>>5843273You stayed the night at his place, snuggled up with muffins as a makeshift pillow. In the morning, bathed and teeth brushed, with Logan Pearce and your chimeric familiar in tow, you traveled back to the palace together.
“A cane?” you remarked, noticing your friend’s curious affectation. “I didn’t think humans aged THAT fast.”
He chuckled, and shrugged, saying: “Less conspicuous than a staff.”
“Somehow I think the hats give us away even so,” you noted.
Pearce simply shrugged, an enigmatic twinkle in those deep, dark eyes of his. You let the matter rest, since the dastard seemed delighted to keep this particular secret close to his chest for now… And anyway, you had greater concerns.
The same two Paladins were there, at the gate, as they were the day before. Shining silver armour reminded you of all they symbolized: the Pax Argentum, or Silver Peace, enforced by generations of such holy warriors, serving the dynasty whose prodigal Queen you now sought to speak with. Their gryphon paced by the gate, agitated as the day before yet moreso; its tilting head and staring, orange-yellow eyes fixated upon Muffins.
“You’re back,” noted the younger of the two paladins. “Sir Mitter, it’s the Archmage’s Apprentice again!”
“I see him, Sir Ribbeck” said (evidently) Sir Mitter to (it seemed) Sir Ribbeck. “And he brought a friend. But not the Archmage.”
“No,” Pearce agreed. “Not the Archmage. My name is Logan Pearce, of the Tower Guardians. The Archmage isn’t exactly in the business of leaving her important administrative duties to attend to matters of mystical and alchemical security concerns. I’m here in her stead, as an authorized agent of the Twoer.”
“But not a senior official of your organization,” the elder Sir Mitter noted.
“Senior enough for the task at hand,” Pearce reorted.
“Son,” said Sir Mitter, “you’re, what, twenty?”
“Twenty-two,” your friend mumbled, shifting his stance slightly.
