He mumbled to himself, thinking about what had just occurred. Did any of that actually happen? His body ached. If it didn’t, then clearly that meant someone had stopped by on a whim before he and his buddies had kicked the shit out of him for a lark, and Handy just imagined a week’s worth of indentured servitude and a collapsing mine shaft to rationalize the brutalization of his body. He rubbed his eyes. Who in the hell was he kidding? That was real; it was all real, as real as anything else in this mad land he was in. He was in a land where he was head and shoulders above weirdly proportioned, colourful ponies when they were standing on their hind legs who spoke English, used magic, and fucking flew. Also griffons. He supposed if he did find a horribly evil artefact in a cave in a mountain overlooking a town by the sea, it would probably be the only thing here that made sense.