Anthony slowly turns back to the rock. He makes a bit of a show of rolling his shoulders, of lacing his fingers and stretching his arms out—cracking the joints—then shaking them out, sniffing twice as he goes.

Behind him that same patronising huff sounds, and he sucks in an irked hiss.

"Silence," he throws over his shoulder. Then, in not much more than a mutter as he faces the crumbling hilt-like thing again, "peon."

He digs in a heel, takes on the stance, and curls two hands around as much of the metal he can get at. It's rusty and flakes with bits of wiring, odd elements and whatever else went in it, crunching and crumbling a bit in his grip. He gives it a trying shake of a movement and is surprised at how loose it feels. Easy, he thinks, and pulls.

Nothing. The thing won't even budge.

"Oh yeah," Emory comments from behind. "Real impressive there, your highness."

Anthony sighs, loudly, and realigns to the rock. "Shut up," he says, and tries again. The guy laughs and replies to this, but the beginning of the sentence—whatever the word is, the syllable—is suddenly lost in a rushing whoosh.