The group that Threadbare saw weren't the last wave of Belltollian reinforcements. Nor were the second, or the third. They arrived at the rate of roughly one per day, adding a few thousand to the Belltollian numbers with every wave.
The upside was that the reinforcements seemed to be mainly infantry. And Madeline and the dragonriders had done enough of a number on their artillery that the cannon were at half strength. Which didn't help as much as the Cylvanian forces had hoped, because the new arrivals set to harvesting the remaining forests, and converting the tree trunks into ballista and bolts.
For a while on the second and third days, the bolts raining down began to take their toll, as endless waves of rabbitfolk interspersed with suppressive barrages began to wear on the defenders. Fortunately that didn't last long, as Zuula got the idea to get the army's carpenters together and start building a fort out of wood, repurposed from the ballista bolts. With their crafting skills, it was easy to render the bolts down into planks, and then quick-build walls and mantles. Reinforced from stone with the dwarven Earth Elementalists, and vines from the Shamans in the troop, it did the job. It wasn't perfect protection, as gravity and weight did most of the work for the bolts, but it slowed the casualties and with appropriate craftsmen standing under the barriers, it was easy enough to fix them as they needed repair.
But by that time the Belltollians had switched over to near-constant raids, trying to hit and run and flank the main camp by heading north to the pass.
And through all of this, Threadbare waited, and stewed, and worried.
He wasn't the only one.
“The RAGs are holding for now,” Garon said, stalking around the table in the command tent, pacing like a trapped animal. “But we're burning through ammo at a fast rate. And my guildies don't have uniform weaponry, so it's taking mixed batches. How are we doing on supplies?”
“Amazing,” said General Mull Egon, a fresh arrival from Brokeshale Hold. “We're giving you everything we can spare from the Brokeshale stores, and the Rangers up north are donating cartloads of arrows. But at the rate they're adding people, I have to say I don't think this position's tenable for much longer. When are you going to ditch it and fall back?”
“We can't,” Garon said.
Mull Egon and Merser exchanged glances.
But it was Celia who spoke. “We have to, Garon. She'll be fine.”
“You don't know that,” Garon growled.
“Garon!” Celia snapped, then put her hand to her forehad with an audible clink. “Generals, can you give us the tent, please?”
The two shared one more glance, then rose and walked out. Threadbare waited until they were gone, then drew the flap shut and paced around to put his hand on Celia's shoulder.
She glanced back at him with gratitude, then firmed her face and turned back to Garon. “She will. She will be fine. They've abided by the rules of engagement that we set before this started—”
“How do we know they are?” Garon said, gauntlets flexing, opening and closing so tightly that the rivets bulged. “We don't know what they're doing with her! They could program her to tell every one of our secrets! She knows our plans, she knows how we operate, every minute she's there the risk to our entire strategy grows—”
“You don't care about the risk,” Celia snapped, and Threadbare squeezed her shoulder. “Garon. You care that it's your wife over there. And I don't blame you. I would too. If... well, I don't have a wife, but if I did, then... you know I know how you feel. She's my friend too. Our friend.”
“Then let's do something.” Garon growled. “Please.”
“Garon, we cannot sacrifice an army for one person. Even my friend. Especially my friend. Neither of us are unbiased here. And I'm not about to sacrifice all the people who are trusting me but aren't close personal friends to save one friend, no matter how close and personal. They put their faith in me. In us. We have to be worth it, Garon. If we don't, then what's it all for?”
Garon stood staring down at her for a minute, then with a blur of motion he slammed his gauntlet into the table. Then he turned and pushed through the tent flap, leaving without another word.
“Gods dammit,” Celia muttered. Then she looked over to Threadbare. “I don't know. Did I do the right thing? Was there a right thing with that situation?”
Threadbare thought it over carefully before he spoke. “I think that a lie might have comforted him, but he would have know it was a lie, once he was done being relieved. And you weren't wrong. We need to take care of our people, especially the ones we don't know so well. It's a terrible thing to die alone, fighting next to people who don't care about you.”
“I saw that often enough back in father's day,” Celia said, then shook her head.
“We gonna have to rescue her,” Zuula said, and both Threadbare and Celia startled, then turned to look at her. Zuula had not been here a second ago. At least... Threadbare hadn't seen her enter.
“We can't attack them head-on,” Celia said. “We just don't have the troops, and the casualty projections are not good. And any covert operation would have to get past their ungodly perception. And then on top of that, she'll probably resist any attempt to rescue her, they'll have programmed that in.”
“You sure about dat?” Zuula asked.
“No. But she had waystones on her when she raided them. If she wasn't prevented, she would have warped back by now. Zuula... I'll tell you the same thing I told Garon—”
“Skip it. Zuula heard all dat. And you not wrong, but we gotta rescue her anyway. Because if we don't, Garon gonna try, and den we have two lost.”
“He wouldn't.” Celia shut her eyes. “He would.”
“He will,” Zuula said. “Dis his last chance to try an' convince you. He gotta do SOMETHING. He is his father's son. Talking only works till it don't, den it be time to act.”
“I'll go,” Threadbare said. “They won't kill me if they catch me. And I have enough protections that they shouldn't be able to reprogram me. Or Garon, if I adjust his quickly.”
“Ghh....Gods fump it!” Celia slammed a porcelain fist against the table's leg. “We have to do this, don't we?”
“No. Not you,” Zuula said. “Army need you. You gotta keep dis rolling no matter how we go, no matter what we do. Me. Dreadbear. Few others. Best chance of pulling this off.”
“Especially if we use... the reinforcements,” Threadbare said, giving a significant glance skyward. Even in the tent, he didn't want to mention it, didn't want to risk anything getting out. This was one of their secret weapons.
“I hate to use them this early, but... if the alternative is losing Garon, then all right. All right, I'll contact them and send what we can spare your way. Then we'll set up the mother of all distractions. Message me when you're about to go.”
“Dat not up to us, unless we hurry,” Zuula said. “Dreadbear! Come! Let us find Garon before he gets TOO stupid.”
“Don't try to talk me out of it,” said Garon, when they caught up to him at the northern border, tucking suspicious looking bundles into his armor and glaring down at them, his green glowing eyes flaring like swampfire.
“We won't. But you're not going alone,” Threadbare said. “And you have to wait until the others arrive.”
“Others?” Garon hesitated.
“Others,” Threadbare said, pointing, as Chase, Thomasi, Jean, Greta, and a yellow-eyed, fur-clad horned figure appeared on the crest of the hill, and started ambling in their direction.
“Well,” Garon said, as they approached.
“Well,” LivingDeadGrrl said, tossing the greasepainted clown hand she'd been gnawing on over her shoulder, and giving Garon a bloody grin. “So you want to do a rescue mission.”
“Yeah,” Garon said, glancing between the halvens and the humans. “Little curious as to why you're here, Liv. You don't strike me as a stealthy rescue type. More of a pain the walls with entrails type.”
“Oh, I'm not a stealthy rescue type. But they are.”
“Hello again!” Trust-not-the-devils Bortiz said, appearing out of literally nowhere. “She just came to see us off, Mister Garon.”
“There's not much she can do for you directly without breaking all your rules of engagement,” Chase said. “But the cards say that if the worst happens she might be able to save you. At least most of you.”
“Thank you,” Threadbare said, glancing back the way they'd come. “Let's not go into detail, but I'm guessing your transportation has arrived, then?”
“It has,” Greta said. “So when are we doing this?”
Renny looked up from his postion as Chase's fox fur wrap. “In a very little while. Miss Celia has been sending me whispers. When I say run, please everybody who's going run down the hill.”
Threadbare looked down the hill, and saw a mist rising, just ahead of the approaching Belltollian lines. It was the seventh sortie of the day, he thought. There would be more than twenty, all told, if they stuck to the patterns.
If we can save Madeline, we can retreat, he thought. It had been quite some time since the last Belltollian reinforcements. They could probably fall back to Brokeshale Mountain, for the siege, and the country would win, eventually.
But a part of him wondered what the Belltollians were truly up to, here. They were pressing relentlessly, but not hard. They kept coming, but they didn't commit enough to each wave to swamp the Cylvanian position. It was like they didn't want to push the Cylvanian forces back.
Perhaps they wanted to minimize casualties? Perhaps they were just grinding levels on as many of their forces as possible?
That was possible. If... no, when they got to Brokeshale, it would be a much tougher fight. Once they got within the range of the mountainhold's guns, poorly-trained troops would die by the dozens with each shot.
“ARCHERS UP!” Mastoya yelled, as the ballista bolt rain slowed, and the Cylvanians pushed back the mobile mantles. “FIRE AT WILL!”
The mist wasn't as thick as the first day's pea-souper, but it still threw things off. From his vantage point up the slope, Threadbare saw Reason and Emmet stomp into position, one towering over the fortifications and the other in an Emmet-sized gap on the other end. Around them and along the line, Green-clad Cylvanian troops rose up and fired as fast as they could draw arrows and bolts. Reason's repeating cannon spoke again and again, and he could hear the dull rumble of Emmet's voice as his brother called upon his Grenadier skills, and things exploded.
And all too soon, Mastoya shouted “REPEL THEM!” and the ranged troops fell back, as the close-combat infantry formed lines, with Clerics and Wizards buffing and blasting respectively. Other magical types threw elemental effects, animated attackers' weapons against them, and stole their shields right out of their hands. These would be the magic-users who were close to leveling,Threadbare knew.
No sooner had he thought that, than he got a pleasant surprise.
You are now a level 33 Golemist!
INT+5
WILL+5
Not entirely a surprise. Golemists gained experience when their creations did important things. And the battlefield was full of his creations. It was with no little pride that he saw this assault driven back, like all the others. Heard the Belltollians call the retreat, and saw the purple waves of uniformed beastkin fall back.
“Now!” said Renny, and Threadbare looked back in surprise, to see that he was standing in the middle of a group of Belltollians!
His surprise lasted only a second. It was illusion, had to be, as the rabbitfolk gathered themselves, glanced around with equal shock, then shrugged and ran downhill.
For a second he worried about friendly fire, but they were in among the lines before any of the Cylvanian troops saw them. Cries of alarm rose, but all well behind him as the group scrambled through the fortifications and fled into the mist.
“ARCHERS UP!” Mastoya yelled, and Threadbare glanced over at the nearest bunnyfolk, two short figures running hand in hand, that had to be Chase and Greta. One of them was muttering under her breath, until she snapped her head up and yelled “Down, now!” in Chase's voice.
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They hit the ground just in time, as a cannonball thundered overhead and slapped into the field, spraying mud, blood, and screaming Belltollians across the landscape, rolling away out of sight into the fog.
“Bodyguard Chase,” Threadbare said. He probably should have done this before the charge, but things had happened far too quickly.
“Up!” Chase yelled, and up they went, sloughing mud and slogging past the wounded and the dying. As they ran, the mist thinned, and he saw they were far from alone. Hundreds of Belltollians ran to either side of him, lost to panic and fleeing at top speed. Some still clutched their weapons, others carried wounded kin, and Threadbare's heart went out to them.
They should not have come here, he knew that. But they had all been fooled into this fight, and he resolved to do something about that, when he got the chance. He needed to make this right, somehow.
“Where are we going?” Garon called back, trying to make his voice sound as falsetto as possible. It wasn't very good, but things were chaotic enough that Threadbare hoped nobody would catch the strangeness in the very large bunnykin's voice.
“There!” Jean pointed to where groups of bunnykin were intercepting their fleeing kindred, corralling groups into a hollow part of the ground that had been made into a big amphitheater.
Threadbare pulled into the group. He wasn't sure how large he was exactly, but he was sure that shorter rabbitfolk would be more suspicious. What was this? Some kind of debriefing?
He was wrong. His group found themselves milling around in the ampitheater with about three hundred other shaking, crying, and barely-standing soldiers. Some were wounded, and medics circulated among them, doing small healing spells to stop the bleeding and get them on their feet.
And up at the high end of the amphitheater, a heavily-armored Belltollian woman stomped up on stage and cleared her throat. “Ahem. Rally Troops. Women! Today you have fought well and hard! The enemy knows our strength and fears it, and when we come for them again, they shall weaken and break like branches in a strong wind! Toll the bells, for we are Belltollia!”
As she spoke, Threadbare saw the soldiers stop shaking, calm, and at the final call they raised their voices and yelled back “We are Belltollia!”
He knew this skill well. It was a very simple Knight skill, that restored moxie to those who had lost it. Without moxie, a person had no morale, little courage to work with.
Calmed, the troops were let out of the amphitheater, sent back to the rear of the force.
“We're coming up on where we need to be,” Chase whispered. “When I give the signal, turn left and walk like we're supposed to be going that way.”
Having an Oracle around certainly made things easier, Threadbare thought to himself.
And indeed, no one stopped them as they marched like they belonged there. Other groups were splitting up to go to different locations, so it wasn't infeasible that they actually had a purpose.
“Everyone's got waystones, yeah?” Garon muttered as they went.
“Yes. And let me and Jean and Thomasi do the talking when we get the guards,” Chase said.
“Size Up, Silver Tongue,” the three of them whispered in unison as the group made their way across a wide open field, toward a large, low tent. There were a pair of guards out front, but nobody else was around there, no other tents and no other traffic.
“Dreadbear,” Zuula whispered, moving up next to him. “Dis too easy.”
“You're right,” Threadbare said, as a collection of nameless thoughts that had been circling his mind coalesced into a very solid and worrisome suspicion. “What do we do about it?”
“Buff up and be ready to fight like mad,” Zuula said.
It was good life advice any way you sliced it. So Threadbare did just that. “Flex, Flexible Pose, Guard Stance, Keen Eye.”
Your Flex skill is now level 28!
Your Flexible Pose skill is now level 7!
Your Guard Stance skill is now level 31!
Your Keen Eye skill is now level 14!
There were more buffs he could have kicked in, but their activation would have been flashier, and some of their uses fairly dubious. And he already had Bodyguard going, so that wasn't a concern, at least.
“Halt!” The guards barked, and crossed their halberds. “There is no entry permitted, here.”
“We have come on unseen business, with fast legs and long ears,” Jean said, staring fixedly at the leftmost guard.
“And you will have let no one in, after we enter. That's what you'll tell anyone who asks,” Chase said, folding her arms over her chest.
The two guards' eyes were wide. “The Phantom...”
“Absolutely not,” said Thomasi. “There is no Phantom. Remember that. Now go!”
They scurried away, walking as fast as they could go without running.
“Too. Easy.” Zuula hissed.
Threadbare watched them go, and couldn't disagree.
The tent was dim, layers of cloth above letting in heavily filtered light. Curtain-draped doorways offered passage inwards, while blocking views to either side. He worried that there would come an ambush, but all was silent as they moved more deeply in. “Appraise,” he whispered as they moved further in. Immediately runes snapped into focus on the outermost layer.
APPRAISE RESULT: Anti-scrying warding
This wasn't a surprise, but he felt that there should be more.
And then they passed through a final curtain, into the central-most chamber, and Madeline's neck joints clattered as she raised her head to look upon them.
“Hey hon,” Garon whispered.
“Hey bull,” Madeline said back, her voice normal. “Sahrry fah the trouble.”
“Did they program you?” Threadbare asked.
“At fahst, yeah. But that's what we need to tahk about. Things ah moah complicated than that. Can you not attack him fah about five minutes? He's gaht some stuff to tell yah.”
“Oh gods,” whispered Jean, turning white. “This is where he's been! All along, this is where he's—”
A gloved hand came out of the darkness and patted her shoulder.
The group whirled, as the Phantom swirled his cloak, tapped his cane on the ground, then strode over to stand by Madeline. And once again, Threadbare was struck by the fact that they hadn't immediately leaped into action. Something, some odd force that he'd once taken for the beastkin's weirdling charisma stayed his hand. But now that he was feeling it once more, this was more than charisma. This was some sort of skill, it had to be.
“My friends!” The Phantom's voice boomed. “We have all been tricked. And thus my own ruse; to draw you here, so we can sit down and figure out just how to respond to this most devious plan—”
The Phantom stopped talking.
He stopped talking, because there was a blade sticking out of his chest.
With a wet sucking noise the blade withdrew, as a red '233' rose up into the air above his head.
It was followed by many, many more red numbers as Madeline jumped back, and black-suited men and women, mostly human, faded into view and plunged daggers and swords into him so rapidly that in the space of three seconds, Threadbare couldn't make out the numbers they were so close together that they were blurring.
The Phantom fell, and the figures turned to face them. All wearing black suits. All wearing bowler hats. Some with spectacles.
All splattered with blood.
“I'm quite sorry for all the fuss,” said the one in the lead, with a mild tone and absolutely no sign of stress. “But you're going to have to forget any of this happened, or we're going to have to kill most of you.” He dug into a pocket, and pulled out a shiny orb. “Here, look into this crystal ball and your memories will—”
“Rewind.” The voice reverberated through the room, a woman's whisper, reshaping reality as the fallen Phantom's blood slurped back into him, the figure stood up, and the suited men and women clustered around him, withdrawing their blades from him over and over again as red numbers sunk back into his head. One by one the suited assassins flickered out of sight, until only the first one was left, and the world paused, with his blade in the Phantom's chest.
“Understudy!” the Phantom called out as suddenly, time started running the proper way again, and the first blade bit into him.
His form flickered, a split-second before the assassins materialized and began stabbing him. And the screams that came from the Phantom as he died were very definitely not in his voice. They were higher, more feminine.
Then the entire scene was washed out by fire, a huge cloud of fire as Madeline roared and red numbers flared out from the cluster of treachery.
“Get them!” Madeline finished, as her dragonbreath wound down. “We only gaht one shaht!”
“All the World's a Stage!” The Phantom's voice boomed from somewhere above, even as his form fell, spraying blood in a way that his previous body hadn't.
And as he said that, the walls of the tent shifted, drawing back to open up a side and reveal an audience of cheering rabbitkin, as floodlights flicked on from on high, one after another.
But then Threadbare had no more time to study the scenery, as he found himself hurtling through the air, drawn between Chase and one of the suited men as a knife buried itself up to the hilt in his stuffing.
Your Bodyguard skill is now level 23!
By now Threadbare was quite used to this situation, and as he fell to the floorboards that had replaced the canvas tent floor, he yanked the knife from his midsection and tossed it up into the air. “Animus Blade, Command Animus go kill your original owner.”
He had many questions, and many things he wanted to know about the current situation, but the fact that somebody had just tried to kill his friend simplified things. Once the knives were out and moving in your general direction, it was really quite amazing how misgivings could be put aside.
But the suited people didn't seem to want to fight. They fled, calling out “Camouflage,” practically in unison, running with dizzying speed off the side of the stage...
...and emerging with a clattering from the other side of the stage, reappearing from invisibility as floodlights shown down on them from above.
They held up, surprised, and the one Threadbare had sent the knife back at casually grabbed it and broke it before it could cut him too deeply.
Madeline's fire caused the group to scatter, and three of them arrowed toward her, drawing blades and clubs, only to run straight into Garon and a green plush dinosaur the size of a dwarf.
But there was nothing small about her mouth, as Zuula roared “CHOMP!” and latched on to a man, while Garon bodychecked a suited woman to the ground.
Again, Threadbare found himself dragged between Chase and an oncoming attacker. But this time his skill failed him, and he watched helplessly as a curved knife carved straight toward her skull—
—only to carve into Greta's arm instead, and lop off her hand at the wrist. Greta sat down and screamed, while Threadbare tackled the man away from Chase and got to clawing.
But the man was strong and fast, and though Threadbare was about as strong as a very large bear, he found himself being slowly forced away, pushed back...
“Absorb Condition!” Chase called from behind him.
Then, the man glanced up and tried to draw another blade. The distraction was the moment Threadbare needed. “Animus Blade, Command Animus kill your owner,” he told the man's knife, and the man struggled a bit, dragging it out though it fought him.
And then a one-armed Chase slammed into him. “Transfer Condition.” Her arm reappeared with a 'Pop!' and the man's arm disappeared, blood spraying from the stump.
He frowned, and caught the suddenly moving knife with his remaining hand, and Threadbare moved to try and intercept the inevitable stab towards Chase.
“Absorb Condition!” she said, and the man fell to his knees, grabbed his stump, and screamed for all he was worth as the knife hovered above him, stabbing repeatedly into his back.
“You over there!” Thomasi shouted, and Threadbare whirled to see him with a megaphone out, yelling and shaking a finger at one who was trying to get around “You deserve a good Shout Down! Your father was a hamster and your mother smelt of elderberries!”
Blue and green numbers rocketed out of the man's head, sanity and moxie taking damage at an inordinate rate as Thomasi kept shouting. The man gave up on trying to get past Garon and leaped toward Thomasi—
—only to be caught in a blanket that appeared out of midair.
A blanket held by three fur-clad, middle-aged villagers swinging weapons that seemed to be, of all things, socks with rocks in them.
And yes, the man was quick, and strong, and didn't seem to feel any pain.
But he had a blanket over him, and three angry dads beating him with socks full of rocks. Red numbers from the beatdown joined the blue and green as Thomasi continued to attack his mind.
And from above the stage, the Phantom called out “Dazzling Entrance!” and descended like a bat, cloak swirling as he drew a sword from his cane and joined the fray.
“Threadbeah!” Madeline called, and he tore his eyes away from the Phantom to see that his friends were getting the worst of it. Four of the agents had Garon, Madeline, and Zuula encircled, and chunks of plate armor were spraying as Garon desperately blocked. Madeline's wood was gouged, and her wings were torn, and Zuula's stuffing was half out of her hide.
Well.
He had skills to help with that, didn't he?
“Mend Golem, Mend Golem, Mend Golem...” he chanted over and over again, and watched the wounds close, watched the stuffing withdraw back into Zuula's body.
“Shit!” Greta swore, and he felt himself whirling back, failing to intercept an attack on Chase...
“Corps a Corps!” shouted Jean desperately, and he got there in time to see her straining, trying to keep the assassin's blade from skewering the fleeing halven.
“I have had quite enough of this,” Chase declared in a too-calm voice, as Threadbare rejoined her, animating knives as they flew through the air, and setting them to circle her in a protective cloud. “Keep them off of me. I'm going to take risks.”
And she pulled out a fortuna deck, took a deep breath, and said “Draw.”
A backdrop fell down at the rear of the stage, a skilled painting of ten men in robes and pointy hats waving staves and wands and blasting magic everywhere.
Chase's Ten of Wizards burdens your enemies!
Immediately the suited figures slowed down, staggering, and moving at a somewhat less ludicrous speed.
But as Threadbare swung his rod and barely fended off a charging man with a rapier, he still felt himself driven back, his feet scrambling for purchase on the floorboards.
“Not enough. Draw,” Chase commanded, flipping another card up.
The backdrop was replaced by another one, a portrait of four adventurers in a tavern, laughing and leaning on each other, and celebrating a job well done.
Chase's 'The Party' enhances your teamwork! All beneficial effects given to allies are doubled!
Button eyes widening, Threadbare swiftly ran past his attacker, swiping his Achilles tendon asunder as he called out “Mend Golem,” a few more times toward his friends. The man fell to one knee, and Greta beaned him with a frying pan.
“Not quite. One more...” Chase decided. “Draw.”
And instantly the world dimmed, fading into darkness.
“What the devil?” Thomasi said, muffled, somewhere in the void.
Green numbers streaked down out of the void, as a dragon's scream rang endless and reverberating in Threadbare's mind.
And suddenly, everything snapped back into focus.
Chase's 'The Changeover' prevents skill usage! Until the card is faded, fight without their benefit!
“Now! While they cannot escape!” The Phantom called. “End them!”
It was close.
The assassins were fully buffed up, and had rarely been using skills anyway.
But Threadbare and his allies had spent most of their energy on using skills mid-fight up until that point, and had taken about half of them out, and wounded the rest.
In the end, they managed. The halvens got the heck out of the way, Jean and Thomasi ended up back to back to back with the Phantom, and Threadbare worked with Zuula, Garon, and Madeline to corral and take out anyone who tried to break away.
The three villagers found seats in the audience and cheered everyone on, critiquing various techniques and manuvers. Threadbare found he couldn't grudge them that. The danger had mostly passed, and Chase's cards had both disadvantaged the enemies and guaranteed that they couldn't pull any last-minute surprises. This was just clean-up, now.
And indeed, after a moment of fighting the remaining suited figures drew back and said “Activate Waystone,” in unison.
But nothing happened.
The Changeover had nullified all new skills, even those set into items.
And at last, they were done. The Phantom wiped his blade, Garon sagged into Madeline's arms, and Chase and Greta shook their heads and handed out meat buns and tankards of ale from their personal pack of holding to those who could still eat.
And the levels rolled in, though Threadbare disregarded the words as he looked to the man who had instigated this entire mess.
“Sir,” Jean whispered, as the Phantom slid his sword cane back into its sheath. “What now?”
“Now? Oh. Oh yes,” The Phantom said, his smile just visible under the shadow of his hat. “On Behalf of Belltollia's armed forces, we surrender unconditionally. You win. Now let's go talk with your princess, please. I need to explain what we need to do to keep our countries from being taken off the map.”