Dama Runebreaker began putting armor on Joseph, having him take off his shirt and jacket, replacing it with a blanket of padded wool tied around his stomach, covered with leather and iron armor.

“Why armor?” Joseph said.

“Most boxers are strong,” Dama said, adjusting a steel kneepad, “Well, here they're strong. Stronger than whatever boxers you have back on... Earth, was it?”

“Yeah, Earth.”

“Yeah, from what I've seen, there are only humans on Earth,” Dama picked up a helmet in the shape of a dragon's head, “Well, first off, the majority of the boxers down here are ogres and hobgoblins, and they hit a wee bit harder than your average human or dwarf.”

“Hence the armor,” Joseph said.

“Aye. That boxer in the arena seems to be human, but they've also been at it all day against those aforementioned ogres and hobgoblins. Means they can take a hit – and deliver a good one, too.”

She set the helmet on Joseph's head. It felt superfluous and heavy – his face sat in the open dragon's maw, obscuring top and bottom of his vision. Not good for looking for an uppercut. Dama began tying his gloves on as G-Wiz slapped him on the back.

“This feels ridiculous,” Joseph said, “I feel ridiculous.”

“Armor is the inside of the heart brought outward,” Dama said, “What's my old pa always used to say.”

“That's very reassuring,” Joseph drawled, “So what's the second reason I'm wearing this, anyways?”

“Well, boxing's a sport not native to Londoa,” Dama Runebreaker said, “Some Far Traveler... Ali, I think his name was, he brought it here. You know Londoans. Like to make things even more of a spectacle, 'specially here in Scuttleway.”

“So I'm dressed like a clown-”

“A Dragon,” G-Wiz corrected.

“A Dragon,” Joseph put the term in air-quotes – or the best air-quotes he could manage with boxing gloves on, “Because you guys think it looks cool.”

“Look, either I box, or I fight to the death in the Colosseum,” Dama said, “Which do you prefer?”

Joseph heard the sharp crack of bone come from outside. A hobgoblin began to scream like a baby.

“There's a difference?” he asked.

***

All things considered, the armor was comfortable. Joseph only lost a bit of speed – a loss, but one he could get used to. As he strode out the door, the crowd in the Welt began to scream and chant.

“Dragon!” they shouted, “Dragon! Dragon! DRAGON!”

He supposed that was his title. The patrons had moved to either side, giving him a straight-shot towards the ring. He took a few uncertain steps, then, with a resigned shrug, walked with a brisker pace. His opponent was already in the ring – they were standing in its center, staring at him, wearing armor similar to his, only the helmet was that of a knight's. The fairy tale of the knight slaying the Dragon, repeated in the holy place that was the boxing arena. Joseph tried to shake that comparison – and the story's usual end – and tried to remember half-formed memories of his time back on Earth.

His boxing instructor had been an old African-American man, a former champion – or at least, someone who had been at the top of the game. He had retired after a good, long career and founded his own gym. Joseph had started taking classes there at the beginning of High School. He had never been the best – far from it, as a matter of fact. Yet Coach Tristan had always paid attention to him. His progress.

“You ain't the best boxer here, son,” he said one day, pulling Joseph aside, “Your style's developing pretty well. Your technique ain't too shabby. But you can't punch with the best of 'em. You don’t got the strength or the speed.”

Yeah, Coach Tristan was often too blunt for his own good.

“What do I do, then?” Joseph had asked.

“You're a counterpuncher. Your brain's bigger than any muscle in your body,” Coach Tristan said, “Use it. Know when the other guy's gonna punch. Dodge it, and hit back where he's vulnerable. Or don’t dodge it, and hit him back anyways. Lord knows you can take a shot or five and still keep standing, my God.”

So Joseph had developed himself into a counterpuncher – predict the opponent's moves, block them and put him in a tight spot. He needed to have sharp reflexes if this was going to work. But as he stepped into the ring, as he sized his opponent up, he wasn't sure if he was up to the challenge. He had seen the knight's movements prior to the match, and they had been blurs of motion.

Joseph had the feeling he was in for a very long day.

There was, shockingly, a referee in the ring. A short goblin with a comb-like mustache, he put himself between Joseph and the knight.

“Alright, rules are rules: No powers, no magic, just straight ol' fisticuffs. No hitting below the belt. That means you, son,” he shot a glare at Joseph.

“Me?” Joseph raised an eyebrow.

“Broken bones means an automatic loss,” the goblin continued, “As does dislocated bones, shattered bones, bone jutting out of the skin-”

“Alright, enough with that,” Joseph said. He looked at the knight, though he couldn't make out their face beneath their helmet. Part of him wanted to say “Please don't kill me.” Instead, he said, “Good luck.”

An amused huff, distorted by the metallic echo of the helmet, emanated from the knight. They took a few steps back and took a stance. Peek-a-boo, Joseph noticed, their gloves up right by their face. It was pioneered by some famous boxer back on Earth – or Prime, or some other Earth-like plane. Good for protecting the head, and pound on the opponent’s face when it came down to it. Joseph took his own stance, curling around his opponent, though as the two of them dancing around one another, he realized weren’t raised quite high enough-

And the knight flashed forward with a quick jab. Joseph's helmet took the blow, the punch clipping the bottom of the dragon's jaw, swinging his head back. Joseph stumbled into the ropes, eyes darting to see any sign of the knight's next attack.

Yet none came. The crowd roared from the exchange, jeered at Joseph's clumsiness. He glared as a gnome in the front roars was jeering at him, spittle covering his face. With a frustrated huff, he got back up, turning back to face the knight. He raised up his fists, nodding to the referee that he was ready.

He was prepared for the next exchange. The knight gave another jab – the exact same one that they had used before. Joseph spun, blocking it with his left arm, at the same moment delivering a blow into the knight's side. They broke apart.

A test, on the knight's part. To see if Joseph was stupid. They had learned he was not. The knight lowered their guard from their face to a more neutral stance, one to better protect their whole body. If there had been any sign that Joseph had dealt real damage with his punch, the knight did not show it.

Yet still, Joseph was finding it hard to move about in the armor. He could feel light enchantments on it – probably Dama Runebreaker's work – that made it lighter and more resistant to damage, but it still felt unnaturally bulky. He needed fancy footwork if was going to win this fight.

He was too much in his head. The knight was far faster than him, faster than he had even anticipated watching them fight before. It was like trying to dodge a tornado, blow after blow hammering towards Joseph, his feet tangling back like a drunk ballroom dancer. The knight was pushing him towards the ropes-

There. He made an errant block aimed at his ribs, hooking a right towards his opponent. It hit, dashing against the side of their helmet. Joseph threw a few more punches out – one connecting, the other two missing – before pulling back. Better not to over-extend himself. He and the knight were about the same height. Roughly. They probably had the same reach, too.

Roughly.

The knight was relying on getting in close and overwhelming him with a hurricane of punches, designed to exhaust and overpower. They began an assault once more, and Joseph began weaving his way from the punches – though with less success, as a few precise jabs landed on his side. Pain wincing up his side, Joseph curled himself in a bit-

Right as a swing collided with the side of his head. The helmet took the brunt of the blow, but it had an effect Joseph was not used to in boxing – a metallic ring, like a grenade had just gone off beside his head. Joseph stumbled back. He had to recover. Get himself ready for what-

The knight delivered an uppercut. It slammed firmly in the bottom jaw of the dragon helmet, whipping Joseph's head up. The back of his neck flared red hot from the pain. Blinking tears from his eyes, he looked at the knight, getting ready for the next altercation. He gritted his teeth and-

The bell rang. For a moment, Joseph was unsure of what to do, standing stupidly in the center of the ring while the knight walked to their corner.

“Get over here, Joe!” Dama Runebreaker’s voice sang dull in his ears, like out of some other life. Nonetheless, he followed her voice to its source, nearly collapsing against the ropes. Sweat had lined his entire body, had leaked into the cotton guard beneath the armor. Exhaustion had sunk deep into his bones. He was aware – faintly – that Dama Runebreaker was removing his helmet, brushing his hair away from his eyes, putting a towel on his face.

“You're doing great,” she said. She had put her face beside his, and her breath stank of ale.

“I'm not,” Joseph said, pulling his mouth-guard out, “I can barely land a hit on the guy.”

“Yeah, well, I got bad news,” Dama pulled a face, “This one's a southpaw.

“They've been punching with their right the whole time!” Joseph exclaimed.

“Alright, they're ambidextrous. They usually switch it up between rounds.”

Joseph shot her a quick glare, before turning his attention towards the knight. They hadn't taken their helmet off, instead shuffling their legs and going for a few practice jabs.

“They've been at it all day,” Joseph said, “How are they not tired?”

“Some folks are weird like that,” Dama said, “Listen, they're getting in under your guard too much.”

“It's the helmet,” Joseph said, “It blocks my vision too much.”

He made to remove the head entirely, but Dama grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back down.

“Woah there, tough guy,” she said, “That helmet's there for a reason. That bastard'll knock your head clean off.”

But Joseph was already standing up again, “Yeah, but they'll break my neck if they get another hit like the one back there. I can feel the whiplash already.”

Dama didn't stop him this time, instead giving him a tragic look as he peeled the helmet off and tossed it aside, slipped the mouthguard back in, and slammed his gloves together. He nodded to the referee. The bell dinged again as he approached the knight in the center of the ring.

“Glad to see you dumped the mask,” the knight said.

Joseph didn't respond. Dama was right – the knight shifted stance, a mirror of their original upright position. They had resumed the peekaboo, stalking forward, ready to pop at Joseph's now-unprotected head. But Joseph knew this.

The knight threw an experimental jab. Joseph blocked it. The two of them danced for a few moments, before the knight threw another punch, then immediately threw themselves at Joseph, punching forward. Joseph ducked and bobbed, avoiding the punches as best he could, noting that many were aimed at his head. It was an obvious target – and he found his in as the knight swung with their right. He crossed it, tilting his head to the left, feeling the fist blow by the side of his head like a stray bullet. His own right slammed into the knight's face – or, helmet, the metallic ring shaking up his arm. It was enough to let the knight stagger back. Joseph relented, letting them pull back instead of keeping up his attack.

“You're an idiot,” the knight said, “You should've gone for the kill, there.”

“Not my style,” Joseph replied through the mouth-guard, “Come on, ready for round two?”

“We...” the knight got up, “We are in round two.”

It was the most words that Joseph had ever heard from his opponent. And they were right.

“Whatever,” Joseph said, “I don’t really need to go all in, you’re not worth the trouble.”

It was a lame insult. And he shouldn’t have said it, as something changed in the way the knight carried themself.

“Got some bad news, kid,” the knight said, “I've been holding back all day.”

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Joseph felt a thrill shudder up his spine, “Oh.”

What happened next was something that Joseph was glad no one was around to record. It was a beating, savage and precise, simultaneously professional yet disgustingly personal. The knight surged forward, fists flying near the speed of light. They mercifully aimed at Joseph's torso, his armored denting from the force of the blows, though the knight did deliver a few to his head that saw him seeing stars and Nai Nai's face.

“Get up, grandson!” she spat at him.

“I'm dying, Nai Nai,” Joseph whispered back.

“Bah, dying! Useless grandchild!”

The knight finished the match with a whirlwind of punches, three to his right, four hammering his left shoulder, one clipping his chin. Joseph, whose face had begun puckering into a mosaic of blues and purples, made a vague attempt to counter the last blow, an uppercut, but the knight, deciding enough was enough, zipped past his guard. The hit connected, and Joseph felt himself float up into the air, before crashing down onto the ring's floor.

The bell screeched for a final time, sounding darkly like a funeral dirge. The crowd roared. Joseph turned his broken body, laying on his side. One purpled eye had glued itself shut. The other was watery, though he could make out just enough as the knight, whose gloves were raised up in victory, took off their gloves and helmet.

“Nash!” Dama Runebreaker's voice cut through the Welt, “Nash, you bastard!”

Nash flashed a smile, one that was more friendly than arrogant - or rather, as friendly as it could have been after the beat-down they had just delivered. Their long, brown hair matted wetly against their sharp face.

“Nash, you idiot!” G-Wiz shouted, “That's Joseph! Your guildmate!”

“Guildmate?” Nash mouthed, voice lost in the crowd. Then their attention snapped to Joseph's crumpled form. He saw them mouth “Oh shit,” before making their way over to them. Joseph's vision dimmed, though he felt them pick him up and start carrying him somewhere…

***

“Well, Joseph, I pray it was good exercise?”

Nurse Elenry's voice woke Joseph up, cutting through the inky blackness of unconsciousness. Joseph opened his eyes, noting that both of them were working again. Elenry stood by his bedside, staring down at him from the rim of her glasses, a look of stern disappointment written on her face. She was a Gloivel, with the top half of a human and the bottom half of a wolf. A pair of folded wings were tucked to either side of the wolf's body, flapping a bit occasionally in an indignant fashion. Standing at the doorway was Nash, who had changed out of their armor and was wearing a guilty look on their face.

“As… As good as it could have been,” Joseph coughed. He looked down to see bandages mummifying his body, “How bad is it, Doc?”

“Fourteen fractured ribs, a concussion, a bad case of whiplash, quite a bit of internal bleeding...” Elenry's voice was taut and annoyed, “Be lucky that magic is real, Joseph, else you would be dead right now.”

“Sorry,” Nash said weakly.

“And you!” Elenry wheeled towards them at the door, “What in the Sky's name were you thinking?”

“I wasn't,” Nash admitted.

“That much is true,” Elenry said, “You're lucky that Dama Runebreaker owed me a favor, otherwise Becenti would be hearing of this.”

Nash pulled a face in response.

“And Nash! The first thing you do upon getting into town isn't to go to Castle Belenus, it's to box in the Welt!?”

“It sounded fun,” Nash reasoned, “And I wasn't expected for another day.”

They quivered beneath Elenry's glare.

“Well, then,” Elenry said, “I believe you owe me for this, Nash Rhide.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Nash admitted, “What'll it be?”

“Well,” Elenry thought for a few moments, “Dinner at eight?”

Nash gave a small, relieved smile, “The usual place?”

“You're buying,” Elenry's sharp glare melted into a friendlier smile, “Good to see you, Nash. If I hear of you boxing at the Welt again, I'll tear out your heart.”

“But it’s already yours,” Nash gave a wink.

“Stop it!” Elenry blushed, then, noticing Joseph in the room, “Sorry, Joseph.”

“Dinner and a show,” Joseph coughed.

Elenry re-adjusted her glasses, “I have a few other patients to attend to at the moment. You remain here.”

“How long will that be?” Joseph asked.

“Another few days, just to make sure you don't re-open anything,” Elenry said.

“Alright,” Joseph nodded as the Gloivel began walking out of the room, “Wait, re-open?”

But she had already gone out the door. The infirmary of Castle Belenus was on the second floor, and was composed of dozens of rooms lining one side of the guildhall down to the other. Joseph's room was relatively sparse – he was lying in a bed, an IV stand towering beside him, a table in the corner of the room. On the wall, someone - probably G-Wiz - had given him a ‘Get well soon’ card, depicting a cat holding onto a tree. Nash walked over to the bedside, pulling over a chair and sitting down.

“Hey,” they said.

“So you're Nash,” Joseph let out a wry chuckle, “I guess I should be upset.”

“You have every right to be.”

“I am, but I'm also not,” Joseph said, “Where'd you learn to box like that?”

“I know a lot of martial arts,” Nash said, “I learn where I wander. Learned boxing while on Prime. Coach was a real killer.”

“You can... say that again,” Joseph said.

“Joseph, was it?” Nash said, “Really, I'm sorry.”

Joseph waved a hand lazily, “Whatever. I’ll get you back sometime. Where's Dama Runebreaker?”

“Avoiding you,” Nash replied, “Though she did leave that.”

They nodded at the corner of the room. Resting on the wall was a blade that glinted like silver. The Vlaynian sword, slightly curved, the hilt covered by a bell-shaped basket and the pommel a sharp spike.

“Good,” Joseph said, “I need that to give to Mekke.”

“Mekke?” Nash said, “What for?”

“To get the book, to get milk, to get information.”

“Ah, one of those days, eh?”

“Eh,” Joseph agreed, “So you're Nash, then.”

“Finally, onto yours truly,” Nash stood up. They wore simple traveling garments – a brown coat and brown pants, a white undershirt underneath, a red scarf wrapped around their neck. Their hair was tied up in a knot. Nash extended out a hand, “Nash Rhide, from the Runway, Plane of Speed.”

Joseph shook their hand, “You mention that to everyone?”

“Gets the awkward conversations out of the way,” Nash said, “The Runway’s a distant plane, not a lot of people know about it. We have one entire Federation embassy there, and it's disheveled as shit.”

“Neat. Joseph Zheng, from Earth.”

“The Plane of...?” Nash cocked their head.

“...Earth?” Joseph guessed.

“Earth, the Plane of Earth,” Nash let out a chuckle, “I'm beginning to like you already, Joseph Zheng.”

“Just Joseph.”

“I didn't think you to be a righteous guy,” Nash said.

“No, I meant, I'm just called-” Joseph narrowed his eyes, “Very funny.”

“So, sword for book, book for milk-” Nash smiled, “Chadwick, I assume?”

“Little bastard,” Joseph said, “But he knows things.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Chadwick,” Nash said, “It's weird; I trust him, and yet I don't.”

“I had a cat like that once,” Joseph said.

“What happened to him?”

“Turns out, he had three other owners,” Joseph laughed, “Saw him in the window of a neighbor down the block lapping up a bowl of milk. Our eyes locked, and he ran out the open door back to our house.”

“Ha, sounds like Chadwick,” Nash said, “He's got owners a-plenty.”

They slapped their knees, rising up.

“Now,” they said, “You have the sword. Shall we get you up?”

“I'm... supposed to stay here,” Joseph said. He tilted his head at his bandaged body, “You almost killed me, you know.”

“Again, sorry,” Nash said, “But time's a-wasting, and you won't do anything lying there.”

“I can't move my legs.”

“Sure you can,” Nash chuckled, “Don't play stupid.”

Joseph rolled his eyes and began moving to get up, “Let me be pampered for once in my life, alright?”

“Ahh, I'll get you a chocolate bar and a juice box, or something,” Nash said, “Come on.”

They helped Joseph up to his feet. A shock of pain winced up Joseph's back and neck. He was used to such pain at this point, however, from working on his metapower and Phineas and Rosemary throwing rocks at his soul. He followed Nash out the door. A thought came into his mind. He turned to the small lock, pushing his finger against it. He started the eagle's cycle, feeling one of its hands come to life, only giving it a bit of energy. The hand was proportionally smaller, reaching inside the lock's hole and reaching into the inside of the room, twisting the lock shut.

“There,” Joseph said, “Assuming Elenry doesn't see us, we should be in the clear.”

“Smooth,” Nash said, “So, who are we getting the sword to?”

***

They returned the sword to Mekke easily – she was glad to have the blade back.

“And it looks like you went through quite a bit to get it,” she said, impressed.

“You know,” Joseph said, “Boxed Nash. Got my ribs broken. Nothing too major.”

“Hmm,” she reached back into her pack and retrieved the book, “One copy of Combat Theory in a Post-Multiverse World.”

Joseph retrieved the book. It was thick, and he had to hold it in both hands. The cover depicted a knight in shining armor wielding a futuristic rifle. Nash looked over his shoulder.

“Haven't seen a copy of this in a while,” they said, turning up to look at Mekke, “Doing some research?”

“Some,” Mekke replied, “A passing interest, I hope.”

“Post-Multiverse World?” Joseph said.

“Aye,” Mekke responded, “Planes like Londoa, who are technologically inferior to other planes, often find themselves scrambling to change wartime tactics due to cross-planar intervention.”

“I thought cross-planar stuff was forbidden by the Federation?” Joseph said.

“Ah, what is written law is not always reality on the ground,” Nash said, “Some things always slip through the cracks. Besides, nations always need mercenaries, and guilds can fulfill that role.”

“Guilds can be hired for war?”

“Aye,” Mekke said, “The Amber Foundation actually participated in the Salthirn War, ten years back.”

Joseph scratched his head for a moment, wracking his brain, “That was... what Evukor was all about, right?”

Nash pulled a face, “Hated Evukor. Never want to go back.”

“Evukor hired five guilds to bolster its defenses against the Salthirn invasion,” Mekke said, “Amber Foundation, Blue Sky Waiting, Exodus Walkers, Disciples of Aether, and the Bloodrunners.”

“So if it comes to it, the guild'll just...?” Joseph started to get a bad feeling. Nash, perhaps recognizing his unspoken thought, placed their hand on his shoulder.

“The folks who took the Evukor job were volunteers,” they said, “Wakeling herself joined them. Led them, actually. We aren't going to throw you into a big bloodbath without at least giving you the chance to say no.”

“What about the other guilds?” Joseph asked.

“Well, the Bloodrunners are primarily mercenary,” Nash said, “Blue Sky Waiting, they're so big that everything's automated, so there wasn't a choice. Mekke, what about the Exodus Walkers and the Disciples, you remember?”

Mekke shrugged, “No idea about the Disciples. A strange bunch, that guild. The Walkers, if I recall, had to pick names out to not go on the job. Too many volunteers.”

Joseph remembered the way that Alonso Moriguchi and the too-professional manner in which he had fought. Beneath that had been a dark savagery, now that he could look back on it without as much fear as before. So that made sense.

“Alright, best we get going,” Nash said, looking out the window, “Getting dark, and Phineas and Meleko have their chores to finish.”

They gestured to the two of them at Mekke's feet. Phineas was curled in a ball, trying to look small. Mekke's boot had forced Meleko's face into the cobblestone floor, and she kept the boot on the back of his head, admiring the Vlaynian sword with a grim smile on her face. The entire armory was littered with loose Myth Battle cards.

“Right,” Joseph said, “Let's get to Barbara.”

***

Barbara took the book in one great claw, raising it up to her eyes, squinting at it.

“Ah, so it seems that Mekke bent a few pages,” she murmured, “I will need to speak to Becenti about this.”

She lowered the book, “But through no fault of your own. Thank you for retrieving my book, Joseph. It's good to see you too, Nash.”

“Barb,” Nash nodded.

“Wakeling heard you'd arrived,” the toucan said, “She wants to speak with you.”

“Funny, didn't hear her voice in my head,” Nash said. Then, they looked up for a moment, “No, wait, there it is.”

They patted Joseph on the back, “Talk later?”

Joseph winced from the pat, “Yeah, sure.”

“I'll try to distract Elenry, make sure she doesn't notice you've really gone, or anything.”

“Thanks.”

They walked out of the library, leaving Barbara and Joseph alone.

“So,” Joseph said, “The milk?”

Barbara let out a deep sigh, then a chittering of her beak.

“Very well,” she said, “I'm a bird of my word.”

She extended out her wings and took off. It was always a marvelous sight, Joseph was realizing, to watch her flit about the library ceiling. Shelves were arrayed at the top that only a few guildmates could get hold of. It was her domain, of course – Barbara forbade flight in the library save for her own. She curved along with the ceiling, landing at one of the shelves, claw grasping at a rope which connected to a crate. With a heave, she flew down and dropped the crate by her desk. Joseph heard a slosh from within.

“Your milk,” she said.

“Thanks,” Joseph walked over and tried to lift it, “Jesus, what's in here? Bricks?”

“Milk.”

“It was...” he rolled his eyes, “It was a joke.”

The soul burst out of his back, lifting the crate with relative ease. Joseph began carrying it out into the Great Hall.

***

Chadwick had a room all to himself. Joseph hadn't found it until Rosemary had pointed it out to him one day.

“It's right over there,” she jabbed a finger at a door in the corner of the fifth floor, “Never go in there unless you're invited.”

“Invited?”

“It's like a reverse vampire situation,” Rosemary said, “If you go inside and Chadwick hasn't invited you, you're turned into a mouse.”

“Haha.”

“No, really!” Rosemary said, “Broon’s had to pry a few of us out of Chadwick's mouth a few before,” Rosemary said. She visibly shivered, “It's not a fun experience, getting eaten by a cat.”

With that in mind, he waited, knocking on the door with his regular hand, soul still surging up, its electrical form rippling like a waterfall. The eagle re-adjusted the crate in its hands, hoisting it up on its right shoulder.

“Come in,” Chadwick's voice was muffled behind the door. Taking a deep breath, Joseph opened it up, the door creaking with an unholy whine.

It was not so much of a room as it was a lair. There was very little in terms of furniture in here, save for a few cat posts in the corners. The entire place was dark, illuminated for perhaps the first time in years by Joseph's soul, blue light dancing off the scarred, black walls that had scratched-off runes in a strange, swirling script. Chadwick himself lay in the center of the room, in a great nest of discarded blankets, pillows, and furs from various large predators – Joseph recognized bear skins, lion's manes, even the peeled headskin of a tyrannosaur. The calico was licking his front paw, mirth-filled eyes regarding Joseph as the metahuman stepped inside, a king staring down at his peasant.

Despite the fact that the king was the size of a football, but that was beside the point.

“Good,” he said, “Put the milk there, in the corner, by the skeleton.”

“No one I know?” Joseph asked.

“An interloper from a few years ago,” Chadwick said, “Not part of the guild, I assure you.”

“Not exactly reassuring,” Joseph put the crate into the corner, soul dissipating as he stretched and squinted his eyes as the room became shrouded in darkness. Chadwick's green eyes pierced through, however, twin emerald orbs that seemed to float in the air like will-o-wisps.

“Alright,” Joseph said. He winced a bit as he walked over to the cat, sitting down in front of him, “Lord Iresine.”

“Indeed,” Chadwick said. There was an amused sort of ambiguity to his voice, “Where to begin?”