Dot here.
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A relieved smile rested on Max's face. He had just dropped off his honors thesis on an esoteric magical theory about the transmutation of material actually being translocation of material across parallel dimensions. He doubted his teacher would understand it but knew that it be given to Adrian Eldritch to grade. Maxwell Athersmith Sinclair was a couple of weeks from graduating from the Claremont Academy and life couldn't be better.
He sat in the Zen Gardens of the Academy reading a book. His skin was almost pasty having not seen much of the sun, but the day was so beautiful after the hell of a thunderstorm last night to spend in the library, his usual haunt. We was an unremarkable twenty-one year old: not quite six feet tall, lean build, short shaggy dark brown hair, boring clothes. The book was a thick tome of vellum bound by leather of a questionable mammal. It was written in ancient Latin, but he was using magic to read and understand it, as he had for almost two decades.
Max was half reading the treatise on a disproven magical theory about flight and half thinking about his summer returning home. He had never investigated the neighborhood and wondered where in the United Kingdom, the priory was. Now he wants to find the local pub and explore. His position at the Hunter Museum of Natural History doesn't start until September, so he planned to take it easy this summer.
Sitting in his office Æthelweard’s brow furrowed ever deeper. Piles of journals, bound paperwork and folders balanced precariously upon his heavy English Oak desk.
Most bore the seal or stamp of Hunter Museum of Natural History, but the two documents he was intensely scrutinising were neither. One was an overly verbose letter from one Maxwell Athersmith Sinclair, the museum’s new research intern. The lad came highly recommend from the Claremont Academy - his tutors had provided excellent references, yet it was not that which troubled him. As research curator, he would have to supervise the intern, which could cause unnecessary complications, should his… "other" be required… Still as a graduate of Claremont, Master Sinclair would potentially understand more than most… Indeed. "Best take the measure, then test the mettle" as the old saying went.
The frown eased on his forehead, before returning with a vengeance when he noted the second missive bore the gilded notepaper bearing the seal of CC&C: Cabot, Cunningham and Crowley. Freedom City's foremost (and infamous) law firm. It was their London office that was handling the affairs of his family estate back in the UK.
Eyes flicking as he read the line after line of legalese, Æthelweard’s knuckles whitened in angered frustration as he muttered a paraphrasing; … funds required…, …castle’s disrepair…, …legal obligation as priorship of Langfellow family as Baronet’s of St. Micheal’s Mount…, … reneging… could result in the Crown reclaiming the estate… CC&C can confirm other suitors… keen to return such an important site to its rightful status….
Leaning his lanky frame back, Æthelweard uttered a long sigh and rubbed his high temples with long, thin fingers. His generous stipend from the Museum post would cover the estate’s costs, but it would be a long process. Perhaps years, before the ancestral home was repaired and fit for the purposes of all parties who would reside there.
In the meantime these pettifogger's would need to be sated…
Reaching for pen and ink he began a reply. Letters was such a archaic art now, one alas that most the youth of today failed to grasp. His eyes flitted once again back to the immaculately scribed application from Master Sinclair. Most, but not all.
Hunched over his desk the tall scholar continued to scribble his reply, occasionally reaching for the gilded letter to cross reference.
Æthelweard stopped momentarily, noting some oddity that gave him pause. Holding the gilded conveyance to his steep nose he frowns once again;
”How damnably odd. Almost a faint whiff of sulphur…”
Shrugging his narrow shoulders, he continues - pen flourishing across the parchment…
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Stepping through the portal, Silver Tiger found himself standing on a busy street, near a doorway. Anyone observing him might be forgiven for thinking he had stepped from the open door behind him, so his arrival was met with no fanfare.
Silver Tiger, however, was both amazed and enraptured by what he saw. While his eductation at the monastery had included the major inventions of the 20th and 21st century, it was a bit overwhelming, especially the noise. Thousands of people and machines all around him, vying for his attention at the same time. Closing his eyes, he controlled his breath.
Breath to action. Action to life. Life to violence. Violence to death.
Silver Tiger repeated the mantra in his mind several times, then picked a direction and started walking. He would find this Eldritch person soon enough, but he wanted to orient himself with his new surroundings first.
"'m sorry but it'll hafta wait, m'love. The case load t'day at work's a bit much and if we'd like to enjoy our retreat this weekend-- a game? Today? Th' boy's 16, he'll understand if I can't ma-- yeah, 14... what did I say? I'm sorry love, I've got work on m' mind. I'll try m'best to make it, but with the amount of work I've got, it might not be in the cards for me. I'm really sorry. I might be turning 50 this weekend, but it feels like m'brain's hitting 80. I've got to get back to the office, love. Take care, I'll see you tonight."
I really can't believe I forgot the boy's game... This holiday cannot come sooner Doctor Searle thought to himself. The term "workaholic" didn't begin to describe Mac Searle. The man was beyond such a term. His work was his life, and everything else had fallen by the wayside. His wife couldn't decide if it was absentmindedness or an attempt to abandon his duties as husband and father. "His dedication to his work borders obsessive, to the detriment of those around him" she wrote on the divorce papers. He pushed for counseling, which she agreed to try, yet here they were again. The same song, different day.
He knew he was in trouble, but he had no clue how to come forward. Yeah, he loved Gillian and Ozzie, they meant the world to him, but his world was.... in disarray. Macallah wasn't the type of hero to have everything in order, or out in the open for that matter. What he did had to be carried out in shadows, and the less they knew, for their safety, the better. He compartmentalized the feelings and told himself he'd devote more time to his family in his 50th year and perhaps retire from the lifestyle. After he found a successor.
...if that was possible.
See, Macallah Searle didn't wear a cape, he didn't foil bank heists or save hostages (well, at least not much any more). His line of heroics pit him against Nightmares, Sleep Paralysis Demons, innocent Lucid Dreamers who managed to distort the Dreamtime... he was a groundskeeper of sorts. The Dreamtime was an extra dimensional place, one that every single sentient creature possessed access to. Hell, if you've ever dreamt, you've opened a portal to the Dreamtime within your mind.
The Keepers of Dreamtime were an order of warriors created before written history, tasked with guarding the waking world from the Dreamtime. Macallah's line spans millenia.
"Great Keepers," he thought to himself as he returned to flipping through pages of Claremont Academy students, "why must this fall upon me?"
"Come on, Grace, get a move on!"
"Stop darting ahead, Winnie! I wanted to look at that statue!" Grace looked away from the memorial statue to the Centurion.
Winifred Cooper, bony and slight to Grace's zaftig and tall, stuck her tongue out at her friend. Girlfriend? They hadn't really talked about it after that one... never mind. "We've been stuck half the week hiding from thunderstorms, I'm not going to gaze at statues. Besides, you're the one who wanted to go to the Botanical Gardens. It's a gorgeous day, don't waste it!" Winnie gave a comedic pout, and Grace shook her head and followed.
As she caught up, Winnie said, "Besides, last thing I want to think about dead superheroes. I don't want to..." Winnie's comic pout grew softer and more sincere.
"I know my... whatever's happened to me has changed everything, Win. But I'm not gonna die. Not today. Not for a long, long time. You're right, let's just go enjoy the gardens. Worryin' is for another day, alright?"
Win smiled, took Grace's hand, and dragged her toward the entrance of the Botanical Gardens in Liberty Park.
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Life was good.
Briareus. The Hundred-Handed One. The Dunwich Horror. Hecatoncheires.
The man who owned all these titles placed his top-most hands behind his head and reclined in the dingy office that served him. He had sent the secretary home and considered that it had, indeed, been a good day.
First a leggy broad had stormed into his office saying that her husband was missing and she needed someone to find him. He railed at her to get out, and instead spend some time digging up the body. She obviously knocked him off. Didn't need to be forever-old to catch that.
Then was an old lady. Lad ran off with some dame. Was worried. That took until lunchtime but he found them. After yanking the needles out and slapping some sense into them he dropped the lad home. And the dame back at her daddy's. A good deed never don't hurt.
Lastly it was a cat, stuck in a tree. That was easy. Got some astonished looks when the hands shot up 75 feet. Heh. That's never not funny.
The door knocked. The pizza was here. And so was the booze.
Life was good.
Now if only something exciting would happen.
You are suddenly disoriented as the ground seems to heave beneath you. As you regain your balance, a face appears in front of you. A young woman, black hair flying, a black hood and cape that fades into misty edges. Her eyes glow yellow, locking your gaze. Her mouth does not move, but you hear her voice:
"I am in need of your assistance, Freedom Hall is under attack, and the League is away dealing with other threats. Fear not, only you can see this message. Take my hand, and I will bring you to me..."
The image shimmers as it becomes more complete, now with a torso with an alarmingly low cut costume and long arms fully covered in black. One hand reaches out to you imploringly...
"What is it with visions of floaty women this last year!?"
Grace tries to look around, see if Winifred is still nearby, or the Gardens themselves, though cannot break her gaze from the woman with the glowing eyes.
"If you can hear me, Win, I gotta go. Someone needs help. Go back to the hotel and stay there if things get sticky." She eyes the woman in black up and down. "If this is a trick, God help both me and you, but I can't say no to a damsel in distress..."
She takes a deep breath, and takes the woman's hand.
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"Serena," Max says breathlessly. Every little thing she does is magic, Magic (generation-appropriate song) starts to play as his internal soundtrack of almost every one of his teenage fantasies. Every other thought of the grimoire that he is reading and his plans for the summer evaporate like water hitting a hot skillet, as the vision of his heart's desire appears before him. It takes him a heartbeat to realize that the image in front of him is magically 'real' and not the beginning of a frequent daydream that his ebullient mood would explain.
His puppy eyes narrow to serious excitement. "May the Shield of the Seraphim protect me," he activates his magical protections and reaches out to take the hand of his dream girl.
"Seven," a gifted witch that came from a long storied bloodline of witches. He considered her as a replacement, but he sensed something in her...her fate seemed tethered to something different. "I will be there immediately"
Mac calls out to his secretary through his closed door."Herman, cancel my appointments for the day. M'boy has a ballgame I've got to catch."
Macallah quickly stands up, his office attire seemingly melting away in a swirl of colors, and in it's place, his ceremonial garb.
Without saying a word, he grabs Seven's hand, ready to be dropped in the thick of the action.
The young woman's spectral appearance and plea for aid takes Æthelweard by surprise; he rarely entertained visitors in his dusty office, much less ones as alluring or mystifying.
"Oh my... Attack! Me!? Surely there are others?"
The ink blots on his letter as his hand shakes in a mixture of fear, and surprise.
Dolt! She seeks a giant not a dusty curator... We must call him for her...
Æthelweard breathes, and nods to himself, rising from his desk - overly tall and lean - his voice soft and resigned;
"Yes. Of course. We shall aide you. First I, then him."
He falteringly steps forward, his slightly bowed figure leaning upon the ornate cane he clutches, and reaches, long fingers enveloping her hand.
Silver tiger accepts the proffered hand without hesitation.
Gylfir hesitates as the woman appears in the dingy warehouse he's chosen to wait in for the day, but only for a moment.
"Not often people seek me out of their own accord. Seems my reputation may finally be changing."
There is a sense of vertigo as your vision fills with a dark mist. You might have a moment's doubt about what is taking you, but regardless, the mist soon clears. You find yourself in the impressive entry foyer of Freedom Hall, the former headquarters of the Freedom League. These days, the League's headquarters is a satellite in Earth orbit, while the Hall serves as administrative offices, a museum, and some other secret things.
The foyer is 100 feet long and 60 feet wide. The ceilings soar 30 feet overhead. The walls are lined with portraits, news clippings, publicity photos, fan art, and awards for visitors to peruse while they wait for appointments. Comfortable retro chairs and couches line the walls as well. A reception desk halfway down the hall is normally where the receptionist, Cynthia, waits to greet visitors.
You find a motley group of, well, are they heroes? At the center of the group is Seven. She seems calm, at least on the surface. "Thank you for responding to my call. To be honest, I wasn't sure who I was calling, just that all of you had some sort of connection to Adrian Eldritch, or possibly another Master Mage somewhere along the line..."
She is interrupted by a massive collision with the blast door that has slide down over the glass entry door. It holds, for now.
Silver Tiger pats her on the shoulder and says "Please, be calm. Tell us what happened, and is currently happening."
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Briareus wasn't initially shaken or moved by the initial floating-head or call to action. Once you've seen the no-seriously Oracle of Delphi, just another multi-dimensional popper popping in and demanding something does not a great impression make. Besides, he'd just polished off a slice of sausage and peppers as well as his first whiskey old fashioned and considered himself in for the night.
But then the image became clearer.
'Woof. I haven't seen jugs like that since that one time Zeus convinced Diana that absinthe was a health drink.'
Lured by so comely a damsel in distress, he found his inner muse to be moved, and a red, rousing adventure in the offing turned more to his taste.
"A'ight, toots, gimme sec." He shrugs into the long Coat of Poisidon and re-mounts the Ring of Aphrodite, taking a moment to activate both of them.
"A'ight. Let's go kick some aise."
***********************
Upon arrival he nods in appreciation. He'd never been, but he heard good things, and was happy that reality lived up to hype. He scanned around the room and saw mostly new faces. But then one popped into view and he had to make introduction.
"Mac! Oy, Macallah, 'ow u doin'? Aw, you beautiful baby when I got up this morning I did NOT think I'd be meeting you, and here of all places. What'r'dee'odds?
So, ah, I says, we just' let'em in we take 'em down a notch. Be just like old times, yeah?"
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Max was an unremarkable eighteen year old: not quite six feet tall, lean build, short shaggy dark brown hair, boring clothes. He pulled on his Next-Gen mask from his pocket when he realized that he was not alone with Serena, with his Seraphim Shield, and not being shot at. Oh, hey. There's Dr. Langfellow. That's funny. I didn't put magic-use on my internship application.
Looking around the area, the last time he was here was two years ago on a school field trip with a wink and a nod among the employees in the know of the Freedom League. The Hall gave him a sense of reverence of the battles that occurred here and the Heroes who died in the line of duty.
When the words of Seven finally registered to him, his internal monologue screamed, the Master Mage judged me ready! Ready to join Seven and the fight against the Darkness! I'm ready! He smiled broadly under his mask having attained a life goal.
After the massive collision with the blast door protecting the glass entry door, Max says "By the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn," and he looks from a birds eye view at the front of the Freedom Hall wondering who is knocking on the door.
Æthelweard leans heavily on his cane as he takes in the vista and strange bedfellows surrounding him.
He's snapped from his slight awe by the booming impact, then looks around slightly panicked;
This is no place for me... This is a place for him...
The lanky academic breathes deeply as others around him address Seven and call upon their words of power.
In a calm, clear voice he brings his own invocation to bear:
"FEE-FYE-FOE-FUM!
OF MORTAL SUMMONS AGAIN SUCCUMB!.."
As Æthelweard speaks the first line, the spectral outline of a gilded cage, almost 3 times his height, appears around the man...
"...FEE-FYE-FOE-FUM!
MIGHTY EOTEN AGAIN DOTH COME!"
... then as he finishes the words, the cages fills with fey glow that envelops the man replacing him with something else...
...Something giant...
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Grace is a sturdy, plump and quite tall young woman, dressed in baggy cargo pants and a red t-shirt proclaiming attendance at the Glastonbury Music Festival last year, carrying a day pack, a digital camera hanging from her neck. All outer appearances point to her being a tourist. Blonde hair is tied into a ponytail, and wide gray eyes scan every detail in the room with an equal mix of wariness and awe. The only unusual thing about her is what appears to be a pronounced tattoo on her left forearm of an old fashioned-looking sword in its sheath.
She half-smiles incredulously at Seven, speaking in a London-region accent. "Adrian Eldrich? Sure, he and I used to get together at the pub every Friday." She shakes her head. "Nah, can't claim to know anyone who's stepped through these halls. Met the Lady in the Lake once. Does that count?"
And then the skinny nerd near her turns into a giant, and she falls very silent.
As the gilded fey cage fades, the giant within is released: standing where Æthelweard was is a 15ft. monster from myth or the imagination of Harryhausen!
The ogreish brute smiles with teeth like pegs, as he looks around, then downward toward the assembled heroes.
A glint of recognition flashes across the giant's features and it nods with a low grunt as it jabs a heavy thumb into a barrel chest;
Out of the corner of his eye while focusing on his spell to see outside, Max watches the transformation. Dr. Langfellow? I guess we both kept magic secrets.
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Ah, Freedom Hall. No amount of familiarity could ever tarnish that magic for Mac. Summer of 1987. Siren brought him in as an expert in Psychiatry and Hypnotherapy. From there, his rolodex of patients grew. If it wasn't for that chance call... He shook the thought out of his head. There are pressing matters, no need to take a stroll.
The Hypnotist surveys the room.
Langfellow. He knows the name and the face, as their circles aren't too far away, but it's nice to be able to meet him officially.
The others... much younger. Most definitely of a newer generation.
A familiar face materializes as Mac takes count of the others around the room. "Briareus--Dunnie!Dear friend, how the hells are you?! It's been quite a while! You've got to stop by the house sometime, I know the family would love to see you! How about we take care of this problem now and first round is on me afterwards, ye?"
He turns to address the others as Langfellow blinks out of existence and Eoten takes his place. "Th-That goes for all of ya... well, those that can drink... and at least two for the big guy here. Ah, my manners."
Mac strikes a more dignified pose, with his gut sucked in a bit. His voice booms with an ethereal, drenched-in-reverb dream-like quality. Colorful swirls of light twirl around the room as a haze befalls everyone.
"I AM THE HYPNOTIST, DEFENDER OF THE DREAMTIME, KEEPER OF THE BARRIER BETWEEN THE WAKING WORLD AND THE REALM OF DREAMS. A WARRIOR WITH LINEAGE THAT SPANS THE START OF HUMANITY." Creatures seen only in dreams begin to form out of the swirls of the color display. Great warriors of the Dreamtime step out of those creatures and stand beside The Hypnotist, in surreal glory.
Seeing all present their heroic forms and once she manages to stop gaping, Grace mutters, "Oh. Right."
She raises her left hand and says (which some may or may not recognize as badly pronounced Cornish), "Dyfres!"
The "tattoo" on her hand seems to take on three dimensions and grow out of her wrist to become a leather bracer edged in gold. The image that was the tattoo remains on the bracer. In a flash of light, the rest of her body is surrounded by mail armor with a steel breastplate and helm.
"Calesvol!" And now the image of the sword on the bracer disappears--and a large sword of ancient design appears in her right hand, gleaming.
"Good Knight Gracie, at your service."
Seven recoils from Silver Tiger's attempt at placating her. "Do not think to coddle me, I am as calm as the situation warrants. I am the Master Mage of Earth, and I have brought you here to fight the extradimensional enemies at the gates."
There is another slam on the blast door and it bulges inward. It will not hold for long.
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Gylfir stands at near 7 feet tall, and is outfitted in battered lamellar. He wears no helmet, allowing his gaunt features to stand out. The Deadman lives up to his name; he is obviously a corpse, long withered but semi-preserved as would a corpse trapped in ice be. His eye sockets glow with an eerie blue fire that softly trails the movements of his head. Two things about him seem almost out of place with the rest of his equipment and demeanor: a shield, polished to a mirror shine and rimmed with glowing norse runes, and a sword that seems relatively nondescript, but thrums with power to the magical senses of many of the room's occupants.
"Who would attack this place? They are either fools, or very confident in their abilities."
Sinclair focuses on the threat at hand, totally missing if there was a change in the Master Mage, and automatically follows the lessons of the Claremont Academy Danger Simulator. "Alright, people. We've ten giant mutant humanoid creatures about ten to twenty feet tall each punching the door, beating on the wall with clubs, and lobbing cars at the upper floors of the building."
"It appears their handler stands just inside the front gate. He's a tall but not giant man with ruddy skin, small horns on his forehead, and pointed ears."
"I can open a portal behind him, and we can attack from there before they break through the blast door. Unless someone has a better idea." The masked kid offers with confidence.
Then, he turns on Seven, "Wait, what? What do you mean Master Mage of Earth? Where's Uncle Adrian?!" The confident veneer cracks like the voice of teenage boy.
And, he screams as his emotions let loose with the ramifications of what she said, "Who is that demon out there?! Does he have something to do with it?!"
Grace had been too startled by the arrival and the giant (and the other giant and the dead man and... anyway) to have properly clocked the first shudder. But that the second boom she spins around and focuses as she realizes, yes, something is breaking down the door of Freedom Hall. Which I am standing inside of. With a bunch of superheroes. And apparently a Master Mage asking me to protect it.
After that little bit of shellshock passes, she hefts her sword and looks around to see what might be done about the situation. As Sinclair reports on the situation, she frowns. "What if we all go out there and then they get in here?" She looks up at the actual giant standing near her. "Uh, Ea-o-ten, was it? Can you hold the doors?"
"Coddling you was not my intent; I merely to comfort you. It was not my intention to insult you." The young African American man spoke with the accent of someone who had spent a great deal of time in Asia - in fact, one could assume that English was a second language for him. As he spoke, he bowed.
He wore silk Kung Fu jacket and pants, and raised sandals, dyed a deep blue, reminiscient of the ocean in a storm. His jacket was open, and he did not wear a shirt underneath, yet several tattoos were clearly visible on his stomach and chest.
A rolled scroll was peaking out of the small cloth sack that slid from his back was lowered gently to the ground.
"Now, tell us of that which is attacking."
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"Ya, ya, Mr. Hyp-no-tist sir, save it for the tourists. Aye, I think I know that guy, that's Æthelweard, Imma go say hi. Ay yo Æthel, How's she hangin--" is all he gets out before the only man he ever knew to find his Odysseus jokes funny suddenly turns into a giant.
"Whoa! I guess she's hanging big an' heavy! Ah geez, I didn't figure you fer a giant kinda guy. I always thought something with electricity.
Oh aye, Eoten!" Briareus calls out. "Any friend of Athel's is a friend of mine. Put 'er there!" He snakes out a hand over to where the giant now is and offers a handshake.
When someone starts saying he knows what's on the other side of the door, he steps over. "Oy, you a Seer? Awesome. I'm Hecatoncheires, but you can call me Dunwich because it's easier to pronounce.
Now you say you can see the big cheese over there AND you can get us to him?
A'ight, I got two plans.
First is you get yerself, me, an' th' Big Bad Booty Daddy Mac here through your portal, and we'll make mister horny-head go bye-bye. Then all of us clean up his lackeies real squishy-like.
The other plan is you take someone else. Simple, eh?"
Just as you are strategizing, the doors finally give way. The blast doors explode into flinders as a small sedan tumbles through and comes to rest twenty feet away. Beyond, the giants have already begun striding through the broken frame. The red man behind them laughs. “Seems our partner was right. Not a thing guarding our enemies’ halls but a slip of a mage and a handful of misfits. Oi then! We’ve come for me Eye of Balor, and if’n ye give it over swiftly, I swear ta leave yer bones intact!”
You see 10 giant humanoid creatures of various color shades and twisted physical forms. They range in height from 10-20 feet tall. One with a single massive arm, one with eyes ringing his head, etc. They are at the forefront of the assault.
The speaker is a tall but not giant man with ruddy skin, small horns on his forehead, and pointed ears. He is strikingly handsome, nearly bare chested, wearing a kilt.
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"Ya, ya," the Dunwich Horror is quick to belittle the statement's of the drunken scot. 'man if I had a nickle....'
"Save it for someone who cares. What are you, like, a minion of Hades? Lemme tell ya something about him. He's a nerd! A friggin' nerd. Guy got suckered and lives in the 'verse's biggest basement an' he loooooves it!
So you're a nerd who follows a nerd. That means yer no big whoop.
Friggin' mikro gida'.
Realizing he's a little out of practice, Briareus sends only three of his arms flying at the left-most minions, going for a quick choke-out to thin out the herd.
Strength-based multi-attack. Attacking with unarmed attacks on Red, Yellow, Purple in the front.
For any that hit, I have Fast Grab, and any hits start a grab. They must resist a grab Resistance check vs DC 18 Strength.
For any that fail and are grabbed, the Affliction is grab based, so if the grab attempt succeeds, the effect occurs automatically as a reaction.
They must make a Fort resistance check vs. DC 18 or take the level 1 Affliction, which is Injured, -2 to most things.
"You do not belong here. Return to your home and I promise you won't be hurt." Silver Tiger then glances at the remains of the door then adds "You should probably fix the door before you go though. That would only be proper."
The exploding blast doors snaps Sinclair's attention away from Serena. Where does he remember that guy? "Now I remember. That horned guy in the skirt is Bres the Beautiful, a sorcerer who leads a secret nation of deformed mutants called the Fomorians. The same Fomorians from Irish folklore who possess a wide variety of abilities. Bres is just another Fomorian gifted in magic."
"The Freedom League fought Bres several months ago and seized a powerful magical artifact from him — the Eye of Balor. Obviously, he thinks it's here."
"But, wait a minute. Bres and his Fomorians were exiled to another dimension called Annwn. He shouldn’t be able to arrive on Earth without help."
Gylfir grunts.
"Then the simplest answer is that he had help from this "partner" of his. Whoever of us is alive when the battle is done will need to look into it."