Threadbare knew the details of the quest already. He used the time to look around at the people who had answered Garon's call. Some he knew, one he didn't, but he was heartened by what he saw.

To his left was a familiar, fishy face. A wooden fishman a foot taller than him drummed leather-webbed wooden knuckles against the table, bopping his head to the impromptu beat. His frame was optimized for diving, complete with a semi-open chest that held air bladders and ballast tanks. He had a pair of goggles pushed up on his forehead, held in place by the beginning of his crested fin. This was Glub, and he was a doll haunter. Threadbare had encountered him in the village of Outsmouth, where he had been abused and used as a minion by a really rather skeevy Cultist. He'd since gone on to be a Bard and Explorer, and they were lucky to have this job come up when he was back in Cylvania. He liked to spend time exploring the outside wilderness, particularly the waterways.

Just beyond him sat a tin soldier, She wore actual clothing over a green-and-yellow uniform that was painted directly onto her body, and had a cylindrical cloth hat that easily added a full four inches to her twelve-inch height. Her limbs were jointed, as was her face, and she wore a bandolier of matches around the calf of one tin leg. A long rifle not much bigger than a human-sized handgun was stowed across her back, complete with a bayonet affixed to its barrel, and she was watching Garon like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. This was Buttons, and she'd trained under the greatest generals in Cylvania. (Which, after the losses and grueling bloodbath that was the war, meant she'd worked for about three different people.) She was reputed to be one of the better shots in the valley, using the newly-developed guns that the dwarves were selling to impressive advantage. Threadbare remembered her from her graduating class in the Rumpus Room. That permanent, cocky grin on her face hadn't changed one bit.

The next spot to the right was Dracosnack's seat, and Threadbare couldn't help but feel a wave of happiness at seeing them. Dracosnack was an old war buddy... even if neither they nor Threadbare had known it at the time. They had been one of Celia's stuffed toys, that she frequently animated and used as a minion in combat. Once in a dungeon, Threadbare had retreived Dracosnack's mangled remains, and worn them as a hat to safely get them out of the dungeon.

Of course that had been long ago. But one of the things that he and Celia had done when they'd gone back to their old family home was go digging for their old toys. They'd repaired the ones they could find and given them new lives as greater golems. It seemed like the right thing to do. Dracosnack had gone on to become a skilled Wizard and Elementalist in their own right, mixing field work with research in the restored laboratories of Castle Cylvania.

And the last figure, directly to Threadbare's right, was an unfamiliar face. A young, brown-haired human man in shining steel armor, that had been polished to its maximum shine. From Threadbare's angle he could easily see the mace slung on his belt, eight pounds of spiky metal on a well-worn wooden handle. He had a shield slung on his back, and his tabard bore the sign of two chickens and a set of scales on a field of green, with that fancy golden filigree that indicated he was a noble of some sort. The youth was listening to Garon, but his eyes kept flicking back to Threadbare, examining him with curiosity.

All the while Garon was speaking, and Threadbare tuned back in to hear his final words.

“...so after you check in at the Toofar post, that's when you'll begin the approach on the Forest of Final Boss. You're going to be looking for any signs of the survivors... there's only a handful of those, and their details are in the dossiers at your place.” Garon tapped the folder in front of him, and indicated the copies that sat at each spot. “I can tell they're alive through Guildmaster tricks, but I don't have any other information on their status. No clue on anything else, I'm afraid. Your mission is to save our comrades, and not to engage any threat in there, and I recommend that you don't unless you're absolutely certain you can handle it. Even then, think hard about your choice. This place eats people. Whatever's in there is a big deal.” Garon leaned forward, glaring down his steel muzzle to emphasize the point. Then he nodded, and tapped a gauntlet finger on the table, with a clang. “You've got questions. The floor's open.”

“I only see five of us here, unless you're going too, Ser Garon?” the human spoke up.

“I won't be going on this. You'll be picking up two more party members at the Bigstump outpost. Well, one more party member and her mount.”

“Her mount! We're holding a party spot for a minion?” the human's eyebrows were climbing toward his short-cropped hair.

“Ser Garon,” Buttons said.

“What?”

“You forgot the Ser Garon at the end of that.”

“Ah. Oh. Ah...” he turned a little red. “I'mverysorrysirIdidn'tmeanathingbyit,” he said in a rush of air.

“You're forgiven,” Garon waved a hand. “Buttons, this isn't the military and honorifics aren't a hard rule here. But thanks for the reminder.”

“It's one of my oaths,” the young man said, rubbing the back of his head. “I came perilously close to showing disrespect. Ser.”

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Threadbare suspected that the man might not have been chosen for his charisma. “I'm sorry,” the teddy bear offered, and immediately every eye turned to him. “I think I know everyone here except you. I'm Threadbare. Who are you?”

The young man stuttered. “Th-there's... I m-mean, everyone knows you, sir. Lord? Councilor? Oh... I don't know your honorific...”

“I don't have one, I'm just Threadbare,” the teddy bear offered. “But you have one, I expect?”

“Ah! Ah, right. I'm Apollyon— Sir Apollyon Henweigh, of the Easterlynn Henweighs. Recently knighted, by the grace of the shrine of Nurph.”

“And one of the better tanks that I've had the pleasure training,” Garon broke in. “You'll be in good hands if it comes down to a fight.”

Dracosnack spoke up, their voice rumbling, but soft. “Mmmm. Do we have anyone who can heal flesh and blood? If we do not, then this might be mmm... a problem.”

“I got songs man,” said Glub. “Ain't nothing but a thing.”

“Are you talking about bard songs? Bard songs are too slow for healing tanks in a tough fight,” Buttons said, glancing sideways at Glub. “We'd need a dedicated healer for Sir Henweigh here to be useful.”

“Fortunately that's the role that the last member of your party will be picking up,” Garon said, folding his fingers together. “She's a top-notch healer and a pretty good fighter in her own right.”

Threadbare straightened up. He rather thought he knew who Garon was talking about, and the thought made him happy. But before he could ask and confirm it, Glub spoke up.

“Okay man, can someone lay something out for me, here? This forest of the final boss thing, why's it called that? Is there a big dungeon in there?”

“Maybe,” Garon sighed. “We first became aware of this region's deadliness two years ago, when one of the R.A.G.S teams exploring that region failed to check in. I checked their Guildmember status and saw that they were mostly alive, so we gave them a week or two to check back in. Then we sent out search parties. We narrowed down the region of wilderness to that lone patch of forest, between the hills. But... anyone we sent in died. With one exception.”

“Madeline?” Threadbare asked.

“Madeline,” Garon confirmed. “Like some of the original lost party, she's still alive. But we can't find her. Not through scrying, not through Oracular visions, nothing. Something's blocking our sight, or she's out of this world. But... I'm getting ahead of myself.” He glanced over at Glub. “It's called the Forest of Final Boss because after we figured out the region, we went searching through old maps and records. And we found a Pre-Oblivion map from an adventurer who had come through twenty two years ago. That name was scrawled on the margins... though it had a question mark at the end of it, so it's hard to say if it's accurate or not.”

The party digested that for a moment. “Hum. Harrum. So why have we left it alone for so long? Or have we?” Dracosnack asked.

“We've mostly left it alone because we estimated that solving it before this point would require a large amount of resources, time, and priorities,” Garon said. “And the fact is we didn't want to just throw people into a potentially fatal situation and hope that we could solve it with a flood of bodies. So instead we hit up our Shamans and Oracles and other cheaty sorts to try and figure out a better solution. This took time. But a few weeks ago, the visions started clicking.” Garon glanced over to Threadbare.

“I seem to be a part of the best solution,” Threadbare said. “We don't know exactly why.”

“Are we then to be Lord— Sir— I...I... sorry,” Apollyon gulped. “Are we then to be Threadbare's honor guard, ser?”

“No, you're going to have to work harder than that, probably,” Garon said. “We don't know what's in there, and whatever it has, it's protected against direct scrying, and invisible to divination magic. Even our attempts to scout it with charmed animals and remote controlled animi were stymied. So we're sending along a strong and balanced party, with the expectation that you'll be able to either manage the threat well enoguh to succeed at your mission, or escape with most of you alive if things go horribly wrong.”

“But we need to make sure Threadbare survives, regardless,” Buttons said, staring at Threadbare with a shine in her painted eyes. “That's about the size of it, sir?”

“The God Squad says they've been going at the visions from an oblique approach, whatever that means,” Garon said. “But yeah, they were pretty clear that whatever's in there the situation won't improve unless Threadbare plays some part in its solution. Congrats buddy, you're the chosen one.” Garon made air quotes with his fingers.

“Lay down our lives for the boss. Got it, sir,” Buttons nodded, and her grin widened. “Wouldn't have it any other way.”

“I don't think I'm your boss,” Threadbare said. “We're all in the same party together. Or we will be, anyway.”

“Now let's be real here... sir,” Buttons said, folding her arms. “You're the father of our species, here. Everything we are we owe to you. There's not a golem in Cylvania who wouldn't take a bullet for you... or if there is, then they're a godsdamned ingrate. You're... special. You're like our father. So you're pretty much the boss even if you don't like the term.”

“I think he's more like a cool uncle than a dad, personally,” Glub offered, still drumming the table. “Or like a grandpa that always gives you gifts and shit.”

Garon coughed. “There's time to fanboy later. Let's focus on the mission.”

Threadbare shifted, feeling more at ease once the others had turned back to their Guildmaster.

“This is the last chance for questions,” Garon said, spreading his hands. “So what've you got?”

Dracosnack had quite a few, mainly concerning the finicky details of the visions and omens and portents that the God Squad had turned up. Buttons was concerned about logistics, supplies, and turntables. Sir Apollyon had a few about mission security, and how much he could tell his family about the mission. Glub mainly just bounced and fidgeted in his chair, eager to be out of the too-long meeting.

Threadbare, for his part, had only one, and he asked that once the briefing was done.

“Do any of you have plans tonight?”

The toys and the lone human looked between each other.

“Mmmm... a few, but they were minor at best,” Dracosnack stated.

“I'd like to get in a barcrawl, but I wouldn't object to some extra company,” Buttons said, tilting her head as she studied Threadbare.

“Well, I... I was going to pray and perform a vigil...” Sir Apollyon began, then trailed off.

“Naw man, whatcha got?” Glub asked.

“I think that we are going to be spending a lot of time together on the road,” Threadbare said, “so why don't we get to know each other better first? Do something fun?”

“That sounds great!” Buttons said, grinning so widely that he could see her hinged tonsils. “I know just the place!”