“Well, I guess that’s good to hear then, Joe mcshoots. Now, I am glad you two are here, as I have a bone to pick with you.”
“A bone?” Skellian asked. “What sort of bone?”
She sighed. “A metophorical one, you oaf.”
“Ah, yes, of course, your magisty.”
“Now,” she continued, “how much fuel did you use for this night’s burning?”
“A lot,” Skellian said with a grin on his face.
“Skell says it burns at eight hundred mixyflasms!” the boy said.
“What in the name of the mother of tree trunks is a mixyflasm, skellian?”
“A unit in which we measure fire, Queen, obviously.”
The queen spat into a golden goblet then wiped her mouth with some orange fruit. “Are you mocking me, again, Skellian?”
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