Forgo figured it would be more intimidating to the Exarch if his helmet remained donned. The two stood in silence for a few moments as the last vestiges of loose books wrenched themselves from the bookshelf against which the Exarch's desk had been thrown. Sylus cowered in the corner, bracing his lard-enwrapped body against the walls with his pudgy hands, showing incredible fear with every movement and jiggle of his form. However, his expression showed nothing but pride and amusement at Forgo's actions. His dry, cracked lips curled up into a smile as he started to chuckle. One hand reached out to point at Forgo with a finger of condemnation.

"You're so similar to the Constant, Forgotten of Vows." He lowered his finger to grab onto the bookshelf, slowly rising to his uncovered feet. "Her title, which you strive to inherit, was the most befitting of her character. She resisted my touch at every step of the way. She had no qualms working under me at first, you know. Just as you did, for the first day or so of being assigned to this godforsaken city of pigs." He referred to the Humans.

"But she came to resent every strike I sent her on. Every mark that I assigned her. And she flipped this very same desk the day before she let herself die at the hands of those beasts."

Forgo seethed. He had often wondered how the Constant of Fury, renowned for her incredible strength and unrelenting brutality in battle, fell to a group that gave the Twelfth Spear so little resistance against subjugation. The Exarch basically pushed her to suicide.

His understanding was that the prescience given to the Spears by the Crown had to be honed and trained, which was the majority of his lengthy training to become a Spear, but he wasn't sure if any of them could truly use the ability. That is to say, he followed the fate strings just as much as the Rites did. But his was being pulled by the Crown, gently tugging him in the right direction, like a sword held above his head by a single strand of horsehair.

But as he left the Exarch's longhouse, the threads were legion They shifted and vibrated in the air, tugging him in every direction, and the voices in his head begged him to walk back into the Exarch's office and brutally exterminate him like vermin. It made him furious. Psychotic. Was it not enough that he had to endure the suffering of being a Spear, to inherit the title of a defective product of the Magisterium? He hated it. He wanted it to stop.

The voices and frantically forming threads subsided and he met with his scribe, Eletris. From behind his helmet, he eyed the genderless individual from earlier watching them in the street. Eletris spoke, interrupting his pondering.

"I didn't want to interrupt your talk with the Exarch, but the Rites informed me that the warlock Fahlnem has been seen the checkpoint. He barricaded himself in the barracks."

Fahlnem took a step back and admired his handiwork. He had laced solidified mana on and throughout the lock on the iron door, which forcefully unlocked the door once the mana exploded upon a snap of his fingers. He stepped out of the small reception area into a concrete hallway leading deeper into the barracks. He made his way down the hallway, secretly hoping he wouldn't turn the corner to another Spear. It made sense to him that there would be more than one way into the barracks and jail, so he figured he just needed to find his staff or Desmond before his assailants found him.

He glanced into the first room he came across to see a sort of mess area. Each checkpoint so far has been different. I suppose this one most closely resembles Railsource's, though. He turned to the opposite wall of the hallway to see a single high-security holding cell that reminded him of the one he and Forgo sat in at Railsource. He continued down the long hallway and turned the corner to face another door, this time wooden. He blew it open with a small blast, sending splinter shrapnel into the room beyond, which seemed to be the jail. Perfect. The ceiling opened up into a multi-level room with eight cells on each side for each level. Catwalks lined the air above him as he made his way to the end of the room, glancing into each cell as he went along. A guardsman peeked around the corner from a desk at the end of the hallway, alarmed by the sound of the door exploding. He rushed to his feet and approached Fahlnem with concern. Fahlnem adopted the posture of an injured, stray dog with an expression of worry painting his face.

"What are you doing in here? What was that noise, just now?"

"Sorry, sir, I..." Fahlnem stuttered and glanced around frantically. "I'm hurt. I need help."

The guardsman frowned and eyed the end of the hallway from which Fahlnem came from. He turned back to Fahlnem, noting his wrapped hand and, as far as the pyromancer could tell, entirely disregarding his armor. The guard reached out to grab Fahlnem by the arm.

"Here, we'll get you some help." He began leading Fahlnem further into the complex, beyond the jail. I'll come back for Desmond in a minute.

"I have a knife," Fahlnem stated in a miserly tone to the guard. His act was poor in quality, and he knew it. His hair was fine and clean, his pointy ears were evident, and of course his armor was imposing. He couldn't believe that the guard hadn't cuffed him already. "It's for self-defense, I assure you. I just figure you need to confiscate it or something."

The guard sighed and nodded. He held out a hand for the knife and Fahlnem handed him the one that Samael gifted him at the Maw. He was lead back down toward the jail and behind the guard's desk to a room not unlike an armory. Wooden tables constructed with thick, sturdy planks lined the walls. On the tables sat items with varying levels of danger, from confiscated weapons like Fahlnem's knife to armor and drugs.

I don't see my shit. Fahlnem frowned and turned to the guard, reaching out to take his knife back. I tire of the act.

"Listen, pal," He straightened his posture and flipped his hair back off of his forehead, bending his fingers back and forth in a 'gimme' fashion as he looked at the knife. "I'm not gonna kill you or anything, but I need some info." The guard arched a brow in astonishment.

"What's going on here? Who are you?"

Fahlnem pointed up to his blonde hair and pointy ears.

"There's no way you're this dumb. Let's make this quick." His outstretched hand ignited with dancing embers. "I need to know where any confiscated magical items would be, and I need to locate a specific prisoner."

"I can't tell you either of those things. You're under arrest, mage or not."

Fahlnem reached up with his flaming hand and moved to backhand the guard, producing a high-power explosion as he did, leaving a trail of flames behind his palm. The guard fell to his feet, headless, and dropped Fahlnem's knife. Kinda nasty, but I bet that would have looked really neat from a third-person perspective. He retrieved his knife and left the room to locate Desmond. Surely he'll know where to find my equipment if he's been here for so long. I'm assuming that Miranda has his focuses, if he was undercover.

He stepped back into the hallway of cells and began to call out.

"Desmond?! Desmond, where are you?!"

He heard the familiar noise of a cup clanging against the bars of a cell and grinned. Fuck you, Miranda. He followed the clanging to the upper level of the cell complex, making his way four doors down to one of the only filled cells in the room. A dark-haired figure sat at the door to the cell, continuing to slowly draw his cup against the bars, making a terrible noise that rang through the concrete and metal filled room.

"Desmond, I presume?"

The individual made eye contact with Fahlnem and nodded with a grunt.

"Time to leave. You got focuses you wanna grab before we head back to the safe house?"

Desmond rose to his feet and stared blankly at Fahlnem.

"Yeah." His voice was gravelly and rough. Unused.

"Gods. Clear your throat, please. And step back, too, 'cause I forgot to grab keys before I walked back up here and we really don't have that much time. And I'm tired of walking up stairs."

Desmond frowned and stepped back away from the door. Fahlnem followed the same practice as the first door, lacing the lock with solidified mana and blowing it open once he stepped back. The door opened, and Desmond stepped through. The two made their way downstairs and Fahlnem stared at Desmond in silence once they reached the desk of the deceased guardsman.

"...Well? Miranda said you've been here for a while, so you better know where to look, because I already checked the confiscated items room and my shit wasn't there."

Desmond shook his head. "No."

"Great. Can you get any more terse? I'm really not one for doing all the talking." He was lying.

Silence. Fahlnem sighed and gestured for Desmond to follow.

"I already checked for my shit on my way in, so the stuff's gotta be deeper inside." They continued down the long hallway that the guard from earlier had started to lead Fahlnem into. "Tell me about yourself, Desmond. How'd you avoid getting found out? Felt like the Spears and Rites instantly knew I was in the area when I first showed up."

Desmond grunted with a nod. "Captured by guards. Haven't seen any Rites."

"Got it. So you lucked out. Sure, great. Wish I had some of that. Feels like the sons of bitches find me wherever I go." Fahlnem ran a hand through his hair. "What prompted you to join up with Miranda and the Bluntears?" Sounds like a bad band name. "And why hide your magical ability here?"

"Can't fight the whole city."

Gods, this guy barely has any emotion in his voice at all. Probably never had his dick wet, either.

Desmond sent a sideways glance into one of the rooms as they passed it and grabbed Fahlnem by the shoulder with one hand, pointing inside with the other. A bolted iron door blocked the entrance to the room, but from what Fahlnem could see through the bars, it looked like another one of those high-security holding cells meant for mages. He blew the door down by lacing the hinges and stepped inside. Like a holy pedestal, a wooden table in the middle of the room, upon which sat his magical equipment.

"Could've done it quietly," Desmond noted blandly, gesturing to his own hand. Fahlnem had forgotten that he was a mage as well and shrugged.

Fahlnem approached the table while Desmond stood watch at the door in case anyone heard the forced entry. He looked at his staff longingly, an obsidian quarterstaff with a blunt curve at the end resembling the hook of a shepherd's cane. A vermillion ruby sat embedded in the haft of the staff, amplifying its magical potential. To the right of the staff sat a coil of rope with a marble dart at the end of it, inscribed with Elven runes and blessings of Ereuvir. Fahlnem fondled both items longingly and let nostalgia take over.