After a brief, hot shower, and a visit to the quartermaster to get an all-purpose jumpsuit and general-issue clean undergarments, Glenda meandered her way to the Cove. Mister Collins had given vague, but earnest directions, insisting she visit at her earliest convenience, and to be honest the woman really had nothing better to do. The onesie she wore was itchy, overly-startched and ill fitting; but it was cleaner than what she'd woken up in, so it would have to do.

This was rather like losing your suitcase at the airport, she decided, but she had a feeling she wasn't going to be able to convince any of the stern-faced men and women to try and fetch her missing luggage. This was especially true given that she was fairly certain the island her luggage was on was somewhere at the bottom of the sea, or wherever islands blown up by magical helicopters wound up.

She hoped the marine life appreciated her extensive collection of plaid shirts.

Glenda descended the stony steps into the darkness, humming merrily to herself. Her fanny pack, battered and somewhat worse for the wear, had survived - and she still had a few cigars left. The day was, overall, looking up. She took one out, raising it to her mouth for a light - when she saw a faint glow in the distance.

She let it dangle from her lips unlit, blue eyes squinting suspiciously as she began taking the steps two at a time. What she saw took her breath away.

"Lordy be."

The walls were covered in runes, or drawings - she wasn't sure which - that glowed with their own inner light. What struck her more than that was the images, the suggestions and whispers that seemed to insinuate themselves in the forefront of her imagination as she considered each in turn. She shook her head, removing her cigar to lick her lips. There was a hint of something, a glimmer of - intelligence? - in the way they played themselves out. Cutting, crushing, so many tools with so many uses. She liked tools. Maybe somewhere in there would be a brand new car; like The Price is Right or something.

Glenda grinned a wide, slow smile. Was this what he meant by partners, then?

"Any o' you boys know where I can get onna them shoulder cannons?" She asked the room at large, gruff voice twisting up a few octaves as she tried to appeal to her audience. 'Demure', unfortunately, was probably not a word in her vocabulary.

'M not a boy, but I can help!

The bright, chipper tone was filled with eagerness and enthusiasm, and the woman was momentarily taken aback. In spite of the presences she sensed in the room, she hadn't really expected an answer - and especially not one from what sounded like a young girl. Hell, did she get roped into a vacation at a family resort? She shoved her cigar behind her ear and looped her fingers in her jumpsuit's pockets, giving the room a considering visual sweep and grimly contemplating the possibility.

"Alright dearie, slow down there. To whom am I speakin'?" She couldn't seem to distinguish where the speaker was- it seemed to issue from everywhere at once.

Over here! the voice squeaked, and one of the runes on the wall pulsed brightly. Just touch me, stuff will happen!

Glenda grinned wryly. Oh, the innocence of youth. She rambled over with a chuckle. Sticking the cigar in her mouth, she wistfully considered that that was not the first, nor probably the last, time someone had told her that - although gen'rally speaking it was a gentleman suitor-

Pleaaaaase!

"Don't get yer panties in a twist," she chortled, reaching out to lay a finger -

There was a burst of light, and a sudden weight - her fists tightened around something instinctively as it was hurled at her from the wall.

"That don't usually happen t'me," she commented blithely, blinking the glare from her eyes.

Surprise! the voice squealed, and she suddenly realized that it was coming from in her head.

Glenda tapped the side of her noggin. "'Ey, quiet up there, dearie, you don't have to shout." Her voice was kind, but firm. At least this child wasn't as sticky as her unfortunate grandson. She examined the object in her hands carefully. It was some kind of rifle, with a conical muzzle; rendered in loving detail. The accents were especially fetching, she reflected - a green scaled spine running it's length with a soft, furred forestock. The glowing accent runes just gave it an extra pinch of pinache. It suited her, she felt - it was as if it was made for her hands.

"Oooo-eee," she cooed, clutching it to her chest. "You ain't as big as his, dearie, but I think you'll do."

Let it never be said that Glenda Gautreaux was a size queen.