Nash was not aware of when they had drifted to sleep. Yet they had, laying against the wall, their determination to keep awake having dissipated with exhaustion. Not that they were surprised – the entire journey had sapped whatever reserves they had left.

Seeming hours had passed, when at last they stirred, opening a single eye. Joseph, Rosemary, and Phineas were still asleep, curled against one another against the base of the tree. Gluh, being a zombie, needed no rest – but considered his current predicament of having snapped legs and a broken spine, he wasn't going anywhere.

And Sunala was nowhere to be seen.

Nash blinked.

Then the realization hit them like a freight train.

She was gone. Nash scrambled to their feet, heart pounding as they frantically looked around.

“Gluh,” they said, “Where did she go?”

The zombie moaned. Away. Out of the room they were in, towards a room to the north, one of the great auditoriums.

“Great,” they growled, “Gluh, stay here.”

They winced as they remembered the zombie's state.

“Sorry. If the others wake up, tell them that I'm going after Sunala.”

“Gluh?”

“I'll be fine,” Nash said, “I have a bad feeling about this, is all.”

And I’ll need to be fast, though they didn’t say that part aloud.

Gluh gave a glum nod, settling back into place. Nash drew out of the room and towards one of the balconies, one that led out towards the central parts of the city. Towards the highest point around, a great palm tree that rose like a tower, swaying in the center.

Swaying, despite no wind. The thought had always disturbed Nash. But then, this entire kingdom was one out of touch with reality. Trees grew where there they shouldn’t. The ocean was freshwater. Parts of the city had been frozen in time.

Oddest of all was that Chliofrond had survived. Forget the diaspora who had left to spread across the multiverse, Becenti's dream of a people alive. The actual city, the series of floating islands that Nash had only read tales about, what still around. Nash had come here expecting to see nothing but dirt and decay. Perhaps the moldering corpse of a metropolis, half-hidden in the sands of a dead plane. The archaeologist's wet dream, an eternity of patience, as they dug through the ruins to find broken pottery and strange, clay idols from a lifetime alien to the modern mind.

Yet the legacy of Chliofrond survived, as Nash went through the empty halls and pushed away branches of trees, dragged their boots through grass, and ventured into an artificial jungle of pines, oaks, and gigantic bluebells near the base of the city. Iresine's descendants were not simply metahumans. Their power was one of growth, and their blood was both metahuman and tinged with chlorophyll.

No, Iresine's people were the flora across the islands – both the controlled, frozen forests here underground and the overgrowth that mossed over the islands outside, choked every crevice, claimed every stone, blanketed the bottom of the freshwater sea.

This was not a dead plane.

It was teeming with life.

“Dammit,” they said aloud. They had lost the bet with Becenti.

Tracking Sunala was simple enough. She had made no secret of where she was going, her boots having sunk a trail into the loam on the ground floor. It stopped right at the palm tree. Nash looked up. Despite their exhaustion, they knew where the elf had gone.

She always had been implacable.

“Alright,” they said, “No body. So she didn't jump.”

Not yet.

Their talk last night had been a darker one, as Nash had laid everything out on her all at once. They had a problem of doing that.

Once again, the great Nash Rhyde's greatest weakness was they didn't know when to shut up.

They wrapped their hands against the palm tree, feeling the trunk's bulk, its bark made up of a multitude of growths. Distant memories of their first time exploring the multiverse came flooding through their mind. There had had been no trees on the Runway. Nash remembered the first time, when they were young and green and venturing beyond their home plane, of finding a forest.

They grabbed at the trunk, fingers knotting and holding fast to the rough surface, kicking off and planting a left against the tree's base.

It had been on Tethys, a primal world. One with long-necked reptiles the size of houses, wisdom running through every scale. The trees there were ancient fare, extinct in most of the multiverse, broad-leafed and stout.

After a moment, Nash found their rhythm. One hand up, together with a leg. Trust in the strength of the tree, that it will support you, so long as you can hold fast. The palm's texture was a good one. Finding handholds and footholds was easy.

Tethys was alien to the Far Traveler. Too large, too verdant. It overloaded their senses, the entire world being a green place.

How could any place be so beautiful, and they had been born on the Runway?

A world of beauty and nature, versus a world of asphalt and gasoline.

They certainly had gotten the short straw, hadn't they?

For a moment, they slipped, their foot running loose and scraping free from the tree. Nash glanced down as their hands hooked into the bark, their arms bulging and bracing to regain their balance. They were high above now, almost halfway up the palm's body, the city extending around them.

After taking a deep breath to calm themself down, a mental reminder that they were okay, they began to climb again. Back into the rhythm.

In truth, their experience in climbing had come from the Swirling Sea and their stint for a few years as a corsair. A powder monkey aboard the Dread Elizabeth. A pirate named Old Stoat had shown them how to wrap around the netting and sails of the galleon, how to scramble up the mast in a moment, how to think of every finger as a miniature hook to claw into the wood and hold oneself fast.

Climbing the palm tree had much of the same logic. But they couldn't afford to be quick. For one, it had been a long time since those days of piracy, gold, and fire. They were rusty at this. For two, they were still exhausted – the sleep had afforded them very little actual rest. Already they could feel their muscles straining, their fingers crying.

Push through it. Keep to the rhythm. Get to the top.

You're a Far Traveler, dammit. This is what you do.

***

The palm's stem got narrower as they reached the top, before it bloomed out into five house-sized fronds that roofed the rest of the forest. Nash did not so much climb vertically than they did horizontally as they climbed over the bulb that ballooned at the stem's top, grabbing onto the fronts, and pulling themself over the fronds.

Sunala was there. The elven noblewoman stood alone, staring above. A great crack had permeated the top of the city long ago, during Chliofrond's fall. The gash had expanded into a solid opening that would have caused the freshwater sea to flood the entire building, had not Chronilock’s power locked the ocean away. It rippled above them now, a ceiling of deep blue that, were the circumstances different, Nash would have found calming. The sun was above, filtering through the sea and drenching the palm fronds with light. The ocean was so calm, so flat, that Nash could see every disturbance on the surface high above, the light rippling for a brief moment throughout the city below.

“I'm not going to jump, if that's what you're thinking,” Sunala said.

“You just enjoying the sights?” Nash asked.

“...Yes,” Sunala said, “I am.”

She returned to staring up at the water.

“I didn't notice how beautiful this place was. Is.”

Nash nodded at that.

“What are you doing here?” they asked.

“I decided to do a bit of exploration on my own,” Sunala replied, “Clear my thoughts. Ask myself why I was here. Use that brain I've been so gifted with, for once.”

Nash smirked, “And what'd you find?”

“Exactly what I was expecting,” Sunala said, “The Shard of Imagination. The life it still breathes into a dead plane. I expected treachery, but not from Spinlock and Nelthel.”

“From us, then?” Nash said.

“You are a guild,” Sunala replied, “Your work is mercenary. Impersonal. I have worked with guilds before, Nash. Most are not as... honorable, shall we say, as yours.”

“Don't have to tell me twice,” Nash said, “Also why you had such a stick up your ass about hiding your real intention for coming here.”

“Indeed,” Sunala said, “I am sorry. Especially for getting all you into danger.”

“It's alright by me,” Nash said, “This is just a Tuesday to me, y'know? It's Rosemary and the others that you have to answer to.”

“And I will,” Sunala said, “So long as I can get you out of here.”

Nash blinked.

“And how do you intend for that to happen?”

She gave a soft, sad smile.

“A hope,” she said, “A dream. An analysis of what we’ve seen. A theory on the powers of metahumanity.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” Nash said.

But Sunala was quiet. She was mulling whatever she had in mind over, wilting as she looked at the Far Traveler.

“Did you know another part of the expedition is coming here soon, Nash?” she said.

“I’m not surprised,” Nash said, “Now that this place is confirmed dead, you can claim it for whoever you want, right?”

“Indeed,” Sunala said, “I would do so for Scuttleway, with patronage by the Elven Committee of Exploration.”

“A patron, then,” Nash said, “Explains a lot of where the money’s coming from, then.”

“The second part of the expedition is on its way here,” Sunala said, “It should be here within a few days.”

“A few days?” Nash said, “But we haven’t been in communication with anyone off-world, no one to send a report to the High Federation of our findings here.”

“I am aware,” Sunala said.

It took a few moments for Nash to comprehend what Sunala was saying. They paled and grit their teeth.

“So the second expedition,” they said, “They aren’t briefed on what’s out here.”

“They are not, no,” Sunala said.

“So if this place was inhabited...”

“The Federation would have found out,” Sunala said, “The second group coming is quite a bit larger than a single guild. It is primarily explorers from Scuttleway, as well as a few independent archaeologists with no home plane.”

“Far Travelers,” Nash said.

“Indeed.”

“People who can’t have their home planes traced back, if this place was inhabited, and the Federation was forced to take action.”

“It would be a political nightmare,” Sunala said, “A cross-contamination between an uncontacted, low-tech world and a non-Mercantile plane. Someone would have to pay the price.”

“Quite the gamble,” Sunala said, “One I'm glad paid off. You have no idea the stress I felt while Meleko and Tek were performing the scans on this place, Nash.”

“And if it didn’t work, the destruction would only extend to Londoa,” Nash said, “That’s why you hired local, isn’t it? So the Committee of Exploration could cut you loose if things became too controversial.”

They felt that familiar anger bubbling up again. One that they couldn't afford to indulge, as they bit back their insults and lectures, instead crossing their arms.

“...But that didn’t happen, did it? And now, with the sponsorship of the elves, you'll be able to claim these ruins and the surrounding area on behalf of Scuttleway. All in record time, with no chance of competitors barging in. All of Chliofrond and her treasures, just for you.”

“Never mind the fact that there's a Shard of Imagination here,” Sunala said, “The freshwater alone...”

She gave a glance at Nash, noted their hardened eyes, and wilted slightly.

“Right,” she said, “Well, I did say I would get you out alive, didn't I? Which brings us to why I'm here.”

She had made a decision, as she produced the journal, powering it on. The small hologram fluttered to life, writings in a dozen languages reading out. Nash noted that Sunala had added to it, smatterings and notes in Elvish juxtaposed against Chronilock’s flowing style.

After a moment, the Elven writings overtook the metahuman ones, filling out a few pages worth.

“Adding some apocrypha, eh?” Nash said.

“Preparing a message,” Sunala said.

“In case we die?”

“So we can get out,” Sunala said, “Tell me, Nash, what were Chronilock's powers?”

“Time. She could freeze it. Lock rooms in place, create null-points.”

“A vague power,” Sunala said.

“Metahuman powers are usually vague,” Nash said, “From what I've seen, anyways.”

“But they still have rules,” Sunala said, “Joseph's soul has a circuit that he must ramp up before it springs into being. Becenti can only control heat, not actual fire.”

“And you're saying Chronilock’s had rules, too?”

“Precisely. She can lock a room in place. Nothing grows here, Nash. Nothing dies, either. Bodies are put in stasis. Rocks do not erode. Water stops at the point that she decides, a domed room of trapped time. That is what we are in.”

“And she can apply that to bodies,” Nash said.

“To Rend, who I suspect had that happen to him as a side-effect of his battle with her. And when she passed, she did not decompose, both due to the lingering effects of her power and the Shard of Imagination still on the plane. That Shard is why time here is still stopped. Without it, water would rush through. The cities would sink. We'd best be on the boats if that were to happen.”

“So what's your master plan, then?” Nash asked.

“Simple,” the elf said. She felt around her tattered robes, before producing from it a small pen.

“Nothing passes through the barrier easily,” she said, “This place has felt the weight of an entire ocean pressing down on it for thousands of years, yet it has held strong and fast.”

She tossed the pen up towards the azure ceiling. It plinked off of it, hitting against air and dropping down. Sunala caught it with a quick swipe of the palm.

“Then how did we get through?” she said.

“Through a door,” Nash said.

“A door that held back the sea,” Sunala said.

“...So there's a rule, then,” Nash said, “What do you suppose it is?”

Sunala thought on this.

“I have an idea,” she said, “But you won't like it.”

“Shoot,” Nash said.

“At first, I thought that only the living could pass through,” Sunala said, “But that wouldn't work, would it?”

“Gluh's a zombie. He's technically not alive,” Nash said.

“Precisely. And we are two elves, a metahuman, a human, and a zombie. So it's not bound by species.”

“...So what is it, then?” Nash said.

“A hand passes through the door. Water does not. Stone cannot. Pens cannot.”

She wrinkled her nose down at her ballpoint at that.

“...Skin?” Nash said.

“Flesh. Bone. Blood. And all that owns it,” Sunala said, “Else the plantlife would have crept in. And we aren't naked, so that means that, so long as it's touching us, non-flesh can travel with us.”

“So one of us can swim, then,” Nash said, “Get to the surface.”

“We're two hundred feet down, Nash,” Sunala said.

“I can make it,” Nash said, “Or Phineas.”

“Our friend the Deep One is exhausted, and simple rest will not suffice,” Sunala said, “He used up quite a few of his pacts with the Old Ones, and he'll need to replenish them. Gluh is broken. Joseph and Rosemary aren't strong enough to make the journey. Nor are you.”

“Says you,” Nash said.

“Of course,” Sunala smiled, “But I have a solution.”

There was something in her voice that Nash did not like. Their eyes narrowed. Sunala was smiling again, a resigned, coy grin that did not reach her eyes.

“What... what did you have in mind?” Nash said.

“I have here the journal, in which is written what transpired, just buoyant enough that it will float to the surface, given time.”

With a wave, she tossed it towards the roof. The journal bounced off, falling back to the palm, once more caught in the noblewoman's hand.

“You see the problem,” she said.

Something was dawning on Nash. They took a reflexive step back. Sunala had curled her fingers around the journal, making sure to hold it fast. Almost squeezing it, the way she gripped the small cube.

“And you see the solution,” she finished.

“I can't let you do that, Sunala,” Nash said, “There's another way. I'll swim. Maybe Joseph can, the kid's tough-”

“You have already sacrificed enough, as has Mr. Zheng. All of you have, save for me.”

Nash had gone pale. They considered Sunala's words, then gave a nod. They knelt down by Sunala.

“The hems of my robe will suffice to bind the stump,” Sunala said, “I need only a knife.”

The Far Traveler nodded, pulling out their own. A gift from long ago. From Old Stoat.

“It'll take a second to saw through the bone,” Nash said, “And we don't have any...”

“I know,” Sunala's voice was as calm as the sea above. She presented her hand out, “Make it quick, Nash. I quite liked this hand.”

“Right,” Nash strode forward. They looked at her for a moment, “Sorry about this.”

“Desperate times,” Sunala said, “We are paying for a Shard, after all.”

“Don't remind me,” Nash said. They raised up the knife, and brought it down.

***

They bound Sunala's wound quickly and expertly. Sunala took the wound in relative good cheer, that coy smile still masked on her face as Nash worked quickly so she would not immediately bleed to death.

The hand, now free from its owner, still gripped the journal.

“And you're sure it'll float?” Nash said.

“Elves are light,” Sunala said, “As is the journal. It will float.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“That would be very humorous, wouldn't it?” Sunala said.

The Far Traveler just gave a sneer at that, before they finished tying off the wound with a final tug.

“Right,” they said, “Now for the hard part.”

They looked to the hand.

“Toss it, Nash,” Sunala said, “No ceremony.”

“Right,” Nash knelt down and picked it up. The hand was still warm, the skin still smooth, as they gauged its weight. Sunala was right – elves were light. It was practically a feather, as they gave a couple experimental throws, tossing it up and catching it.

“Maybe not so... casual?” Sunala said.

“Right, sorry,” Nash said, “Alright, here we go.”

They threw it upwards. The hand sailed up and, rather than bouncing off of the barrier, splashed into the water above. For a moment, it hung suspended in the sea, before it began drifting away.

Away, and upwards.

***

Wakeling had not left the site of the city's sinking. Barbara hadn't, either, the toucan wheeling about the sky in slow, calculated way. The toucans of Menzonarada relied on strong, warm currents to keep them aloft, else they needed to use a vast amount of energy to flap their wings and sail through the sky. There was no wind here, yet that did not stop the toucan. Her eyes were narrowed on the ocean's surface, searching for any movement, any at all, that Nash's team had made it out. Somehow.

To be honest, she was running low on both stamina and hope. Yet she could feel Wakeling's aura permeate the air around them. The guildmaster was not working off of hope, as her now-bloodshot eyes glared down at the water. There was no optimism in the witch. Only the the inability to accept the inevitable, a cold sort of guilt that she wore often whenever these situations arose.

Barbara had known her long enough, which was why she flew so.

It was not for her guildmates, whom the toucan was already mourning.

It was for her.

The communicator crackled to life. Broon's haggard, tired voice rang through.

“Wakeling,” he said, “We did it.”

“Both of them...?” Wakeling said.

“Aye,” Broon said, “We're injured, but nothing fatal. Becenti's arms are twisted like a pretzel, though. We'll need your magic for that.”

“Magic of some sort, at least,” Wakeling said, “Are the brothers...?”

“Heyma has Brother Bone locked down. He can't harm her. Brother Brain fell into a null-point. He's frozen in a pocket of time.”

“And no threat at all,” Wakeling said, “I'm surprised you showed restraint, Broon.”

Broon was quiet for a long time.

“Someone had to,” he said at length, “Besides, it was Heyma and Mallory that finished the job.”

“Good girls,” Barbara said.

“Indeed,” Wakeling said, “Alright. Get yourselves patched up. Stay there.”

“Right,” Broon said, “We'll let you know when we're ready to head out.”

“...Very well,” Wakeling said. With a blink, she winked off the communicator.

“You don't want to leave,” Barbara said.

“Of course I don't want to leave,” Wakeling spat, “I've just lost a rather influential client, as well as five of our best.”

Her voice caught for a moment. Barbara felt her old friend take a deep breath to steady herself.

“I can't do keep doing this, Barb,” Wakeling said, “We just lost Nole. I can't lose so many so soon.”

“You said it yourself,” Barbara said, “It's part of the job.”

“I know,” Wakeling said, “But the faces in the mirror are starting to crowd 'round. Getting in the way when I apply my mascara.”

The toucan snorted at the poor attempt at humor.

“I.. the Zheng boy, his grandmother's in that mirror, Barbara. I can't tell Fēngbào her grandson died on my watch.”

Barbara made another pass, her wings having gone numb from exhaustion. She would need to land, and soon.

“Then don't,” Barbara said, “She's dead.”

“Pretty soon I will be, too,” Wakeling said, “I'm an old crone, Barb. I'll be going to that great Circus in the Sky one of these days, and the great Zheng Chun, the Fēngbào, will be glaring at me with that poison in her belly and that venom on her tongue.”

She was rambling again. And she realized it, too, for Wakeling stopped talking.

They made another wheel.

“I'm sorry, Barb,” Wakeling said, “I've been using you again. You must be right tuckered out.”

“Quit apologizing,” Barbara said, “I'm exhausted, but that's because I want to be. I'm out here to find our friends.”

“But-”

“I'm overstepping my boundaries a bit, Vyde,” Barbara interrupted, “And telling you to shut up.”

“Ha!” Wakeling said, “You old bat.”

“Bird.”

“Same difference,” Wakeling said. Her good cheer died down once more, and she began to scan the ocean again.

Barbara made a last flap of her wings. She hadn't gone the distance in quite a long time. She was getting too old, she supposed. Better to be a librarian than some swashbuckling adventurer like Nash. The toucan knew she wouldn't be able to fly for a few days after this, and that meant that she would need to use a godforsaken ladder to reach the top shelves of the library. Damn Vyde and her guilt. Why couldn't she accept the truth, painful as it was?

Nash and their team were gone.

“...There,” Wakeling said.

“Hmm?”

“There!” the guildmaster repeated, “Down below! I see it!”

“What do you see?”

“A hand!” Wakeling said, “It floated up from the bottom! Dive down, you old bat! Go!”

Barbara rolled her eyes, and swooped towards the surface.

***

There were five who had been left behind on the island city, while the rest of the guild had spread out to the surrounding waterlogged sprawl that was Chliofrond. They were the researchers of the guild, the librarians and scientists who were here for their technical expertise. Save Wakeling, none of them were as experienced in the more rigorous aspects of exploration.

Yet the five of them crowded around as Wakeling read the journal floating in front of her, the metahuman languages giving way to Elven, written quickly yet concisely. Lady Sunala recounted the entire experience she and Nash's group had upon the city's sinking. Their current predicament. Her theories on Chliofrond's existence, as well as the nature of Chronilock's power.

After she was finished, the guildmaster passed it off to Tek, who shared it with Barbara, the two of them reading it over. Calacious Nine floated over them, the jellyfish pulsing reds and violets in thought.

“Alright, people,” Wakeling said, “We've got some trapped guildmembers deep in the sea. Any ideas?”

She looked over at each of them, waiting for an answer. Being the actually intelligent members of the guild, they were already ready with input.

“The obvious solution is we use Calacious Nine,” Tek said, “They go down to the bottom, and retrieve them.”

“And the deep sea environment?” Wakeling said, “That's two hundred, maybe three hundred feet between them and the surface. Calacious Nine can handle it, but I’m not sure the others can. It would be a gnarly ride.”

Tek scratched his fur-covered chin. Barbara clacked her beak in thought. It was Calacious Nine who answered, flashing to greens and yellows. Wakeling watched their display, her brow furrowing with each new change in color.

“I should have brought more for this,” Wakeling said.

“Do you think you could do it with what you have?” Barbara asked.

“I believe so,” Wakeling said, “Besides, there's still some residual energy from Mr. Phineas's spellwork when we were identifying the sun that I could work with. It would take a few hours.”

“Do they have a few hours?” Barbara said.

“They've got food, air, and water. Plenty of that,” Wakeling said, “They'll hold out just fine until we get down there. Now shut up, all of you, I need to get to work.”

***

They passed the hours in relative quiet. Wakeling went off on her own, to the same spot she and Phineas had been at the day before, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Words escaped her lips, darker phrases that aped the Deep One's, mixed in with her own specialized magic. Communing with the Old Ones was not an easy task, especially not when their primary contact with the guild was MIA. But she worked all the same, sweat beading down her weathered, aged face. The rest of the team left her to her devices. Whiskey wandered to the edge of the island, watching the horizon forlornly. Barbara, in a state of quiet anxiety, began picking through her collection of books for something to read. Something new. Something she had not read before.

“Dammit,” she said, tossing each book aside, “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Tek and Calacious Nine, meanwhile, were making calculations on the computer array, their conversation quiet and intense as calculations ran on-screen. To Calacious Nine's dismay, Tek had set up a handy visual aid for them to watch as the jellyfish went into the freshwater sea, drifting deeper and deeper until they hit the bottom. After hitting a hundred feet in the simulation, Tek noticed that Calacious Nine would flush from red to a pale, quiet blue. It took the mound a few go-arounds before he realized that Calacious Nine was scared.

Scared of the deeps. Scared of what might be below, despite both of them knowing there was only dead stone and algae. But Calacious Nine had sought the surface world for a reason.

Quietly, Tek turned the visual component of the calculations off, and rested a sympathetic hand on Calacious Nine.

“You're much braver than I, old friend,” the mound said.

Calacious Nine flashed red in response.

***

“We've got a problem,” Tek said.

Wakeling did not respond. Whiskey, however, turned and shuffled back to the computer array. Barbara, a new book in claw (An Analysis on the Forms of Magic in Avenbrook), flew over to them. Tek went over the calculations on the computer one more time, before nodding in defeated acknowledgment.

“Right,” he said, “We've gone over everything multiple times. Calacious Nine isn't strong enough to pull them out.”

He let the news settle in.

“Of us, they're the one who can best withstand the pressure of the sea. They can also drift through it with their zen-fins well enough, better than, say, Whiskey.”

“Would Whiskey work for this?” Barbara said.

“Not that we can see,” Tek said, “He's too heavy, he'd sink like a stone. And we need to be able to pull Nash's group up after we retrieve them.”

Calacious Nine flashed green.

“There's also that,” Tek said, “That's fifteen feet of open air between the sea and the tree that Nash is stationing their group at. Now, Calacious Nine can handle themself fine enough in the water, but they aren't strong enough to pull each of them to the sea. Nor are their tentacles long enough to snake down.”

“Rope, then?” Barbara said.

“Maybe,” Tek said, “But we would need something heavy to tie it to. Calacious Nine isn't... ah...”

The jellyfish pulsed purple in apology. They had tentacles, and while that worked just fine for interfaces and consoles, they weren't fingers. They couldn't tie the rope, nor were they strong enough to make sure the knot was tight enough.

“So by and large, that means one of us has to come along,” Tek said.

They were quiet. The only sounds came from Wakeling, whose shuddering mutters were beginning to become loud enough for them to hear. Dark and morose, purple energy was beginning to flow around her in stripes and scabs.

“I'm too heavy,” Tek admitted.

“What about Whiskey?” Barbara said.

“No can do,” Tek produced the journal, “Lady Sunala says that only things touching flesh and bone can pass through Chronilock's shield. Whiskey's made of wood. We're not even sure if Calacious Nine would be able to get through. Is it flesh and blood, or just organic material? I'm betting on the former, as sensors are indicating no plantlife grows between the cracks of Chronilock's power and the rest of the plane.”

The group turned, as one, to look at Barbara.

“Wakeling, then?” the toucan said.

“...She's a head,” Tek said.

“She's a powerful witch, I'm sure she can think of something.”

Calacious Nine displayed blue at first, as though afraid to challenge Barbara, before they shifted to a purple display.

“Calacious Nine is right,” Tek said, “She's our most powerful asset when she's at Castle Belenus, but she's just a talking head here.”

“The bitch,” Barbara said, “The arrogance in that little, pea-sized brain of hers, the audacity to think that she could bring the bare minimum, while we're all bringing our A-game. The sheer ignorance-”

Calacious Nine went purple again. Barbara gave a huff.

“Very well,” she said, “You're scared, I'm scared. We shall be scared in this together.”

***

Wakeling's spell was finished, a quiet, vaguely violet bubble floating just on the surface of the sea. Deep rings lined beneath her eyes as Whiskey approached and scooped her up into his arms, turning her so she could face the group.

“It's done,” she said, “Enough to fit two people.”

“We'll need to do it one at a time,” Tek said, “Barbara's going down with Calacious Nine.”

“Very well,” Wakeling said, “Barbara, you're alright with that?”

The toucan glared at her, but dipped her beak in acknowledgment.

“And Calacious Nine,” Wakeling said, “I know that you hate deep-sea excursions like that, but are you prepared?”

The jellyfish dimmed red in response.

“Very well,” Wakeling said, “Let's save our guildmates.”

She watched as Calacious Nine dipped into the water, hardly stirring up a ripple as their tentacles wrapped around the bubble, holding it fast just beneath their bell. Barbara dipped a claw in, her eyes narrowing as the claw sank in, easing herself into the pocket of magic air slowly, making sure not even a single feather touched the water. She floated in the bubble for a few moments, then clacked her beak. The sound came muffled through the bubble's briny surface.

“Alright,” she warbled, “Let's do this.”

Without another display, Calacious Nine dipped into the water, zen-fins rippling along their tentacles to propel them deeper and deeper into the sea. Light from the sun followed their descent, shining behind them like a bride’s wake.

They were alone, the only lights being from the algae below and the pulsing lights of Calacious Nine. Both toucan and jellyfish felt a thrill of quiet fear as they went down.

But they were both afraid, and in that came a strange sort of kinship.

They were together.

Not alone.

With naught but the sea around them.

***

“Hey, everyone, wake up.”

Nash's voice was calm, if a bit strained, as Joseph cast off his half-sleep with a weary, exhausted groan. Rosemary and Phineas were resting beside him, the three having drawn together sometime during the sleep. The thought made him feel both panicked yet happy for a moment, before he settled down as he looked up as Nash. The Far Traveler had a soft smile on their face.

“Morning,” Joseph said.

“Good chance we're getting out of here, Joe,” Nash said.

“...What?”

On the other side of the room, Gluh groaned. Whatever he said was enough for Rosemary to sit up suddenly.

“What'd he say?” Joseph asked.

“Nash and Sunala wandered away,” Rosemary said, “They've been doing some adventuring of their own, I see.”

“Something like that,” Nash said, “Gluh, you're a snitch and I hate you.”

The zombie moaned in response. Rosemary gave a grin at... whatever he said. Joseph made a note to learn moanese if he got home.

“What'd you do?” Joseph asked.

“I didn't do anything,” Nash said, “Sunala's the one who did most of the work. She's up on the palm tree in the main tower outside.”

“She climbed up there?” Rosemary asked.

“Sure did. And she's getting us out,” Nash said, “We made a couple sacrifices, and the rest of the guild found us.”

Joseph blinked.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Nash said, “They’re already here. Come on, let's go.”

They got up as one, stretching and groaning as they did so. Joseph's back and joints were aching from sleeping on the wooden floor, but his mind, at least, was relatively sharpened now that he had gotten a moment of rest. Nash walked over and lifted up Gluh, wrapping the zombie's arms over their back until he was a Gluh backpack.

“Get ready to do some climbing, folks,” Nash said.

“I... am unsure if I can do that,” Phineas said. The Deep One's color had still not returned to his scales, and his waddling gait was unsteady and awkward as he followed along.

“I'll carry you,” Joseph said.

“Thank you, Joseph.”

***

They made their way through the dark forest at the base of the tower. Then, as a group, they ascended the great palm at the center. Joseph's soul sprang to life, a cold sort of comfort washing over him as the eagle scooped Phineas up and put the Deep One on its back. Rosemary began scrambling up first, taking to the palm's stem like a squirrel up an oak. Joseph followed up, soul's great, hook-like claws burrowing deep and holding fast. His going was much slower, and he found that Nash, who was behind him, seemed to grow impatient and scurried up past him.

“Early drake gets the gold, Joe!” they said.

“Ah, shuddup,” Joseph said.

The Far Traveler was grinning at him, though Joseph could tell it was a bit forced. There were deep rings under Nash's eyes, and they were practically slipping as they hurried their climb up the stem, obviously in a rush.

Something had happened.

And they found out the dark truth of their rescue as they made their way to the top. Sunala, in the center of the palm, clutching her right arm, her hand replaced by a stump wrapped in her torn robes. Nash had hurried over to her side, and was quickly unbinding and replacing the tattered pieces of cloth with gauze.

“Oh my god!” Rosemary yelled. She ran over to the noblewoman, “Oh my god!”

“It's not as bad as it seems,” Sunala lied.

“Your hand's gone,” Joseph had gone pale.

“Really, I had no idea,” Sunala said, and she wavered a bit.

“That's enough talk, now,” Nash said, “They’re just above us.”

They appointed up. Through a rent in the city was the ocean above, the sun just barely pushing through silent murk, eclipsed by the dark silhouette of a familiar, neon-pulsing jellyfish. Their lights flared briefly, bright green like verdant stars, cutting through the darkness as they made their way towards the gash in the city’s roof.

“Calacious Nine,” Joseph said, “Can they get through?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Sunala said, “Only things touching skin can pass through. I wonder if Calacious Nine’s tentacles count as flesh?”

“Maybe,” Rosemary said, “I’m sure they’ll figure something out, if not.”

Almost as though on cue, a great mound of black feathers rushed through the rent. Barbara flew down, flapping her great wings to slow her descent as she landed on the palm tree in front of them.

“Barbara!” Rosemary threw herself at the toucan, pushing the bird back a bit. Barbara was taken aback, but nonetheless covered the elf with a single, great wing.

“Rosemary,” she said, “Are you all alright?”

“I’m fine,” Sunala said, “The rest of us…”

She glanced back. Barbara took stock of the situation, narrow eyes moving to analyze each member of the group.

“There’s room for myself and one other,” she said, “This is going to require multiple trips.”

“Phineas first,” Joseph said.

“No,” Nash cut in. Joseph turned to the Far Traveler. They had a stern look on their face as they said, “Sunala’s our client, and she’s the one who needs immediate medical attention. Phineas next, then Gluh, then Joe, and finally Rosemary.”

“Then you, right?” Rosemary said.

The Far Traveler nodded.

Barbara clacked her beak a few times, then nodded. She extended her wings, flapping them a few times, taking to the air for a brief moment. Though there was little wind to help her on her way, the toucan nevertheless had a determined glare in her eyes, as her claws wrapped around Sunala’s shoulders and she took off. She flapped, bobbing upwards until she hit the rent once more, going into the bubble that Calacious Nine held in their tentacles.

There was silence as they watched the trio disappear.

A few hours later, Barbara came down again.

“Right,” she said, “That was the worst thing I’ve ever done. You all owe me drinks after this.”

“We owe you our lives, Barb,” Nash said.

“Oh please,” Barbara said, “I prefer my scotch whiskey aged at least twenty years, nothing younger. Now, Phineas next.”

She gingerly picked the Deep One up, her claws oddly gentle as she lifted him into the air, disappearing through the rent, her feathers hardly wettened by the entry into the bubble. Calacious Nine disappeared.

“...Where the hell are we going to get scotch whiskey?” Rosemary said, “All they have in Scuttleway is ale and wine.”

***

As was promised, Gluh went next. The zombie moaned as Barbara lifted him into the air, becoming murky and bubbly, and then disappeared entirely, as Calacious Nine lifted themself back up towards the surface world.

Joseph, Rosemary, and Nash waited in silence. None of them spoke, each too exhausted to really bring up any conversation.

Then, Barbara came down for Joseph. The toucan looked tired, worn out from the constant journeying into the depths of the sea. But she didn’t make a fuss as she lifted Joseph up, delivering him into the bubble, wrapping her wings around him as Calacious Nine ascended.

The journey to the surface was silent, the only sounds being the strange, pulsing ripples of Calacious Nine’s tentacles, small, hair-like fins rowing them through the sea. The world became lighter and lighter as they went, the natural light of the sun beginning to filter through the murk.

Until finally, they breached the surface. The bubble roiled as Calacious Nine made their way back to the base camp. Joseph squinted in the harsh, full light of the surface world as the bubble opened up. A great, fuzzy hand reached down, one which Joseph took.

Tek pulled him up, adjusting his glasses.

“Hullo, Joe,” the mound said, “Looks like you made it.”