The cobbled street is damp and reeks of something that might have once been bread but now smells more like something that has been lying dead in the sun for too long. Buildings lean precariously, their crooked windows filled with the sour stares of people who have long since given up on personal hygiene, much less the hope of a better tomorrow.

It’s a busy day, if 'busy' can be defined as a dozen ragged peasants trying to sell moldy cabbages, some muttering to themselves, and one child crying over a particularly unfortunate mud puddle. The kingdom of Hisea is not doing well, but it’s not as though anyone expected it to.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp crack in the air, followed by a burst of glitter so bright it nearly blinds a nearby donkey. The glitter rains down, twinkling with alarming amounts of enthusiasm, and before anyone can even begin to process what’s happening, a man appears in a swirling flash of light. His sudden arrival is, largely, a cause of confusion - mostly because he is wearing what appears to be an oversized pair of pajamas, and clutching a newspaper as if it’s the only thing that stands between him and certain doom.

He lands with a thud on the cobblestones, his face making a soft 'oof' as it meets the ground; his pajamas - striped, and with a suspiciously modern cut - flutter like a flag in the breeze.

The peasants stare at him, mouths agape, one woman, whose hair is so gray it might be mistaken for a pigeon nest, shrieks in terror and drops her basket of carrots.

“A sorcerer!” she yells, her hands trembling as she points an accusatory finger at the man. “A wizard!”

The others panic, someone shouts, “Witch! Witch!” - which is somewhat redundant, considering that this is the medieval ages, where if you don’t have a pointy hat and a suspicious number of cats, people just assume you’re up to no good.

The crowd quickly forms a ragtag circle around the man, some armed with pitchforks, some with sticks, and one particularly eager fellow who seems to have found a shovel, they jab at him as he tries to stand, bewildered, holding his newspaper in front of his face like a shield.

The peasants take one look at his pajamas and make up their minds. “Witchcraft!” they chant, shaking their makeshift weapons. “Witchcraft!”

Fortunately for the man in the pajamas, a pair of royal guards arrive on the scene, perhaps because there is a certain amount of protocol involved when someone spontaneously materializes in the middle of your kingdom in their undergarments. The guards are big and burly, their helmets shiny and impractical.

“Stand aside!” one of them commands, swinging his sword with little finesse but great fanfare, he pushes through the crowd and, with surprising gentleness, grabs the pajama-clad man by the arm.

They march him through the village and into the castle, where King Geoffrey waits on his throne, gazing out of the window with an expression that suggests he’s trying to remember if he left the oven on. His crown is nowhere to be seen, his royal robe is too large for him, and he’s tapping his foot impatiently, like a man who’s had one too many dealings with wizards, sorcerers, and other folk who can’t seem to pick a good time to show up.

The doors swing open and the pajama-man is shoved into the throne room, looking like someone who has absolutely no idea what is going on.

Geoffrey blinks. “What is this, then?” his voice is loud, the tone somewhere between curiosity and mild exasperation. His gaze drifts from the man in his pajamas, to the newspaper clutched in his hand, and the listless expression shifts into something that might or might not be morbid delight. "Speak, who are you?"