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As much as you can be in such a position. You wrap your arms around his thick neck as he stabilizes you by your knees. "...Yeah," you say.
"Glad I'm useful for something. Haw-haw."
Embarrassingly, Earl sets off at a <span class="mu-i">faster</span> clip than he was going before— he wasn't waiting around for you, was he? Whatever the case, your added weight isn't posing him much challenge. He (and you) scale the slope in record time, then swing around a bend, winding up in the base of a sinkhole. He (and you) take the long ladder up the side, thrown down by someone long ago, and emerge into the Flats at night. Earl has entrusted you with holding the glorb, and you dangle it helpfully above his head as he shields his eyes, swivels his head, and spots something: a dip in the land, marked by a makeshift flag in gold.
He (and you) trek there— he does the trekking, while you admire the glassy water all above you. How long has it been since you've seen the real, actual sky? Two or three days? You don't think you could live in Hellsbells, or not happily.
You come to the flag, and Earl crouches to let you off. He hasn't broken a sweat, it seems, and flashes you a merry thumbs-up. Should you thank him? But he's the one who offered in the first place, and you made him feel useful— so maybe you're already even? You don't want to give him any improper ideas. Oh, he's stood. Oh, he's rounding the dip. That works too.
"—fuckin' took you long enough, Earl—"
"—not what I'd expect from a <span class="mu-i">professional</span>—"
You round the dip, too, and discover two people camped out against it— one lanky fish, one guy you've never seen before. He's wearing a sinister cloak, so you're immediately jealous of him. Perhaps he's jealous of you back, because he cuts himself off and extends a ring-laden hand in your direction. "Who is <span class="mu-i">this?</span>"
"My handler," Earl says roughly. "Frances."
"<span class="mu-i">Her?</span>" the fish snaps, lowering its food stick(?). "Again? You've got to be yanking—"
"We didn't agree on an additional person," Cloak Man says. "The payout is not being <span class="mu-i">increased.</span>"
"I don't think you get what a handler is, pal. She—" Your back is slapped, hard. "—will ensure <span class="mu-i">your</span> head isn't bit off. Real essential. Right, 'licia?"
"Don't know why you're dragging this bitch back into it—" The fish pauses to chomp at its stick. "—but sure, yeah. He's not joking about the heads, Wayne. That shit's real."
"I also have a sword," you offer. "And various other talents, which I can list if—"
"I don't want a list." Cloak Guy (Wayne?) levies his dramatic hand at Earl. "If she ruins anything, this is going on <span class="mu-i">your</span> head. It's going out of your share regardless."
"Nothing's getting ruined," Earl says. "And if I hear you treated her like dogshit, then I'll—"
(4/5)
