"Saxon. You may call me Saxon. Harold Saxon to be proper. Your boss traded happy meals for a sword?" The Master wasn't quite sure what she meant by happy meals. "Sounds like a good trade to me."
The Master mused as he tried to move closer to the young woman but the cow wandered between them. Looking over the cow at the woman he asked. "So you have a boss. What do you do for a living? And how many people have been misplaced here?"
The fact that people didn't seem to like to talk about it could mean that local superstition had come up with a fanciful explanation for the unique cosmic occurrence.
"I was more like forcibly misplaced by someone else. It wasn't my choice."