Half a world away, or possibly no distance at all, Fingal waits in the middle of a strip of fawn-coloured tarmac at the top of a rise on a series of rolling hills and valleys, waiting while his mistress scans the landscape. A clown passes, noting their presence but not altering his course at all, each giant boot almost the same size as the hills over which he is striding, painted grin fixed in a rictus of greasepaint upon his round face with its barely-visible, pinpoint eyes.

"Come on Logan," she mutters to herself. She had not asked him to come. When the Big O had called her away from that rather lovely picnic she had not been expecting to find the hairy little mutant with the adamantium bones waiting for her just inside the border territory. He had intercepted Thought and Memory on their way to find her and made them let him tag along. When the Priestess had greeted his presence with surprise and a query as to what in the name of Hel (who happened to be a close personal friend, by the way) he was doing following her around, he had grinned around his cigar.

"Hard to keep my edge up there with nothin' more threatenin' than bunny rabbits and bambis," he had said.

So now she is waiting, with Fingal starting to shift restlessly underneath her, looking at the long, swooping descent ahead of them and keen to be underway.

There is a croak from somewhere to her right, then a hoot. The raven is too far away to be anything more than a black speck against the kaleidoscopic sky, but the Priestess can recognise Memory even at that distance, and make out the message.

"About bloody time too," she says with relief, and lets Fingal have his head.