Chapter 37: Reunions
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Morgan Mackenzie found herself in a dream. She knew it was a dream. She stood at the entrance to Dina’s Diner, the same tiny shop where her parents had taken her to lunch every Sunday through her entire childhood, the same place where her father had continued to take her to lunch every week after her mother finally succumbed to the ravages of a cancer the doctors couldn’t save her from.

The creaky sign hanging below the awning, swaying in a late-morning breeze; the faded paint and antique windows which characterized the building’s facade; the familiar smells of carefully-prepared food -- they all soothed her, and she knew they couldn’t exist on Anfealt, but they were not what told her she was dreaming.

She knew it had to be a dream because she was wearing clothes, and her tattoos no longer stood out on what skin was still exposed. Her reflection in the diner’s glass door was missing the enchantment across her eyes, and her hands and arms, as she reached towards the door, were once more bare and pale. After so many months au naturel, the experience was jarring, every bit of fabric against her skin an uncomfortable irritant she could not ignore. From the socks squeezing her feet to the pants and the blouse settled on her like a pall, the clothes made for a numbing barrier between her skin and the sky. It was like suddenly being in a cage, and the underwear was the worst -- not that the sensation was unbearable, she simply could not help but be aware of it.

She hastily peeled the blouse over her head and let it drop to the ground, then stood there in shock as it vanished from the space between her hand and the steps in front of the diner, only to instantly reappear on her body. She spent nearly a full minute futilely struggling to remove the offending garments. No sooner did a shoe or blouse or bra leave her hands than it flickered back to its original place. Finally, lightly panting with exertion, she resigned herself to her discomfort, stepping forward and crossing the diner’s threshold.

The familiar jingle of the bell was as soothing as the scents coming from the open kitchen, where a quite sturdily built, motherly woman with an apron stood before a griddle, while deftly using the tools of her trade to flip pancakes and tend to skillets sizzling with sausages and eggs. Morgan turned to the far corner of the diner, starting to approach the figure she had somehow known would be there.

She felt small again, and safe, gazing across the restaurant at the man sitting in the back corner booth. There was more grey at his temples than she was used to, but otherwise this could have come from any scene in her memory: he sat, as always, with his back to the corner, affording him clear sight to every exit and window. He was dressed in the same work boots, jeans, and flannel shirt she always remembered, and the set of his body was identical: ramrod-straight, shoulders back, the gun just barely peeking out of the old leather jacket keeping him just off the back cushion. The weapon had been in his family for two generations before him, and she’d never seen him without it.

As Morgan approached, Max turned his attention to the familiar spread of food, setting down his coffee. As it had always been, it consisted of bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy, with a side of hominy grits. A waitress dressed in a nondescript uniform with features Morgan somehow couldn’t focus on slipped around her and approached the table, the dream seeming to snap into greater focus as she set down her burden across from the man: one egg, sunny side up on its own platter, next to a plate with a single biscuit, opened in halves and slathered in country gravy. Three pieces of crispy bacon and one piece of wheat toast finished the ensemble, together with a small glass of orange juice: the same meal she had eaten every Sunday, ever since she had grown enough to place her own order.

She sat, suddenly nervous. A dozen questions tried to make their way out of her mouth but her father simply pointed at her food.

“Eat first. Then talk. We don’t have long, but it should be enough.”

Morgan didn’t argue the point. The food smelled delicious, like memories of a happier, safer time in her life and the comforts of bygone days. The fork and knife didn’t fall from her fingers, and the glass of juice was perfectly cold in her hand. She wasted no time, enjoying the luxury of actually eating and drinking like a normal person for the first time since she fell through the portal.

It had always been this way, as far back as she could remember. Every Sunday, the family would go to the diner for a family meal, followed by a trip into the city to do the weekly shopping and other errands before piling back into the old, but well-maintained pickup truck to return along the winding roads to the Mackenzie homestead. The ride had grown crowded as her older brothers had grown, then was very suddenly not crowded enough following her mother’s death. The void left by her passing had left the cab of the truck empty, and had very nearly put an end to the tradition.

Max Mackenzie had insisted the tradition continue, however, and stood fast, an immovable foundation, through the grief as his children had grown. Morgan’s brothers had graduated from school and enlisted, but she had continued meeting her father every single Sunday, even after she had moved into the city and started classes at the university. They had never missed a single week, until she had found herself in another world. As always, the Mackenzie patriarch allowed no conversation until the meal was properly done. He tucked into his own food as she devoured hers, flagging down the waitress for a refill of his coffee to wash it down. They ate in silence, focused on the meal before them. It wasn’t until the plates were stacked at the end of the table for the waitress to reclaim when she brought them another refill that Max finally spoke.

“You first,” he said warmly. “I’ll tell you my side after.”

“I--” she stammered. “I’m not sure where to even begin…”

“Start from the beginning, of course. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up on Sunday.”

She took a deep breath to steady her whirling thoughts. “Well, I had a horrible day at work. Stuck with a double shift, then caught my boyfriend cheating on me--” She paused as his expression went momentarily blank, then flickered with amusement, before returning to his normal attentive gaze. “I’d decided to go out and have some fun to get over it all, went to take a bath, and then the bathtub fell through a hole in the world.”

As if finally saying it opened a floodgate, she told him everything. How she had landed in the tree, how she had made mistakes with her first few levels and nearly starved to death in a matter of minutes. She spoke of how she had eaten the fruit and how delicious it had been. He nodded at that, and then slid more napkins across the table to her as she recounted burning alive. She hadn’t even realized the tears were running down her face. He waited for her to compose herself before prodding her to continue the tale.

He smiled along with her when she recounted her triumphs and achievements, both against monsters and when she had learned magic. He waited patiently as she struggled to recount her mistakes and heartaches. As she told her Story, the sleeves of her blouse began to fray and disappear, heralding the slow return of the tattoos along her hands and arms. The runic patterns slowly etched themselves back onto her skin, the dream-place giving way to the reality of how she now perceived herself. By the time she had finished, she was bare once more. Thankfully, the dream did allow her to drink from her glass with her own hands, a much-needed point of comfort as she told her tale.

“And then that asshole put that thing around my neck,” she seethed, her expression twisting angrily. “I’m gonna finish killing him when I wake up, for that and for that nice mage, too.”

Max smiled, a feral grin that showed no disapproval for his daughter’s newfound tendencies toward violence. “Your puffball friends already saw to that. The little necromancer lost his lunch, but I thought it was one of the more entertaining things I’ve seen in my life.”

“Pffff--!” She almost managed to keep from snorting orange juice across the table. “Exfoliation? Lulu’s vicious when she needs to be!” she exclaimed with a grin.

“Not your Lulu, the little necro’s green one. Wuffle, I think he called it.”

“It must be a species trait,” she said, still grinning. “I feel so much better. But now you. How? You know what I mean...” She trailed off, making a waving gesture with her hand at the dreamworld diner.

“Well, when you didn’t show up that Sunday, I was concerned.”

“Hah! Typical ‘Gunny Mack’ understatement. You don’t have to say it nice for my sake, Dad.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he nodded as he continued. “I checked your apartment first, then went asking around. I started with your boss, then I worked over your boyfriend real good. What clued me in that something wasn’t normal was the tub.”

“The giant clawfoot? It was the entire reason I rented that apartment,” she replied, sipping her juice.

He nodded. “I remember. The landlord had remodeled the apartment and the antique tub was too big to take out through the door after that. But it was gone. So I went back to the apartment. I was a mite bit upset by then, and apparently that was enough for the Le Fay blood to do what it does.”

“Doesn’t explain how you’ve been here for fifteen hundred years!”

“It explains everything.”

She just looked at him, the same smugness she used to find so irritating now a happy thing for her to see. “Please elaborate.”

“It had been nearly a week since you vanished. Whatever planetary or solar or galactic alignment allowed the portals to form, things weren’t lining up right any more. But I saw you land in the tree, and I jumped. The portal couldn’t send me to the same place at the same time, but it sent me to the same place in a different time.” He paused to take another drink of his coffee. “I landed a few years after Arthur died, and the Kingdoms of New Breton had fallen to civil war looking for the Sword so someone could claim his crown.”

“Wow.” She could only stare while that information sank in. “So...Moghren really is the one from the legends?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “And our distant ancestor. Be careful around the old witch. She isn’t evil, but her motivations aren’t always necessarily good either. She made bargains, the same as we did. She’s the one who planted the tree, as well.”

“I don’t remember making any deals…”

“You traded your modesty for power. I’m guessing there’s a catch, too.”

“What? You mean the stuff the other version of me talked about when I got my class?” Morgan’s thoughts spun as she tried to remember. She had not seen it as a bargain at the time, but it certainly was one now that she actually considered it. “The catch is that I can’t ignore ‘soul crime’, and I think I’m starting to figure out what that means…”

“Yes,” grinned Max. “As much as I hate to see you roped into it, at least that’s a worthy cause to be bound to. Just be very careful about any such agreements you might make in the future.”

“The woman with the bow, Terisa. I could feel the gem shatter, and hear the soul inside screaming. I have to find a way to help!” Morgan’s runes flared on her skin, the magic responding to her emotions even in the dream.

“Calm down,” said her father. “I’ve been stuck here for…” He sat back, concentration lining his forehead. “I’m actually not sure. As the Titan I wander, clearing disturbances from the Ley Lines in service to the Tree. I sleep for decades or more until something comes up; that was part of my bargain so I could stick around long enough to be sure I’d be here when you arrived.”

“It would have to be at least fifteen hundred years, if Moghren told the truth about when the ‘Titan’ arrived. I’m pissed she didn’t tell me about you, though, if she apparently knows you.”

“She never lies, but she doesn’t always tell the whole truth, and you should never trust her. But my point is I’ve lived long enough to see and learn many things, and there are options available to help the soul trapped in the gem.”

“So what are we waiting for?” It was as if knowing there were ways to help triggered some instinct in her own soul, the urge to help a victim of something that the System itself considered the only sin.

“I said wait,” her father almost snapped, the stern warning in his voice an all-too familiar signal that he had important things to say. “You aren’t the only one who made bargains, and if you want to make sure I don’t eat your newfound friends, you need to listen before we rejoin the waking world. Communication is difficult for me out there.”

“Oh.” Properly chagrined, she waited for him to continue.

“The gem is shattered, and as we speak the Huntress is trying to bully the necromancer into binding her sister’s soul. She has the best intentions, but if he does that, more than just the spirit in the gem will be passing through the veil. If the Titan rages, you and I will be the only survivors.” He delivered the statement as a matter of fact, voice flat and without inflection. “The Titan exists as a corrective contingency. If lines are crossed, and I can sense it, then I restore the natural order in the most old-fashioned way.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “Eep! You mean-”

“I kill and eat everything that offends the balance. Not always in that order.”

“Oh,” she said again, quiet for a moment. “So the story Terisa told, when those kids said you ‘ate the bad men’…”

“Truth.”

She could feel her food trying to come back up when he made the admission with no hesitation, but regained her composure after drinking from her glass.

“So how do we help the poor soul in the gem?”

Max paused once again, waiting politely as the waitress refilled his coffee and Morgan’s juice. Only after another few sips did he continue. “First, you’ll have to get Terisa to calm down. If it weren’t for the love of her sister that she’s trying to make the necromancer do this, I’d have already eaten her. You might have to kick her ass real good, beat some sense into her.”

“After that?”

“Then, we need the necromancer to do what his kind are supposed to do. Prepare a path for the soul to pass on peacefully. Not all Soul Magic is bad, far from it. You can’t beat a good necromancer when it comes to settling spirits and wraiths. It’s only the bad ones that are a problem.”

“Is passing on the only way we can help Terisa’s sister?”

Max shook his head, holding up a finger in admonishment. “No, but the option must be presented. We can offer her a choice. But only the Soul itself can make that choice. If she chooses to pass into the after, that choice will be respected!” His fist slammed into the table with the last words, a sharp thudding impact adding power to the declaration.

Morgan nodded in understanding. “I can get behind that. So what’s the other option we offer?”

“Well, that huntress keeps cradling the pieces of a bow along with the bag holding the shards of the gem. Her sister must have somehow been trapped in the Soul Gem, and at some point that was used as the core of a weapon.”

“I think I can see how that would work,” Morgan agreed. I’m not very familiar with Soul Magic, but I do know some of my Skills like [Mana Link] use it, and some of my runes.”

He nodded, finishing off his coffee. “Well, seems to me, if the soul in the gem was the core of a weapon before…” He reached into his jacket, drawing his sidearm and setting it on the table, fingers trailing over its frame. “This was my father’s before me, and his father’s before him. I can’t use it out there, and neither can you. But with that necromancer’s help...and your talent with crystal…” He looked up from the gun, meeting his daughter’s eyes.

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” replied Morgan with a sudden grin.

“Then it’s about time to wake up, I think, before that woman manages to twist that poor fella’s arm until he does something truly stupid.”

She smiled. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“I’m glad we got to visit,” he said, suddenly somber once more. “We won’t be able to do this again, unless you intend to make a habit of exhausting yourself and nearly dying.” He stood, flipping a few bills onto the table to pay for the meal.

“I sorta got the feeling that it was gonna be like that,” she replied, standing up and turning towards the door. “I’m more surprised you haven’t yelled at me for being naked.”

He stopped, halfway to the door, and glanced over his shoulder. “You were born that way.” He shrugged. “You seem more than capable of slapping down anyone stupid enough to get handsy, so that’s your business. For now, though, we’re out of time.”

He strode through the door and vanished, with Morgan following close behind.

==========================================

Morgan Mackenzie woke up feeling more refreshed and rested than she ever had since arriving in the Wildlands. The benefits of talking to someone and just letting it all out were not to be understated, even in a dream. She wasn’t given much time to savor the feeling, as tense, angry shouting soon intruded on her thoughts. She sat up and looked around, pushing herself up from a bed of vines and moss. Lulu hopped up her arm to resume her rightful place on Morgan’s shoulder with a contented purble. The Titan rose to his feet behind her with a low rumble, and she grinned up at her father before hopping down to the ground and approaching the rather distraught Terisa. The huntress was struggling, restrained by the half-Ursaran, Foz. Her husband, if I remember right, thought Morgan as she approached.

“I know it is forbidden!” the woman yelled at a rather uncomfortable looking Biggles, straining against Foz’s iron grip. The Necromancer had backed away from Terisa, who seemed on the edge of violence as she continued. “I said I would pay the price!”

“It doesn’t work that way!” responded Biggles, a disturbed Wuffle on his shoulder. The pale green scrubby didn’t seem to know why its friend was upset, but it could tell something had the Necromancer agitated. It noisily puffled its disapproval from its perch. “It would still be my magic, and I would suffer the consequences too. I do not bind souls!”

Terisa seemed to sag in Foz’s arms. “Then--” she choked out, clutching the leather bag with the shards, where Morgan could still sense a soul in the throes of agony. “Then let me take her place, like she took mine…”

Biggles shook his head, a pained expression on his face. “All that would accomplish would be your death. She’d wear your body like a cheap suit, and she would still be suffering.”

Morgan cleared her throat loudly, stepping between the two and interrupting their disagreement. “My dad has a solution, I think.”

“No. Binding,” the Titan said in his low bass, staring down at the squabbling pair.

“Yeah, we get that,” replied Morgan to the giant, waving her hand up at him before turning back to Terisa. “So, like he said, no binding or everyone dies. And the odds are pretty even as to whether he ate you or I burned you first. That’s not negotiable.”

“That’s also not a solution!” snapped Terisa.

“It’s not just a question of if it should be done,” said Biggles. “Even if I were willing, we’re not in my workshop; I don’t have what I’d need. That’s a problem for more reasons than you realize! If we don’t cleanse the spirits of the fallen, we’ll have wraiths or geists within three days from the Shackled who died.”

“What?” asked Morgan, her instincts flaring with the new revelation.

The Necromancer slowly waved his hand towards the bodies stacked against one wall of the fort, something the survivors must have done while Morgan was out. “The scrubbies and your um, father, devoured most of them,” he said. His face paled and he shuddered at the memory. “But they seemed drawn to the ones who were already corrupt in spirit. Nessara and these others were merely victims, Nessara especially. Damaged souls have trouble crossing the veil.”

The Titan rumbled his displeasure, but confirmed Biggles’ statements.

“Sad thing. Hurt souls. Suffer.”

“Exactly. I need to prepare a cleansing circle,” said the man, looking up at the Titan. “But when I send the others to the after, Althenea will be drawn with them without an anchor. I don’t have the tools to make one.”

“Hence my father’s offer,” said Morgan as the giant raised one oversized hand to his side. “I can help with the magic, and he’s got an anchor I think might be suitable. We need you to give her soul a choice, though.”

Terisa had finally calmed down, and stepped away from Foz, who had warily released her. “What do you mean about a choice?”

“She has to be free to pass on or stay,” answered the [Skyclad Sorceress]. “That part isn’t negotiable. No binding.”

The huntress seemed on the verge of protest, but Dana, who had been standing nearby, pulled her aside with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “A choice is better than most get,” said the armored engineer, voice soft with compassion. “She’s suffering; all of us can feel it, not just the mages.”

“I remember you.” The Titan had turned to observe Terisa, lowering his bulk to speak more directly to her. “Badger’s pupil.”

“Yes,” replied the woman. “Kamaga tried to stop the others from attacking you my first trip out here.”

“They chose. Their fate.” Even through his inhuman tone, the lack of remorse was clear.

“Yes they did. Thank you for not chasing the rest of us down.”

His hand pushed into his side, crystals crunching along with bark and bone. It pulled away holding a chunk of obsidian larger than Morgan’s head.

“A gift. For Huntress. And Sister.”

Morgan felt her father work magic, then, familiar in tone to her own, but not as volatile as her Fire or as wild as her Earth. It was merely an expression of the Titan’s will, overlaid on reality. The black and grey crystals that made up his armor reshaped themselves, separating and flowing back into his hand as easily as water. As the last shards retracted, and he pulled his hand away, Morgan saw the familiar shape of his Colt pistol reveal itself. As it left the range of the Titan’s own aura, Biggles staggered back, as did everyone else save for herself and Terisa. The weapon pulsed with a threatening aura and a naked lethality, declaring its killing intent to all and sundry. Dana and Kojeg were the first to recover, both struck dumb at the sight.

“Death,” croaked Biggles, nearly cowering before it. “H-How many lives has that weapon taken?” His voice quivered in awe and barely-restrained fear.

“It was his grandfather’s service weapon, and then his father’s, and then his,” said Morgan. “It would have gone to one of my brothers, if he hadn’t come to Anfealt.”

“I don’t understand how this helps,” muttered Terisa with a dejected expression. “I don’t even know what that is; all my Skills revolve around my bow.”

“Then learn more,” replied Dana easily. “I can teach you the basics, and you’d be surprised how quick you pick it up. If not, you can still carry her with you and use another bow.”

“If. Soul. Chooses.”

“Don’t forget that part,” continued Morgan. “Althenea has to choose for herself.”

Terisa reached out, taking the pistol in both hands then bowing to the Titan. “I accept. If Biggles can manage it, I will abide by Althenea’s choice.”

“Morgan. Can help.”

“Yep!” Morgan put her hands on her hips, grinning at Biggles. “What do you need to make this happen, Mister Necromancer?”

Biggles seemed much more relaxed now that the prospect of bindings had been removed from the discussion. “For something like this, we’ll need at least two seven-pointed circles. I’d prefer three, but we don’t have--”

He stopped mid-sentence as Morgan’s magic flared, and with an almost casual expression of magic, a circle of dirt and stone nearly thirty paces across flattened itself in an instant. Purple flames licked along her arms, heating the surface as she compressed the material as densely as she could without [Spell Surge].

“So, three circles?” Indigo sparks leapt from her hands, jumping to the flattened earth that was now as smooth as glass. She waited, looking to the Necromancer for direction.

He shook his head wonderingly, clearing the shock from his mind. “Most would need hours of meditation to inscribe a single circle, and special tools to prepare the ground. It’s been a long time since I worked with a Sorcerer of any sort.”

She grinned back at him. “It has its advantages. So, three equal circles? You need ‘em powered off ambient mana, or a permanent investiture that fades, or what?”

“Not equal size. One large circle,” he said, pointing to the middle of the flattened area. “Seven points for anchoring the array, and since we aren’t binding anything, it just needs to hold magic and not direct it.”

“So the big one is for the shards and the soul?”

“Yes,” nodded the Necromancer. “Then one smaller circle, but no anchoring links. I’ll inscribe the three runes that will allow her to pass through the veil if she chooses that path.”

Terisa waited, almost reverently, as Morgan and Biggles went about their work. The sorceress noticed the other Worldwalker, Dana, watching as well. The helmet of her suit had reconfigured into a thin visor, and the woman seemed to be trying to understand and quantify what was happening. Morgan didn’t mind, simply happy to be putting her magic to use for something she hoped would be actually helpful to someone, and not just destruction. It was even more satisfying to her than building her stone house campsites, although she would probably never give up that particular hobby.

As she worked, she watched the Necromancer fish a pouch out of his robes. He poured a strange grey powder into his hand, and chanted in a language Morgan couldn’t understand, the words somehow blurring together into a continuous stream as he worked a strange magic. Sidling over to him, she inscribed a smaller circle near to where he stood, barely touching the central one. He shook the powder out of his hand, which drifted down to cling, as if magnetized, to the lines she had inscribed.

This must be Death Magic, she realized. It felt similar to Life Magic, but even though it didn’t assail her senses like the collars’ binding magics, it was by no means a comfortable sensation: it felt like a denial, a negation. Maybe it’s not evil, but it’ll never be my thing, she mused.

Biggles finished his spell while she watched, his Necromantic skills empowering the smaller circle. Above the enchantment, a roughly spherical area of space seemed to darken and thin, gently rippling in the air. Even with her [Mana Sight], her eyes wanted to slide away from it.

“The veil is softened here. If she chooses, the soul can pass into the after without pain or regret,” said Biggles. His tone was quiet, almost reverent, as if to speak loudly would disrespect the event. He turned to Terisa, eyes soft. “There is no binding here,” he continued. “I’ve merely opened the door. It’s her choice whether to step through.”

Morgan had finished anchoring the seven equidistant stabilizing runes around the larger circle. The enchantment was already holding ambient magic, and a faint glow of soft pink light seemed to fill the space above. “What do we need for the other circle?”

Biggles walked around the perimeter of the large circle until he stood across from the -- Doorway, I think is the only word for it -- through the veil. “Here, we need a one-way barrier, to hold something in. Not a binding, but a temporary containment, long enough for the larger anchoring circle to take effect.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “I think I can do that...but not with a seven-point circle.” She frowned, glancing down at the stone. “Three-pointed triangle?”

“Just so,” Biggles responded, “but do not link them yourself. That would seal the circle. What we need is, think of--”

“A magical panic room!” Morgan exclaimed, clapping her hands. “So she can link them, if she wants to!”

The necromancer appeared impressed. “Exactly! Where did you get your sorcery training?”

“Oh, nowhere,” she replied. “I’m just winging it.” She grimaced, rolling her shoulder. “Least I haven’t blown my arm off yet…”

The Necromancer gave her a questioning look, and Dana giggled knowingly from outside the flattened area of dirt. Morgan gathered more magic, drawing a circle with three equidistant runes on its edges. Biggles walked up to Terisa, holding out his hands.

“Now we need the shards, and the weapon,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. She handed the Colt to the Necromancer without resistance, but clutched the small leather bag, reluctant to part with it. Biggles led her forward instead of trying to take it from her, the pair of them stopping just outside the larger circle. He held the pistol out over the ‘panic room,’ and Morgan felt his magic rise as he activated the runes. The gun floated gently in the air, held in place by the magic when he retracted his hand.

“As soon as you’re ready, put the pieces of her gem in the circle,” he told Terisa gently. “Her own animus will activate the magic, and she’ll be able to choose.”

The Titan shuffled forward almost gingerly, leaning down and sniffing at the magical array as Terisa stood in silence.

“No bindings. Good magic.”

The hulking form backed away from the group, nodding down at Biggles and baring oversized crystal tusks at Morgan in a proud smile. The huntress stepped up to the central circle. Gently, she opened the leather pouch and poured the shards into her hand. The original gem had shattered into dozens of tiny pieces, but she was only able to recover several large fragments. Almost reverently, Terisa pushed the shards into the circle. They floated above her hand for a few moments, then began to drift towards the center as the seven runes began to glow.

What happened next, Morgan would remember for as long as she lived. The gem fragments flared with a bright, opalescent light, hues of color she’d never seen before flickering deep in their depths. When they glowed bright enough to rival the sun, they suddenly crumbled into tiny, scintillating motes. Terisa sobbed into her hands as the motes spun, swirling in complicated patterns Morgan could never hope to describe, before pulling into the center of the circle. A pulse of magic rippled outward, a sensation that Morgan had only ever felt from her own [Soul Anchor].

Suddenly, in the space of a heartbeat, the figure of a woman appeared where the motes had been. She almost seemed as a statue, one made of colored glass, chipped in places and shot through with cracks. Everyone stood silent -- even Terisa -- and held their breath.

The figure inside the circle was silent, too, but not for lack of trying -- the barrier within which she stood blocked what were clearly desperate, agonized screams, the woman arching her back and clutching her head as the cracks across her body raced along her form, spiderwebbing into tiny fissures.

“What’s wrong?!” Terisa demanded, rounding on the necromancer, eyes rimmed with red.

“The shard was broken, and so was her soul,” he replied gently. “But, look, she’s healing,” he continued, taking her arm and turning her back to the center.

Indeed, the damage to the figure suddenly began to smooth over and disappear, working backwards from the finest fissures to the largest chips. Terisa let out her breath in a great sigh, as her sister finally appeared to relax. Her hands fell away from her head, and she looked up.

Althenea had been beautiful in life, Morgan realized. Standing slightly taller than her sister, with wavy brown hair that she permitted to fall, unbound, to her waist, rather than wearing it bound in a braid. She must have been in there for decades, she realized. She had been told the day before that Terisa was the younger sister, but persisting in the soul gem had spared Althenea the ravages of time, and Terisa no longer bore her sister’s youthful features. I think, though, they must have been twins. Something in the eyes, and the set of their features…

Althenea had moved to stand opposite her sister; Morgan took the opportunity to further compare them. She had reformed wearing what she must have worn when she died; where Terisa wore simple hide and linen in sylvan notes of brown and green, Althenea stood in exquisitely-worked, well-fitted leather. The thicker parts of the armor, over her chest and shoulders were embroidered in green and gold, shot through with the memory of protective magic that Morgan would have dearly loved to study, had she the time. Ghostly daggers were strapped to the woman’s thighs, and hints of metal peeked out from under the edges of her bracers.

Terisa reached out, fingers and hand flattening against the barrier that separated the living and the dead. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I stopped paying attention, I turned my back for just a moment.”

Biggles withdrew, allowing the Huntress and her sister this moment together. He turned to Morgan and murmured, “Give her a moment, then link the three circles together. That’ll let her make the choice.”

Morgan nodded, then stepped back as well. For the first time since arising, she glanced at the rest of the Expedition’s survivors aimlessly milling about the wagons. Most of them seemed too overcome by a combination of fear and awe to approach, averting their gaze whenever she looked their way. Only the beastkin seemed unaffected.

Her father had lumbered back to the wall of the fort, leaning against the stone and picking his teeth with a broken tree limb almost as big as a wagon axle. A piece of something she was certain was the leg bone of some unfortunate human came loose, only to be popped back into his mouth a moment later.

“Eww,” she said, looking up at the hulking form. “Remember your manners, Old Man!”

He simply made a noise she thought was a burp and continued chewing. She could faintly hear Terisa talking to Althenea, although the barrier let no sound return from the spirit.

“The choice is yours. Just like the first time when the Oracle helped us, you can go, or you can stay.”

Althenea seemed to have already made up her mind, though, pressing her hand against the barrier and smiling at her sister. Then, she turned towards the circle that held the Colt, approaching it warily. The appearance of the item seemed to confuse her at first, and she paused halfway across the circle, but the unmistakable aura of death surrounding it clearly identified its purpose: it couldn’t be anything but a weapon, and the spirit, recognizing that, confidently stepped forward.

“Oh,” said Morgan, hurrying to link the circles together. The spirit shivered as the aura of death intensified, only sparing a dismissive gesture towards the portal as she drew closer.

“Choice made. Fighter spirit!”

“Yes,” said Terisa with a faint smile. “She was always fierce. Is fierce.”

Whatever Morgan thought she expected, she didn’t expect Althenea to dissolve into mist and flow towards the Colt. She certainly didn’t expect the Colt to reject her, the woman’s spirit falling to the ground in the middle of the circle and looking mightily confused. Biggles, Terisa, and Dana all spoke up at once.

“What?” “Wha--” “How odd.”

Althenea just looked confused, dispersing into mist once again and making another attempt. This time, the weapon glowed a deep, angry red, cracks spreading along the surface before the spirit was once again returned to the central circle. Confusion gave way to irritation, and she cast a look at those assembled.

“Biggles, what’s happening here?” Morgan asked.

“I’m…actually not sure,” he replied with a note of curiosity, stepping forward to inspect the Colt. “The weapon is steeped in so much death, so much history and killing intent. There’s not enough there, I think, to contain all of that as well as her soul.”

“Well, how do we fix that?” Terisa asked, frowning. Althenea tried again to enter the Colt, and was again rejected. As she was returned to the center of the circle, part of her mist floated away, towards the opposite side -- where the Veil sat, maw open, ready to devour her. The spirit struggled, and eventually reformed, her expression panic-stricken. “How do we fix that quickly?!” she amended.

“By adding more mass to the array!” he replied, fumbling in his pockets. “A-A wand, a sword, something!” In the circle, Althenea had turned to face the Veil and was pressing herself against the barrier, staring with naked fear.

“Anything?” Dana interjected, staring intently at Biggles. Morgan turned to face her.

He turned to look at the engineer. “I mean, a bow or crossbow would be ideal, but, yes, any sort of weapon will do, if Morgan can help put it across the barrier.”

Dana immediately turned and started away from the circle. “Kojeg!” she shouted, quickly abandoning bipedal locomotion in favor of a two-wheeled approach. Terisa shouted something from behind, something incomprehensible. “We need to amend my agreement with the Thuns!” She raced up to her workshop, which obligingly opened at her approach.

“Oh, I dinnae like the sound of that,” the dwarf grumbled. “Old Kadrass will flay me alive as quick as he will you, lass!”

Something inside the workshop thumped and clanged, as if Dana were throwing things around. She backed out the door, grunting and heaving what looked like a suitcase, if a suitcase were the length of a man.

“Ye knew the bargain,” he admonished. “Unless ye give the Thanes summat of value, ye can no give weapons to anyone! Weren’t nae exception for--”

Dana heaved, hauling the case upright and leaning it against her shoulder. “Oh, stuff your exceptions!” she yelled back. “I’ll build the dwarves a goddamn flying ship!” She started walking the case back towards the circle.

“You what?!” Morgan demanded. “I just chewed you out over a nuke!”

Kojeg simply stared, unable to respond, as the Titan laughed.

“Good. Trade. Soldier.”

“Glad you approve, Devil Dog, but we need to hurry,” Dana replied. Terisa shouted again; looking back, Morgan saw Althenea begin to lose ground, struggling to push herself away from the Veil, which seemed to have grown darker and hungrier. Dana dragged the box back to where the pistol hung, then let it thump to the earth. She knelt down, popping several clasps down the length of the case, then stood and flung the lid back.

Morgan whistled. “Is that a--”

“Based it off the Barrett M95, yeah,” Dana replied. “Details later; can you help me get this in the circle?”

“...” Morgan stood dumbfounded for a moment. Seeing her father’s Colt had been enough of a culture shock; seeing this even more modern weapon was something else entirely. “Uh, yeah, just, uh...Huh. Yeah, I can open the circle and hold it together, but...there may be complications if she’s stuck between the weapons.”

“If she still chooses it, we can fix it once she’s safe, can’t we?” asked Terisa.

“Should be able to,” replied Morgan; Biggles nodded in agreement. She reached out to the circle with her magic once again, and this time she could feel the pull from the circle connected to the veil. She could only barely feel it herself, but its effect was clearly more intensely felt by the soul within. “Okay,” she told Dana. “Put it in the circle, while I keep the barrier from breaking apart.”

The engineer lifted the rifle out of the case, then turned and carried it towards the circle. As Dana pushed the weapon through the barrier, her hands were briefly wreathed in the sorceress’ glowing purple energy. “That stings,” she complained, shaking her hands. “Like my hands were asleep.”

“Sorry about that. Almost everything I do gets a touch of lightning with the Mana.” Morgan restored the seal holding the circle, and everyone stepped back.

This time when the spirit crossed into the circle with the weapons, nothing went wrong. I think it’s working, at least, thought Morgan. Althenea, once again in her mist form, seemed to sink into the metal of both weapons. She could feel the woman’s soul, and the magic it contained, inscribing tiny runes across the grips and the barrels of both guns. The process happened so rapidly that even with [Mana Sight], Morgan could barely tell anything more than that the spirit seemed to be doing something to the weapons, but what that something was lay beyond her understanding.

Almost as quickly as it began, it was done. Once the mist-form of Althenea had disappeared entirely into the metal, both the Colt and the Barrett glowed briefly, lit from within by a silvery light. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, all three circles winked out, and both weapons fell to the ground.

“So…” Dana’s voice trailed off as everyone stood staring. “Did it work?”

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