Emmaline lifted her face from Amal's lap as the rug settled onto the grassy hillside. Sir Brenly hopped from the carpet with evident relief, nearly tripping in the ankle length grass of the stony hillside. Emmaline stepped off somewhat more gracefully as the rug settled to the ground in what they had come to recognize as exhaustion. The elegant decant was somewhat spoiled by the assemblage of small twigs and leaves that had tangled in her hair and the sudden gust of wind that momentarily lifted the tails of her stolen silk shirt up around her waist. Fortunately Sir Brenly was still scanning the nearby treeline for any sign of imminent giant attack, a reasonable concern as far Emmaline was concerned.

"Do you have any idea where we are Sir Brenly?" Emmaline asked as Amal rolled up the carpet. The knight turned and started to see that Emmaline was holding her staff in her hand.

"Where in the name of the Lady were you hiding that?" the knight demanded incredulously, having spent the past several hours watching her unconscious body. Emmaline shrugged uncomfortably, explaining about her strange connection with a foreign Goddess and the staff she had found in forgotten shrine in the Arabyian desert, especially when she didn't understand it herself. Sir Brenly regarded her for a moment then seemed to put it down to yet another oddity with the two foreigners. Like most inhabitants of the Old World the Knight had exaggerated ideas about the capabilities of wizards. Emmaline had learned early on in her career of scamming the gullible that almost no claim was so outlandish as to be completely dismissed.

"I'm afraid I do know My Lady," the knight said with an axious glance back at the trees.

"I'm old enough to remember the last Errantry War, and unless I am very much mistaken..." the knight paused and sighed mournfully.

"Unless I am very much mistaken, we are in Albion."