something, thank him for the pelt, say anything. All she managed was to shrink further into the fur’s embrace, shivering as the dragon’s roars slowly faded from her immediate surroundings.

The wall the dragon’s fire had brushed earlier was slightly warm to the touch as Tria leaned against it. She wasn’t sure when she’d found the strength to stand, much less move in the direction Nemaeus had gone. He wasn’t lying about the protection the pelt afforded – she’d seen that much for herself. So why had he given it to her? Why had he left? And what was up with his eyes?

Just what is that guy’s deal?


Nemaeus reached the top of the spire, clambering across some particularly enterprising plants that had encroached upon the stairwell. He found himself in an overgrown tower garden, trees and ruins interspersed with avenues now covered in all manner of vines and vegetation. Thick gray blanketed the sky, the deep blue he’d started his ascent with now banished by billowing clouds. Nemaeus worked his way deeper into the garden, hardly noticing the sword’s crackling growing in intensity. The drake was missing, but among the ruined columns and towering oaks he could make out the sound of flowing water, pulling him ever onward.


The drake had no name, unlike many of its antecedents. This wasn’t particularly surprising - it had had no-one to give it one. The hero in this telling of the tale didn’t belong. He had skipped straight to the climax, and far too early at that; though that did not reduce the burning hatred the beast felt for him and his cursed sword. Each telling the dragon had lost, slain by the noble soul chosen by the sword. This drake was no different – doomed to fail and fall to its death as countless others had before it.

That was if this had been an orthodox telling of the tale. But this hero was foreign, and through his presence and failure to follow the narrative he had done the impossible.

He had given the drake a chance.


Tria deliberated as she stumbled forward, the clouded sky casting the ruins in a grim light. She was supposed to be in a fight to the death with these six other… people, yet so far just one out of the three she’d met had been obviously hostile. Nemaeus had helped her. If anything, he seemed about as confused about the whole thing as she was. She couldn’t rule out that that had been an act, but his words had felt genuine.

She’d been proven wrong time and again about the kindness of strangers, so what made this guy any different? Why did she think he was worth risking her life to follow?

I’ll figure that out when I catch up with him.

Was she really still naïve enough to believe someone would help her without an ulterior motive?

As she began to ascend inside the tower she’d glimpsed Nemaeus enter, she was surprised to realize that the answer was yes.


The source of the water was nearby, though curiously the vegetation seemed to be thinning out as Nemaeus drew closer and closer to what had to be the center of the rooftop garden. A large ring of fluted columns loomed out of the dim surroundings. Walking toward one of the wide gaps between them, Nemaeus found his gaze drawn upwards, discerning that they supported an overgrown roof far above. His eyes were still glued to the ceiling as he entered the massive gazebo, making the sudden splash his shoe made when he walked down into the lightly flooded floor of the structure all the more surprising. His eyes jerked down to stare at the source of the pool: an ancient fountain whose lowest tier had begun to crack, allowing a trickle of water to escape.

The drake wrapped around the fountain stared straight back.


It had felt him approach, the burning flames in the back of its throat swelling in anticipation, yet it made no move to ambush the hero. He might have been an interloper, an anomaly, but the drake was still bound – and a surprise attack at this juncture simply wasn’t how the story went. So it waited, contenting itself with thoughts of roasting flesh. His arrival was understated, as if he didn’t know that this was the place where he would encounter his nemesis, and that their final battle would ensue. The drake did not care. It stared at the hero, waiting for its cue.


Nemaeus slipped, almost falling face-first into the water at the sight of the drake. The thing was looking straight at him, but not moving from its perch. It was almost as if it was waiting for Nemaeus to do something.

Well if it wanted him to do something, he could oblige. Locking eyes with it, he threw all his charm at the drake, hoping against hope that it was less resilient than that fucking aardvark as he began talking.

“Alright big guy, just sit tight while I come on over. We’re going to have a nice talk, you and I.”

The drake slowly swayed in time with Nemaeus’ steps. Making his way through the pool of water and up the fountain without breaking eye contact took some effort, but Nemaeus eventually found himself face to face with the beast. It was still captivated.

“Okay now… stretch your neck out for me, nice and easy,” he muttered, slowly raising the sword in a two-handed grip. It was radiant with blue lightning, the crackling almost drowning out his words.

Nemaeus could hardly believe his luck when the drake complied, leaning forward to give Nemaeus a clean shot at beheading it. This was too easy.

He swung down the blade.


Blinding white light

deafening thunder

the jarring crack of the sword bouncing off, flying out of his grip

the drake’s tail whipping about, clipping him as it roared

flying through the air

landing as the roof collap-

Silence.


As she trudged up what felt like the fifty-thousandth stair that day, Tria wished she hadn’t spent half her time in this new universe clambering up and down fire escapes. At least these stairs were carved stone, as opposed to the torturously steep metal on Hoofstad.

The tower was wrapped in an eerie calm, save for the wind whistling through its narrow windows. She caught glimpses of the sky as she passed them – glimpses she’d soon start ignoring as the clouds refused to stop roiling ominously.

Some calm before the storm. Can’t the weather just make up its mi-.

Light streamed in through every window of the tower, followed by a thunderclap that nearly sent her flying. Several heartbeats passed without the stairs collapsing under her, spurring Tria to resume marching up. She’d nearly reached the roof, and whatever was going on up there certainly wasn’t peaceful.


Nemaeus opened his eyes, surprised to find that he hadn’t been reduced to charcoal yet. His back felt like a tenderized steak, but he was alive. Slowly pushing himself up against the column he’d landed on, his hand stopped as something cut into it. He looked down to find that piece of shit sword, stuck in the column about a foot from where his head had been resting. It didn’t seem very coincidental.

He cut it free using the Kyprian claw, cursing his decision to not just try to cut the drake’s head off with that instead. Sword in one hand, claw in the other he wondered why he’d let himself get caught up in the drama.

Hadn’t he come up here to get it all over with? Why was he acting as if he wanted to win this fight?

...

Was there even a fight left to lose?

He glanced back to where the fountain had stood. It was now buried under what had once been the gazebo’s roof, an avalanche in which his chances of survival would have been slim. Seemed the drake had saved him with that pat on the back. The beast itself hadn’t been so lucky, as various limbs sticking out from under the rubble attested.

Then they began to move.


The drake did not know what foul magic the man had used to immobilize it, just that it hated him all the more for it. What he had done had been unnatural, wrong, but fit well enough with the concept of the hero challenging it that it felt freed from its restraints. Flexing its wings, it prepared to take to the sky - finding moments later that they would not respond. It screamed, flames melting stone as it bucked against the rubble weighing it down.

As soon as it was free, he would pay.


Nemaeus found himself sprinting towards where he remembered the stairwell ending. Once the first jet of dragon breath had erupted from the rubble to ignite the nearby foliage, he’d found his instincts were rather opposed to the idea of being incinerated. Nothing like the peace he’d found in that second of free-fall awaited him in front of that drake, only searing pain.

So he vaulted waist-high roots, dodging from wall to column, all the while aware of the creeping fire behind him. The drake had managed to free itself; that much was obvious. He’d hoped the overgrown garden would keep it from taking off or chasing too effectively, but it wouldn't be doing much to shield him once reduced to a smoking crater.

If the stairs aren't in this direction...

No, that didn't bear thinking about.


She took the stairs three at a time now. Tria had heard the dragon roar, and mindlessly charging forward was the only way she could keep herself from sprinting back down the stairs instead. As much as she was terrified of – better not to think about it – if Nemaeus was up there with that dragon he needed the pelt much more than she did. Not getting it to him would be as good as killing him. The events in the pyramid had been awful enough; she wouldn’t allow herself to have Nemaeus’ death on her conscience as well. She skidded past yet another landing, barely noticing the vines that had started to appear as she flew up the stairs.


He could see the edge of the tower, the sky beyond still draped with churning clouds that refused to deliver on their promise of rain. The garden around Nemaeus was an inferno, flames brushing him as he ran past trees reduced to pillars of fire, the ground a mess of burning roots and vines.

He burst out of purgatory into the outer ring of the rooftop, leaning his head through the metal fence surrounding the tower’s edge to catch a few smoke-free breaths. A short wall and the biting wind out here were functioning as a temporary firebreak, though Nemaeus didn’t see that lasting long. As soon as the wind changed this refuge would be engulfed in flames, and he wasn’t keen to stick around for that. A few dozen feet away he could see the entrance to the stairwell, and after a final deep breath Nemaeus went for it.

At which point the drake come crashing out of the flames, knocking over part of the wall and landing right in front of Nemaeus. It looked crazed, almost rabid, and far beyond any sort of compulsion he could hope to lay on it. That trick wasn’t going to work twice. He noticed the sword in his hand was crackling with lightning once more, and considered just tossing the thing off the tower in the moments before his imminent incineration. The blade put on a good show, but for all that it had failed abysmally. The claw in his other hand felt comfortable, reliable.


Ironic. The Counsellor had whisked him from a death he desired, only to send him to one he wanted no part of. He looked up from his weapons to see the drake inhaling. All thoughts of escape fled as he froze. Whether in fear or acquiescence, the result would be just the same.

Back again. The city lights in the distance, a dark night sky hanging above. Hands rough from fashioning the noose, adjusting it one last time. The breeze gently shakes the curtains, his suit and pelt wrapped around him, a part of him. The coarse rope like a dull razor. One last breath. A light kick.


The drake began to exhale.


One second of freedom. Such a small thing, yet it feels like all the time in the world. No debts, no worries, no orders. Just him, his suit, his pelt, his life in freefall.

I’m sorry.


His head cracked against the cobblestone path, throwing Nemaeus out of his reverie. He could hear the dragon’s breath rushing past him, the air around him ablaze. He hadn’t thought he'd lose his sense of pain that quickly, but that was just as well. If he was that far gone it was far better than the alternative. Lying back, he waited for the end.


Death refused to claim him.

He opened his eyes, expecting the dragon’s maw, only to see the wolf’s jaw staring scornfully back at him.

Behind it the drake’s mouth yawned wide, flames temporarily extinguished. He moved on instinct, arm snapping to extend, sword piercing deep into the soft tissue within. Light. Noise.



The drake crashed to the side, scales still crackling with an unearthly blue energy. As his senses slowly returned, Nemaeus realized he was weighed down by more than just his pelt. He flipped the wolf’s jaw back to find Tria lying on top of him, hands locked in a death grip on the sides of the fur. She raised her eyes to his, quite obviously petrified and exhausted by what she’d just done.

Nemaeus quickly considered and discarded the idea of persuading her that she wasn’t scared or tired, that she could stand up and run down the stairs with him. Somehow she’d fought her way up here, and twisting that into something more immediately beneficial would be sickening. Instead he scooped her up as he stood, throwing the pelt around his shoulders and rushing between the gleaming black corpse and the conflagration it had started to reach the stairs.


They were about halfway down the tower before Tria spoke, her voice barely audible.

“You were right about that thing” she croaked, nodding at the pelt.

Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell into welcoming darkness.

"Ok," sighed Trenton, ignoring the interposing chainsaw blade and (however pointless the motion) shifting into a midair reclining position. "What did you want to know?"

Brooklyn adjusted her altitude like a cigar between her teeth, and (would've) grimaced in a not-dissimilar fashion. She'd been an on-again off-again cigaretteer in life, if you'd pick her by any particular poison. It was a simple enough question, but one she could gear her brain towards in a particular way. Feel productive. Take her mind off other things.

"Right. When that Counsellor lady introduced your brother, she only said he saw dead people. Was that just referring to you, or an actual real thing he can do?"

Trenton glanced down through the roof shingle. "Just me. Although if you hang out with him long enough I'm pretty sure you die on the inside."

"Heh. Right. So, if it's not too personal - why are you haunting him?"

The ghost frowned, sat up, gave Brooklyn a quizzical look. "If it's not too personal," he said, mimicking the poltergeist's kid-gloves tone, "why would that be too personal?"

"Wait, what?"

"Why should the circumstances of my post-moterm posting in the constant corner of my brother's eye be-" he dropped his tone again to mockingly gentle "-too personal?"

"I- I can't tell whether I struck a nerve there or not." Trenton groaned so hard his friction-exempt apparition did a full midair rotation. He slowly groaned the full three-sixty degrees, ignoring Brooklyn's growling. The look he gave Brooklyn when he was properly oriented again was scathing.

"He didn't poison my wine and run off with my wife, if that's what you're too scared to ask. Heck, he was half a continent away when that cultist finally did me in!"

"Then why did you-"

Trenton just shrugged. "I've kept an eye on all my family since I died. Norm's just been the best sport about it, by which I guess I mean he was the most entertaining."

"Good God, you are an ass," Brooklyn finally managed. She didn't have time for this.

"I'm the only real magic Norman's ever made happen. As well as an ass." The ghost frowned and stared down through the roof again like someone had turned an ocean perpendicular and let him gaze across that. "The only truth big enough for him to hold on and make something out of was his guilt, which-"

"Manifested into you, and you'll either make him face it or drive him to an early grave." Brooklyn glanced into the heavens. Dusk was falling in the starscape.

"I was going to say it said a lot about him, but I guess it says more about you."

She snorted; he raised an eyebrow, pre-emptively poised to deal clarification like snakebite. "How's that?"

Trenton grinned, a game-set-match smirk right out of Brooklyn's worst memories.

"You're talking to me, aren't you?"

"I - I,"

"I think I need to leave."

It wasn't said with disdain or dismissal; if anything, Brooklyn sounded scared. She spun slowly to make sure the jetfire wouldn't ignite anything, and spent half a minute just clacking with increasing frequency as something failed to ignite.

She was suffocating. Breathing. Why weren't her lungs working? Nothing was broken, nothing was wrong, she'd fixed it. She'd fix it. She could fix it.

When was the last time she fixed anything?

She had no jaw to clench or breath to slow or fists to ball and open, ball and open, until perspectives shifted enough that she could see the problem. Her heartbeat didn't slow. Her stomach didn't unclench. Her hands didn't loosen, didn't shift from violent fists to reliable tools, ready to pick and probe and repair.

It came back to her like a dream. Her sources. Her circumstances. She didn't look at Trenton when she finally spoke.

"Actually. I have an idea. It hinges on that Counsellor lady not being a complete nutjob, but it's probably worth a shot."

Without giving Trenton a chance to comment, she pressed on. "What I'm proposing to test is... if your brother properly comes to terms with things, does he get sent back to his universe? Do you get sent back? Right, yeah, sorry, I know you've got as much a clue as I do. I'm just thinking aloud, because if there's a solution that'd let us just leave, rather than running around wrecking- fighting each other, yeah, fighting each other, that's probably the best course of action."

Brooklyn spun around. "He does want to go home, right?"

"I guess?" shrugged Trenton. "If you're sure this'd work, why wouldn't you just sort your own problems out?"

"I don't have a problem." Brooklyn said it a little too quickly. "Ok, fine, I've got bits about my past that bother me, but who doesn't? I'm not a ghost because of unfinished business or anything. Just... things happened, alright? Things happened- You let them get away -other things happened- Gepetto is dead -and now, now I'd be happier if nobody else died on my watch."

Brooklyn still didn't feel especially convinced, so decided to monologue a little longer.

"On top of that, he's the least well-equipped to survive this thing. The fighting side, at least - it'd be him or Tria. Yeah. I mean, worst comes to worst and this is just some trumped-up cage match, He'll be in a better state of affairs to survive. Or help me. I think Norman's issues would be easiest to overcome, at that. He's got you, right?"

Trenton might've offered a noncommittal note, but Brooklyn wasn't really listening. She ghost-gripped the chainsaw's internal mechanisms, thrumming with purpose.

She had a plan. She could pull this off.

She could pull this off, because there was nothing stopping Trenton from getting on track, having a proper sit-down with his brother and calmly explaining the state affairs, why Trenton was a ghost and haunting his brother, and bring Norman round to the urgency of the situation, to quicksmart acknowledge whatever facets of personality needed some solid introspection. Bring them to the front, wipe off the dust and grime and find a perfectly servicable set of worldviews glinting underneath.

Nothing to it. Nothing but no-one.

With a hiss and a roar, Brooklyn leapt for the stars.

---

Drifting for time immemorial. Immaterial.

The present and his presence in it returned to Creptians not with a snap, but more a grovelling slink to his side. It registered first as a dull drone, sharpening as the source approached into a more complex rhythm of metal on metal on metal. It made the sap in his limbs tense, and it came back to Crepitans that the sap tensed now, and the sound wasn't there before and now it was growing louder. Closer.

Brooklyn hollered as she flew past; it was twigs cracking in a woodland idyll.

"Woah! Hey. Hi. Have we met!?"

Crepitans distantly recognised the... machine? weapon? creature? No word he knew quite seemed to encompass the abomination in its biazzare whole; it was so far removed from anything he'd experienced. A more instinctual part screamed "murderer", "clearcutter"; the ancestral fear was an unprecedented emotion for the Dorukardia to actually experience for himself. He knew fear. He could be incapable of sharing a single word with some beast and still distinguish its cries of fear and pain, anger and anguish.

Crepitans only knew fear through other creatures. That, and the... thing's surreal appearance made him pause. Lower his fist.

"I'd have remembered something like you," growled the barkskin.

"Could've said the same," said the chainsaw. Her laugh was the boiling point of sap, crackling and snapping. "It's a relief that you seem fine - that you're fine. Yeah." She darted about him like a half-blind seagull looking for a landing, coughing up flames and generally upsetting Crepitans' shrike. "Do you, uh, need a hand? I've actually got a plan I'd like to discuss, though you might want to get your feet- uh, roots, on solid ground first."

It was dangerous, if only because Crepitans couldn't be sure how to kill it. And yet, it wasn't hostile. And it wished to parley? His first thought was to hit it once and see what was left of it, but it looked sturdy. Metal did that.

Metal had other uses, too. As tools, for instance.

"Yes," creaked the treant. "I'd accept assistance."

Brooklyn flipped the safety on her blade, before taxiing round to the small of Crepitans' back. "Good good. So, do you want to know the plan now, or later?"

With a bit of concerted flame-spewing, the tree juddered into motion. "A plan to kill our captor, I hope."

"Um, yeah, sure! Kill her plans, yeah. I need to test her rules, though. Find out if this is just a battle to the death with a dumb, psychoanalyst theme slapped on, or if she actually cares and wants us to get over our problems."

Crepitans didn't hold much hope for the latter option, but he'd already discerned that this machine was unwilling to kill. Noted, but one bit stuck in his craw. "I've got no 'problems'" -the word was punctuated with a shake of the head and the discordant rattling of talismans and bone- "that require the help of someone like her." Brooklyn laughed.

"Tell me about it. Actually, you know, maybe she picked a bunch of humans - bogstandard premorterm ones, anyway - and a bunch of other creatures. So it's actually both psychotherapy and cockfighting, and Norm and Tria and such get an easy escape card if they solve their personal problems. As for us, she just tacked on some arbitrary diagnoses so it wasn't so obvious. I mean, you can't put "mood swings" on the same scale as whatever she lumped you with! It just makes me think she's making stuff up, but I'd still rather test my pet theory before we discount that. I mean, you seem nice enough, didn't try killing me when I bumped into you. Crepitans, was it?"

Crepitans made a noise that might've been agreement. Maybe. Brooklyn's chatter smoothed itself into the noise of her rockets as she speculated away about the Counsellor's motives and where or maybe even when they were in the grander scheme of things.

"So, what's with all the bones and accessories?"

The treant would've sneered down his nose, were Brooklyn not right out of view in the small of his back. It was a satisfying explanation for the spirit's lack of fear - maybe it'd show him some respect if it actually knew what it was dealing with.

"Poisons. Potions. Reagents and spell components essential for the shamanic arts. It surprises me that you don't recognise them, spirit."

Brooklyn would've frowned. "The Counsellor never mentioned - I mean, look, we don't really do magic where I come from, so..."

Crepitans boggled as a planet began to expand across his vision. What kind of technological backwater did this thing spring from?

"Look, whatever. We're here!"

The blade burrowed into a gouge in his bark, springing gently away as the treant found solid ground. Crepitans stared across row by regimental rocky row.

"These stones... this entire planet is a graveyard?" he asked, the answer and its implications already ticking over.

"Yeah. I suppose folk like you don't have cemeteries?"

"I'm familiar with the concept," scoffed the treant, already reaching for an iron rod and bushel of something pungent. "This is exactly what I need to... to further our plans of escape. Yes."

Brooklyn rumbled as non-threateningly as she could; Crepitans ignored her and lumbered straight for the biggest tombstone. "I, um, don't know what you're up to, but I haven't seen so much as a whiff of a ghost - I mean, a local ghost! It just confirms what I was thinking, that-"

A ghost popped into existence. Crepitans did something with his face that conveyed satisfaction, then did something with the iron rod that cut off the scream it was working on. He turned to the chainsaw and smirked.

"Observe, spirit. My magic rouses the spectres, commands they bid my will. This beacon-" he jammed the rod into the loam, before splashing half a bottle of something that almost definitely wasn't red wine on it "-will summon them in droves."

"And then?"

"And then, spirit, I'll have them scour every inch of this reality for flaws. Clues to its architecture so I may better exploit it."

"And find us an exit?"

"Indeed."

Brooklyn nearly sagged with relief, even as more ghosts either popped into existence or drifted in from what appeared to be all corners of the starscape. He'd help her. Thank god. She zoomed a little closer, tried getting a better sense of whatever Crepitans was inscribing into the ground, but she wasn't having much luck, whatever it was hurt to look at. The ghosts weren't much better, and they kept materialising and vanishing with each completed paragraph or sentence. Was Brooklyn's interpretation. She couldn't quite be sure. "Crepitans."

No response.

"Crepitans, hey."

Nothing but a sad vloop as another spectre responded to the summons. Brooklyn wondered where they were all coming from, and why they hadn't shown themselves earlier.

"Cr-"

"What." Brooklyn flinched a bit at his tone, before telling herself to stop being stupid. She was about to ask what she could do beyond sitting here admiring his shamanry, when a raft of ghosts swarmed back. "Hold it," he growled, scooping up the spirits in a recently-dyed hand. He swilled them round a little, gouged a few more indecipherable scars at the foot of a tombstone, then looked to the stars.

"I require an eclipse." Pre-empting the inevitable pepperings of 'why', he waved a limb and gestured to the heavens. "Shamanry taps the land - the world's - undercurrents of magical potential. My initial survey confirmed my suspicions - this world is hollow. An artifice. It borrows such grand designs, but it lacks the richness and context of a "real" world."

"I was picking up on that with this graveyard - it's, like, I can feel these gravestones. It's like someone made them to feel old, but that intent comes through." Crepitans glared at his companion for interrupting, but she just hummed pensively. "It's weird. Sorry, keep going. Please."

"As. I. Was saying," glowered the treant. "The reduced magical potential in this world limits my power. The alignment of cosmic currents during an eclipse, however, amplifies magic and makes more powerful spellwork possible. Thus-"

"So. I push the planets in a line, and you can punch through the gaps in this place instead of finding them?"

Crepitans knew, in that one moment, that he'd make this spirit suffer. He furrowed his brow-bark as though closing his eyes, counted ten different ways he'd make the Counsellor beg for mercy, and could finally deign to look at Brooklyn.

"Yes. I'd suggest you get on with it; the longer you dawdle the worse the odds one of our fellow contestants are killed."

"R-right. Yeah. There was actually a control centre on that city-planet; if I had someone with a pair of eyes I could push everything into place faster. I'll find someone and set it up."

Crepitans, having heard all he needed, had already returned to his horde of ghosts.

"I'll find the others, too. Make sure they look after themselves until we're good to go, it'll go faster if we're not worried about them, yeah?" Crepitans groaned non-committaly. "Cool. Yeah. Good. Norm's here-"

"On this rock?"

"Yeah, there's a wreck of a house beyond those trees, I'm pretty sure he's there, so that's one down. Red's in the city, and hopefully Tria and that wolf-guy are ok... Dunno about the armadillo. Yeah. Ok. I'll do what I can. Good luck, Crepitans."

Brooklyn hovered backwards, giving herself some wriggle room, then took off with a roar.

Crepitans amused himself with the spectres for a further minute, wrapping further abjurations around the iron stake until the construct screamed its way out of earshot.

Brooklyn hooned off into the stars. He chuckled, ripped the stake from the ground, and stood. Shrike-cries and silver knives trilled through his crown.