"Oh, is that all?" Oolong says with a blink, feeling oddly disappointed that nothing more glamorous than serving as an impromptu elevator is required of him. Sherlock had him slay orcs.

"Of course, then."

He puts his hand down, palm up, fingers and thumb thick as a man's thigh splayed wide, claws the length and shape of a cow's ribs resting idle and quiescent. A horse could stand on that hand, but it might not want to. The black scales are warm, like flagstones that have been kissed by the sun for hours. He waits patiently for Horst to step onto the Oolong Express.