Brothers in Arms

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The grim canopy surrounding Death-rock Wharf was as dense as the undergrowth, a vast network of life encroaching upon a city which stunk of the grave in it’s atmosphere. A port built upon the history of long forgotten dead, dead religions and the many who had perished in the pursuit of power under the shadow of the monarch of Sloth. Even when you reached the outskirts of the city the ghosts of a long lost settlement could still be found in the form of ruins consumed by the wild woodland. Statues of demons who’s names had not been heard in hundreds or thousands of years, temples and archways of stone so ruined by wrath and decay that they were no longer fit for purpose and so had been surrendered to time and nature’s grasp. Yet in this forest, at a small marshy pond far enough out of town that the sound of civilisation was like a whisper on the wind, stood a strong doorway not yet crumbled beneath the roots of either the warm or the woodland.

Sickly green water sat idle, festering with flies, moss, weeds, it was as teeming with life as it was empty for no animals could be seen drinking from its surface, for most had long since learned the error in such efforts. The doorway itself was the entrance to a crypt, one which dated back far enough to be ancient by the end of the Holy war itself, but whoever built such a tomb was not what made it important, but how it had been used. Rumours, the most interesting currency of all, told stories of a relic, one which belonged to the Gaiyans, most assuming elves but some theorised it was of angelic creation. While not powerful in enchantments, it was culturally important, an heirloom belonging to the family of a powerful sorcerer, one who took part in the grand ritual which ended the Holy war itself. Supposedly, the ones who stole this relic decided to hide it away, hoping they may use it for bargaining if the Gaiyans ever chose to aid humanity, but it was never seen or heard from again.

Rumours alone would not bring most so far into Eldritch territory, so deep behind the border of the outer realm, but it was enough for one, enough to bring a watcher. A trail of pale fog, covered by the misty blanket which hung still in the first air, wove it’s way over roots and under branches. Slithering around bushes and dodging vine covered walls until it reached the edge of the pond. It’s waters lead all the way between the smoke and the staircase which marked he crypt’s entrance, but it had to be sure it was alone before crawling over the top of the water’s surface. With time it did just that, slowly driving at the base of the staircase, and there it began to reform.The smoke landed and dispersed in silence, leaving a hunched figure to rise from the wisps of light, leaving themselves in the dark daylight of a land which had not seen true sunlight in many a lifetime. Clad in a loose black shirt with a collar open to his core, and wrapped in a jacket of purple and turquoise which hung from his powerful shoulders with a mantle of scales akin to a dragon. His skin was dark and his features sharp, rich brown hair ran along his chin, over his top lip, and rolled from his head in a cascade of thick dark curls  that obscured much of his face from the sides, but from the front his piercing and bitter eyes were unmistakeable.

Nemarius looked over his shoulder with action as he waited to make his entrance below, his senses searching for any sight, sound or smell which may alert him to another’s arrival. But there was nothing, only the far off echoes of beasts or the further hints at the Wharf. He scratched his exposed chest slightly, itching out of habit as he sensed a place like this would leave him swarming with all kinds of airborne insects before long, but he would not be here for any longer than necessary, only long enough o allow him to retrieve that which was stolen from his people. It was a crime he had chosen, out of the goodness of his holy virtues, to forgive the eldritch people for as a whole. He was not so ignorant as to deem them all criminal for something committed before many were born or turned, but that did little to ease his already warped view of most. They were one of many factors which left the world as poisoned as it was, and it left only a handful of those like himself to pick up the pieces and heal what they could. The angel began his slow walk under the roof of the crypt’s journey down, a deep and dark staircase which bore no light and no comfort. The only illumination coming from the glow of deep red light which flickered from his eyes like orbs of arcane flame.

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Nemarius made his way down the staircase, slow but with confidence as he kept watch for any sign of danger, as who knew what manner of arcane or physical traps the eldritch placed in a crypt, especially one housing stolen artefacts. He only stopped when he reached the first torch, a simple wooden thing, prepped for use implying recent activity but for some reason unburnt. A suspicious piece but one he would make use of, needing better vision than what his red glow provided. He held the torch in front of him, his left grasping the tech while his right hovered to the side of it’s wrapped head. Then, in a momentary beam of light, like sun through glass, the radiant magic sparked ignition on the material and in his grip stood a flaming torch that danced light and shadow across the stone walls to either side of him, and down the many steps before him.

Deeper he continued, estimating he must have been walking for between five and ten minutes when his feet reached the end of the downward trajectory, levelling up into a straight and flat corridor which reached deeper into the crypt. He knew from experience and research that somewhere, deeper into the constructed network, lay a large chamber housing the sarcophagus of the one who first filled this tomb, but along the way he found an open hall, barely a few metres into the path. The walls pushed back either side, stretching the chamber to be eight or so metres in width, and in length it stretched just short of onedhundred he would guess. The walls which were simple bricks of stone became replaced by finely carved ornamentation. Flat smooth stone became a background for grotesque gargoyles, crawling out from the walls and roof, threatening to leap down and tear apart any who should set foot inside their domain. The roof itself still showed flaking signs of paintwork, though barely any of it was legible, instead only the spine like ridging which run down the centre of the roof was recognisable, making the hall feel like the inside of a beast’s chest than a construction. But all of this was merely a distraction from the true purpose of the chamber, rows and rows of Sarcophagus lined his path, two abreast on either side of the central path, and lined up towards the far end as many as could fit. He perhaps would have counted them if he cared, but something told him that perhaps some of those entombed here were by his own hand once upon a time.

A curious idea that the angel thought worth proving, so with cautious steps he approached the closest sarcophagus to his right, holding his torch overhead in order to better read what was carved along the rim of the stone bed of the dead. Though carved in one of the dialects of language spoken primarily by the Eldritch during and before the Holy War, Nemarius could translate it with ease. “Here lies Targon, reaver of Hoptus”. The title was not one he remembered, but by casting his gaze further along the lid he could make out the carved imagery of a face which did ring true to his memory. Like a man’s in shape, though void of hair in any form. Markings along the skin showed the places where black tattoos branched over red skin, and around his head wrapped a crown of thorn like protrusions, horns too small to be at great but enough to inspire dread in his foes. He recalled the fight like it was merely a week ago, the way Targon leapt from the trees as if without weight but overflowing with power and ferocity. But he also remembered the way Aigios carved him in two at the waist, a recollection which made him wonder if it was truly his body resting inside or simply the memories of him. He decided not to find out, especially now that he could sense he was not alone.

Silently, a feint stream of white smoke appeared within his hand, wrapping around itself as it expanded and stretched, beginning to take the form of his mighty spear so that he may wield it in self defence, but whoever watched him from behind clearly recognised whatever it was he was doing. Nemarius dodged and rolled to the side with only a single moment standing between his head and the arrow which shot past him. Two more followed as he dropped the torch and leapt over the first row of sarcophagus, the fiery glow illuminating the centre path but leaving both sides of the room almost in complete darkness, only the faintest shimmer of reflection from Nemarius’s weapon giving away his location. He rolled forward again, bringing himself to the centre of the room once more but now the golden beauty that was Aigios in his hand fully formed. Two arrows quickly emerged from the darkness but he was able to deflect them with the flat of it’s blade, a third however managed to escape his swipe and pierce the material of his jacket, causing him no harm but a single straight hole through the open left side which only made the angel grit his teeth in frustration.

Though Nemarius waited, patiently ready to defend himself against the next volley as he tried to locate the figure, instead he heard only the faintest sound of someone tutting in disapproval. “I take it your kind do not appreciate when others try to reclaim what is theirs?” He challenged into the dark, his elegant and hypnotic voice made almost into a taunting growl by his anger and lower register in the environment. “Surrender yourself now creature, or i will reduce you to ash like i have your brethren laid here.”

As he waited for the mention of slaying other eldritch to enrage the beast, he was socially disarmed by the sound of an all too familiar childlike chuckle playful humour. “Oh come now, if i had more than one brother then that would be something worth asking mother about.” Nemarius let out a slow and heavy sigh as he stood up straight one more, not removing his weapon from his hand by his eyes burning into the shadows till out emerged the form of his attacker.

Dressed in an ornate jacket of deep black. Decorated with golden embroidery and a tall standing collar, he wore it open collared to expose a low cut cleavage of his chest much like Nemarius did. His trousers were a deep black too, with well worn dark almost sailor like boots on his feet. Over his shoulder hung a small cape of bright yellow, and in his hand he grasped a simple but well made wooden bow with a single arrow notched. The ambushers skin was tanned olive, with rich brown hair which was attractively scruffy and wild with a single braid down the side of his face. A cheeky smirk was on his lips and a deep breath broke the momentary silence between them before Nemarius spoke again, to who he now recognised easily as Zathius. “And here i thought my brother was too busy whoring his way across the east coast to bother me this far west.”

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“Oooof, harsh, someone’s just jealous i could afford to.” As the two brothers faced each other it was clear to see that they had different reactions to being within the same room. One, bitter and wary, while the other was grinning and smirking as if they were but kids again. However despite his brother’s poor mood, the younger of the pair approached him and slung his bow over his shoulder, lining up neatly with the quiver on his back. “I see you kept your reflexes sharp.”

“I see you found new toys to play with,” jabbed back Nemarius with a glance at his bow as he let out a slow breath and gradually built up the willingness to open his hand, the spear dropping for only a second before it evaporated into smoke and vanished from sight. “It is good to know you are not dead Zathius.”

“Wow, wait a minute mister, that almost sounded nice.” he teased as he looked his brother in the eye, now standing within reach of an embrace though neither moved for one. They stood there for a moment scoping each other out, eyes searching the other’s as if the right angle would allow for the reading of the other’s mind. The only illumination on either being the warm flicker’s of light reflected off them side on from the torch which still lay burning on the floor. “You’re gonna make me ask, aren’t you?” Zathius asked as he squinted his eyes, pulling back his smile into a slyer and more subtle expression of mocking curiosity.

Nemarius didn’t answer at first, in fact he didn’t even look like he was going to say anything, instead he rolled his eyes and turned to face the doorway which lead deeper into the crypt. Before he walked though he did decide to say one thing for his brother’s ears, looking over his shoulder with a smirk of his own as he simply instructed, “You can carry the light.” An instruction which was answered only by an exaggerated scoff of displeasure as Zathius walked away and back towards the torch. His mind was conflicted in how to feel about his brother being there but he was too experienced with him by that point to risk showing such uncertainty. On the one hand reuniting was always an enjoyable and interesting dynamic, to see that the other yet lived and to tell the other of their respective exploits. But in contrast he knew deep down that one of the only things they agreed on was what they were, brothers, and that beneath this they were men of different goals, different codes and different souls.

Zathius managed to catch his brother up by the time they reached the corridor, and together they walked side by side into the dark with nothing ahead of them bar a void gradually burned away by the light of his torch. “You’re really going to make me ask, aren’t you?” taunted Zathius, looking side on at his older brother as he awaited an explanation.

“But my dear, sweet Zathius, i have no idea what you are implying.” Nemarius teased in response, not even glancing to meet his brother’s eye as he knew full well what was being asked, yet he would wait until the words were spoken into the dead air of the tomb before he would offer any clarification.

“Uhu…” Zathius tried he really did, to resist the taunting and stubbornness of his brother and wait out until he would cave, but such an attempt was futile. Instead he rolled his head back, sighing with the sound of defeat and holding up the torch higher to reveal a larger portion of the path ahead. “Come on! What are you doing here? You can’t expect me to believe your self righteous ass would risk the taint of the Outer Realm just for the sake of a stroll. What do i have to thank for the pleasure of your company?”

“Don’t be a blithering idiot Gadre’el, you know why i’m here and i bet it’s why your thieving paws are groping around inside a tomb also.” Despite the lack of animosity or anger in Nemarius’s words the traces of his feelings were clear as day to anyone used him the way his brother was. In truth, Zathius could tell the other angel had nothing but disappointment and disgust for the life he lived, a hypocritical judgement from one who played the role of a scoundrel himself.

“Oh we’re going there are we?” Chuckled the younger one, genuinely finding it hilarious how easily he could test the other’s patience.

“Apparently so…” The golden archer stopped in his tracks, waiting for his brother to take the hint and follow suit so that they may talk face to face. After a few paces they did, though they were a couple metres apart now.

“Look, i get it, you don’t trust me to recover the artefact, or anyone else for that matter, but don’t you think you can sit this one out for a change rather than crusading off behind enemy lines like this?” As he pestered for approval, Zathius had genuine caution and concern in his eyes. He knew how much anger and trauma still coursed within his sibling’s veins ever since the war, and he knew that if anyone else had been here he likely would have left them skewered for daring to get in his divine path. “They’re not your enemy anymore Shamsiel… And if this thing mattered so much then it would have been handed over like two hundred years ago.”

Much like before Nemarius didn’t answer at first, instead he simply strode towards his brother, his features perfectly reserved and handsome like a painting, no rage to be seen except for deep behind his eyes where it was hidden with a secret code Zathius could read from memory. But as he stood there, inches from his brother’s face and fully lit by the fire of his torch, he spoke. “Playing pickpocket with some little human girl doesn’t mean you know how the world works, so don’t speak to me about a war you didn’t fight in.” He snatched the torch from Zathius’s hand without much resistance, and he turned on his heel to march onwards. Though Zathius caught up again a moment later he couldn’t help but swell with frustration at the ignorance of his sibling. Even if the war were in full swing, grudges against an entire species would serve no one well, to even in satisfying his pain.

As they walked the only sound other than the crackling of the fire was their footsteps, but even this halted before long. The two brothers reached the end of the corridor, and found themselves in the main burial chamber of the crypt. A single sarcophagus stood in the heart of a large open circle, with walls carved to depict scenes from battles long past and a roof showing the faded memories of a painting which he could only guess once showed each of the monarchs of Sin at the time construction. “So… who’s asking the dead guy for our stuff back?”

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As the pair slowly entered into the chamber they found themselves tense beyond their nature. Driven to caution and suspicion by two fronts, that of the environment and that of their company, for neither brother truly believed the other would simply allow them to take the treasure without resistance. Zathius in particular knew better than to trust his older brother would allow him any fun, allow him the the pleasure of retrieving the heirloom and bringing it East where it could be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Such a spoilt sport, after all if it was of such personal value to this family surely they would have hired others to come and search for it sooner?

Nemarius was out in front, striding with a straight back and furled brow, his eyes scanning over the length of the sarcophagus and every carving upon it’s surface. Meanwhile Zathius, the more cunning of the pair clearly, was already beginning memorise every inch of the chamber and scan it for possible exists, side chambers, threats, or other treasures which may be rescued from such entropy as to be left here for all of time. “Life on the run has made you paranoid my brother” called over Nemarius without making eye contact, clearly spotting from the corner of his eye how Zathius patrolled the outskirts with slightly bent knees and flexing hands as if ready to dive or duck at a moment’s notice.

“Old age has dulled your senses, ironic for someone calling themselves the watcher.” He replied in a taunting jab, all the while keeping track of observations he doubted his brother picked up on. Such as the five alcoves dug into the wall at equal intervals, each one housing a rack of ancient armour, likely that which belonged to this Demon’s honour guard or something. “Now the traveler, far less pervy don’t you think?” The smirk on his lips awaiting a response as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of an alcove, nodding at the armoured suit as if they would laugh at his joke.

“Ah so that’s the secret to your success…” Began Nemarius, his words slow and reining a sense of deep realisation and mental awakening. “…You clearly must be so subtle in your intentions, no one would ever know how many husbands have been disrespected by you.” His eyes did not leave he Sarcophagus but they did not need to, for if they had all he would have seen was the grin of admittance on his brother’s face as he shrugged.

“Judge all you want, at least i can say the wives were respected a great deal.” Had he gotten around as badly as their conversation suggested? Perhaps not, but his brother would always see the worst in him just as he always saw the worst parts in Nemarius, it was a game of words that neither could admit defeat in or they would have to inevitably resort to fists and arrows yet again. “You gonna keep eyeing that thing up or you gonna let me open it?”

“Your hands will not touch this…” He started, turning to look at his brother with a warning in his eyes just as his hand moved to rest on the lid of the sarcophagus. But in that moment they both felt it, a disturbance, a wave flow over them and through the chamber. It was a warning, a trigger, the second Nemarius touched that stone he had alerted whatever would fire on them or block the entrance.

“Where my hands go is none of your… fuck!” He exclaimed as he was cut short, rolling to the side in a last second dodge which scarcely rescued him from the spiked fist which swung directly for the back of his head. The gauntlet, ribbed in a knuckle duster like design where in the centre protruded a lethal point long enough to impale his oh so pretty face. “Ain’t no way im gonna let you blame this one on me.” Teased the younger of the pair as he reached over his back, unslinging the bow around his body and reaching for the first of his arrows.

While the archer readied his weapon, the majestic golden spear of Nemarius was already brought forth into his right hand, red eyes ablaze with a glow of radiant might as he leapt into action, drawing the attention of their attacker before a follow up attack could bring them closer to Zathius. In the alcove where he had been stood now the armour which had laid there upon the rack, with nobody inside and no weapon in hand, it stood with the posture of that which was undead but moved with a speed and instability of a beast caged within the plates. It had been enchanted, Perhaps this was what had kept the piece safe all this time, who knew how many of the sarcophagi in the chamber before were actually demons and how many were hunters in pursuit of treasure they were not equipped to retrieve.

The first thrust of his spear went between the armour of it’s left arm and the breastplate, slicing where would have been a shoulder but hung only air in that moment. Gritted teeth and a low growl expressed his annoyance at the lack of impact, but it was redeemed moment’s later when an arrow firmly imbedded itself within the right breast of the guardian. Stumbling it back against the wall just before Zathius loosed a second. “Go for the chest-plate, chances are whatever keeps it moving is inside there.” yelled the younger brother, his second arrow striking the left breast this time and leaving both arrows protruding from it’s chest like horns from it’s collarbones.

With the but of his spear Nemarius slammed the blunt of his weapon against the chest plate, once, twice, three times until a dent caused the curve of the metal to become near flat and it’s structure was weakened. “I had no idea you were an expert…Hyah!” He gave a sharp cry of aggression as he plunged the tip of his spear through the chest of the armour, it’s limbs beginning to jitter and flail as if being electrocuted until all the pieces of armour fell lifelessly to the ground. He used his boost to slide the chest plate off his spear and turned to face Zathius.

“See, worked a treat.” Expressed Zathius with a slight chuckle in his words, lowering his bow arm as he tilted his head in preparation for a thank you.

“Yes… you faced them before?” Asked Nemarius as he approached, eyeing up the archer with scrutiny.

“Not at all, i just know that’s how you stop a man moving too.” He explained simply, giving another shrug as he looked around, his joy soon turning to distaste and exhaustion. “Oh, great…” He muttered as the heavy footsteps of metal on stone began to step out from the four remaining alcoves, but these four brandished weapons of their own.

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“Get back” Nemarius Barked as he outstretched a hand, his reach forming a visual barrier between his brother and the four creations which slowly approached them. Their Posture was poor, hunched and with movements as irregular and staggered as a horde of the restless dead. Their hollow helms drifting above their collars like the heads were lulling without strength, yet the vicious ancient weapons in their grips would pose enough of a threat should they meet flesh. Two swords, an axe, and a brutal mace were divided amongst the four, and while the first had been easy enough the older brother was experienced enough to see that this would require more than a simple few seconds of teamwork.

“Hey hands off, i’m far from useless you know.” Snapped back Zathius, the tone in his voice both insulted and ready to prove himself, as if he hadn’t already a thousand times over. He readied his bow and stepped forward, the pair making eye contact for a few moments as a slow breath stayed Nemarius from arguing further.

“As you wish”, even as he spoke his voice began to shift, becoming deeper and richer, more powerful as if it was being protected to all corners of the chamber. His eyes glowed a hot vibrant white, and his skin began to glow. Inch by inch his body grew, muscle expanding and height rising as the man became his true self. A titan, over seven feet in height now and his well built physique becoming encased in a robe of white smoke. Them with a near blinding light the smoke parted like clouds on a sunny day, and underneath was revealed heavy golden plate armour, and a crowning helmet that hid whatever features stared out from underneath. Very wings stretched out behind him and he gripped his spear tight, a sideways glance at his still human looking brother before he scoffed in disapproval. “Try not to die.”

The angelic warrior leapt forth, the tip of his spear aimed to pierce the heart of one wielding a sword, though in an inhuman dart of speed it sidestepped, parrying the blow before using its own shoulder as a weapon to crash against the side of Nemarius. A groan of frustration left his lips though no sound of pain, Instead his spare hand stitched out and backhanded the animated armour wielding a mace, they back striking stone and crumbling it’s edge into dust before once more rising to its feet. He afforded himself a look over one shoulder to check on his brother, and he was not disappointed.

Leapfrogging over the sarcophagus, the younger of the two readied his bow and already planted two arrows in the chest plate of the other defender wielding a sword. It did little to slow it’s movements, but if by chance he could destroy the core from afar then it was worth a try. So far there was no sign of such luck, damn it why would his brother not wield the power he too possessed? To fight as a man was foolish, and reckless, there was a reason men were mortal, and a reason they likely would be forever more.

Swiping at the first of his attackers with the tip of his spear, Nemarius kept up the pressure of his onslaught as he forced the armour to dip and dog in directions impossible if it were being worn by a physical being, all the while using the blunt of his spear’s opposite end to deflect and misdirect the other attacker. Anger and irritation was building in his chest like a new fire, one hotter than even the arcane powers he wielded. But metaphors would not save him nor crush the eldritch creations attempting to repel him, so he resorted to the literal.

“Burn, slave of demons” he muttered from out of his great helm, the only warning before his outstretched hand began to glow hot, brighter and brighter until a searing lance of light beamed out from his palm and began to melt away the metal of it’s armour. Breaking through whatever enchantments possessed it, then striking the core until it took shattered and left the remaining pieces to drop lifeless to the stone floor.

However, despite this small victory he had no time to celebrate, for moments after one was slain, the other landed it’s hit. The brutal mace, spiked and sharpened in every direction feasible, landed a crushing swipe against his side, almost knocking the air out of his lungs before it’s other gauntlet jabbed out with a sudden sharp punch towards his face, enough to bring the taste of iron onto the angel’s tongue. A laugh poured out from him however, impressed by it as well as disappointed in himself, just in time for him to shove it back and create some room between them. That was only the start of it however, the start of his worries.

Deciding that the elder brother was enough of a threat, and finding no such potential in the slippery acrobat that was the younger, the two suits trying to grab hold of Zathius turned, and began to limp their way towards the towering soldier. He spotted this, thinking it a perfect chance to outflank and strike them in the back, he decided to hold them off until Zathius was ready to take them out together. His spear swinging in all directions like a quarterstaff, deflecting blades and striking helms with enough power and force to dent their armour even if none of them were destroyed just yet. “Anytime now brother, i would have for you to miss the fun.” He taunted out, his massive grip wrapping around the helm of one as it slowly crumbled beneath the force of his hand, the helm was ruined and thrown aside though this only seemed to make it’s attacks more erratic and unpredictable. “Anytime now, Zathius…”

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The battle between the angelic brothers and the four suits of enchanted armour was a quick paced, brutal affair, one in which the towering armoured form of Nemarius became wrath personified and Zathius exemplified the cunning and skill which had kept him alive rather than a reliance on brute force. Throughout the encounter Zathius knew his brother would have a single burning question more than any others, why was he holding back?

As he ducked under blades, kicked off the walls, darted behind the sarcophagus of stone and unleashed arrows into the chests of those who sought to slay him it may not have appeared that he was holding back, but they both knew differently. They both knew of the magic their family possessed, of the brother’s decisions to each walk the world like regular men, but something his brother never realised was that the life of a man for Zathius went beyond a simple disguise. It was for the same reason he did not wield the sword which was bound to him or unleash the searing light of his angelic blood, he fought instead with the mind and the experience he had forged for himself on his many travels.

After keeping the pair in front of him at bay for a long period of time Zathius bore witness to his brother’s destruction of one of the pair facing him, a beam of radiant heat melting it’s core until only three remained. It was an impressive sight though it only sought to make the pair fighting Zathius turn away from him and increase their efforts against the larger of the pair, both hollow suits turning and swinging with wild, unnatural blows. But despite the triple assault against him Nemarius was holding strong, deflecting and counter attacking like a demon in his own right, holding them off for an assist which did not show. “Anytime now, Zathius…” But Zathius had other plans in mind.

With the last of the armoured suits leaving him pinned against the far wall, heavy ragged breaths portraying a man exhausted and almost out of all energy, but with the turning of his back a thin smirk began to carve its way across the archer’s handsome features. He dropped to one knee, letting his skin glow with a healing aura as the small cuts he had received began to knit back together, his eyes burning hot for a moment before it all faded into normality. He stood once more as a freshman, and he began to sling the bow over his shoulder rather than wield it against the forces outnumbering his brother.

Darting forward with unnatural grace and speed the longer angel landed at the stone sarcophagus within moments, gritted teeth letting out a slight groan as he began to push and edge the lid from atop the tomb. “Sorry big brother, but i always knew you wanted to practice multitasking.” Zathius teased just in time for the older of the pair to block two simultaneous attacks with his spear, staring between the foes to witness the traveller dying to reach the treasure instead.

“Treacherous fool.” Was the only warning spat out through poisoned words as Nemarius pushed back against his attackers, forming enough of an opening for his form to dissipate into white smoke and soar over their heads. In a smooth and sudden arc it landed behind the young brother, reforming into the hulking mass of golden armour and radiant light as he raised his spear overhead and brought it slamming down where his brother had stood. Had stood being the key factor, as Zathius had known better than to think the brute would simply watch from afar. Forming into pale smoke himself he slid along the floor to the side while his brother was too enraged to notice, having been long gone before he even raised his weapon and certainly out of the way before the spear struck the sarcophagus. A mighty blow which split the lid in half, the top half furthest off the edge tumbling down with a crash which echoed far out of the chamber.

“You say that as if you would not have robbed me the same.” Teased back Zathius as he reformed a few feet away, his body and clothing emerging from the light as he held in his hand a golden sword not too dissimilar in style and craftsmanship to Nemarius’ own weapon. With a thunderous roar the spear swung round and was only blocked at the last second by the golden sword, sparks flying out from the impact as the blow was deflected just in time. Not waiting for the opportunity to be waited Zathius slid forward, past the ankles of the older larger warrior as he reached inside the tomb and plucked from the corpse’s hands the diadem of Gaiyan creation.

“You never change” growled the watcher as he turned on his heel, readying for another attack against his brother before tilting his aim at the last moment and instead driving the tip of his spear through the chest of one of the armoured suits which had caught up to them.

“Says the one still thinking he’s at war.” Countered Zathius as he let go of his weapon, letting it vanish into smoke as he charged past the conflict, down towards the entrance of the chamber and in it’s doorway he said goodbye. “I’ll see you at home someday.” With that he began to drift away down the corridor, bright light betraying his location as he got further, and further away. All he heard from behind him as his brother continued to fight was the roar of one betrayed for the hundredth time.

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