Day of Tomes, 13th of Suhin, Year 401

Rory was awake. Not an ideal situation. He laid in the soft down bed above the Molten Yam’s taproom, nursing a sore body and a hungover head. He had some vague recollection of Jack carrying him to bed.

“Oh, bollocks. Carried me up the stairs like a bloody babe,” he groaned.

He stared at the ceiling for another twenty minutes, luxuriating in the sensation of not lying on the ground. The bedrolls they had were as good as any sleeping bag on Earth, but they were still the ground. Rory had paid five grand for an eighteen-inch thick memory foam mattress with ‘feather-touch stabilizing technology’. It felt like sleeping on a cloud.

It felt like sleeping alone, on a cloud, since Darius slept like a mountain cat having a fight with a grizzly on top of a Jenga tower during an earthquake. The man tossed and turned more than a pancake. That bed was priceless.

Objectively, he understood the Yam’s down bed could not possibly be as comfortable as his ridiculous mattress, but after a month of walking more or less uphill and sleeping in the dirt, the feather bed was as close to heaven as Rory had been since the night the dream he had with Darius, back in the Dead Strand.

“Five more minutes,” he sighed, to no one in particular.

Finally, half an hour later, his rumbling stomach pushed him to ultimately abandon the bed. As he crawled out of the downy embrace, he flopped onto the plush rug that covered the center of the room, then pulled himself up to his knees, groaning as he pulled himself up on the bedpost. At last, he was upright.

He blew a kiss to the bed.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow…” he exhaled and picked up the mangled excuse for clothes he had been wearing. The spear-wielder had been right about his clothing. Rory took the time to wash his tunic and smallclothes every time they found a source of clean, fresh water.

He planned to burn the leather breeches. In fact, he should probably just burn the lot, wear something from Mistelein, and buy a new wardrobe in whatever style was in season for Moryven.

“The apparel oft proclaims the man,” he said to the empty room. “Then again, Willy, you were a bit of a hypocrite. Erasmus and Homer were probably right, though.”

In truth, Rory found the notion that a book’s cover was adequate judgement to be ludicrous. He’d closed hundred thousand dollar deals with men who wore overalls to the board room, and one of the biggest clients on his department’s books was a woman they affectionately referred to as “The Cat Lady”. Myra Blythe wore a tracksuit everywhere she went, smelled strongly of menthols and vaguely of cat urine, and spent 1.3 million last year with Rory’s firm. She also brought his team cake or cookies at least half a dozen times last quarter.

But… clients judged him based on what he wore, which is why he always looked fabulous. He smirked at the narcissistic thought.

Rory: Jack?

Jack: Yeah, bud?

Rory: Are you at the inn?

Jack: Yeah, I’m downstairs, teaching Tilly’s cook how to make french fries.

Rory: I’ll be down in a tick. Save me some?

Jack: We don’t have the grease just right yet, but I’ll get you some home fries for breakfast.

Layla: Noooo… not time to be awake.

Jack: Then go back to sleep. The messages don’t make any noise, so I know we didn’t wake you.

Layla: I need a bath. Save me some fries too. And eggs. And bacon. Ooo, sausage? Do we have any biscuits left?

Rory: Scones.

Layla: Biscuits.

Rory: I’m not going to argue with you, tart. But I am going to eat them all before you can get downstairs.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo…” Rory could hear Layla’s whine through the thick wooden walls.

He chuckled and began to dress. Then he looked at the clean tunic in his hand and the breeches and smallclothes on the bed, then sniffed his underarm. His nose wrinkled as he turned his head away.

Rory: Jack? Layla mentioned a bath. Where is it?

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Jack: Downstairs, bud. I’ll show you when you come down. Bring your trail clothes and Tilly will send em to be laundered with the rest of our dirty stuff.

Rory: Oh, no chance, mate. I’m burning these.

Rory pulled on his dirty breeches, then stripped them right back off.

They were stiff.

His pants. Were so dirty. They were stiff.

He balled the entire outfit up and stuffed it into his Arcane Storage, then dressed in a clean outfit. He’d pull another clean set out when he finished with his bath and have the ones he was wearing now laundered with Jack’s clothes.

On second though, he’d have them laundered separately.

Jack: Oh hey, bud. Bring your armor down. I’m gonna bring mine and Erin’s to the west end of town and have them cleaned and maintained. You too, El.

Layla: Ten-four, Tex.

Rory exited his room at almost the same second as Layla, both of them casting a startled glance at the other, then giggling at the coincidence.

“Where’s your armor?” she asked.

“In my storage. It smells like something crawled into it and died,” he replied.

“Smell mine,” she smirked.

“Wha… why? How?” he was baffled by the complete lack of stench on the combat robes.

“My B.O. smells like flowers or some shit,” she cackled and trounced down the stairs.

He followed Layla down into the taproom, silently cursing her. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she skipped off to the bar and sat down.

“One breakfast mead, please Tilly,” she chirped.

“It’s seventh bell, lassie,” the bartender eyeballed her.

“So? Do dwarves not drink in the morning or something?” Layla winked at her.

“Ohhhh, I oughtta pop you one,” the innkeep scowled at her, but smiled and poured her a mug of golden honey wine.

“Just juice or whatever you usually serve with breakfast for me, Tilly,” Rory gave her a warm smile, and the dwarfess returned the expression.

Whatever turned out to be juice, pressed from a fruit called “dew ibosa”, which was a solid ringer for an apple-kiwi hybrid, covered in a thick, furred rind. It was apparently served raw, juiced, blended, fried, jammed, or pickled, almost year-round.

“Grows down in the Hollow, on the big silverish trees. Common enough out in the mountains and on the hills headed t’ward the coast, as well,” Tilly explained as Rory drained the refreshing cup and motioned for another.

“Well, it’s delicious, love,” Rory complimented her.

Around that time, Jack emerged from the kitchen, with two plates bearing each a fried egg the size of a tea saucer, several thick slabs of bacon, and a pile of home fries.

“Oh mate, I love you so much right now,” Rory inhaled as Jack set the steaming plate down.

Then he leaned down and took another deep breath as the medley of scents overwhelmed him.

“We’re never leaving here, right?” he pined over the plate.

Next to him, Layla was staring at Jack with an unfocused glazed expression.

“You alright, El?” he poked her.

“Huh?” she started and turned to look at him.

Her eyes were brilliant gold and her fangs had slipped her mirage. Jack was still holding Layla’s plate.

“Mate, you alright?” he snapped his fingers at Jack.

“What? Yeah… I just... “ his gaze drifted back toward Layla.

“What is up with you two?” Rory felt like he was missing something.

Layla leaned forward on the bar, her shirt half-open.

“Jackson… feed me,” she whispered.

The nightbringer stared down at the succubus with a lost expression.

"NoNo,” he shook himself and put her plate down. “Layla… are you okay?”

“Layla, how long’s it been?” Rory snapped his fingers next to her face.

Jack had looked away from her, eye contact drilling into the side of Rory’s head like a laser.

“Hmmm?” she pulled her eyes away from Jack’s face. “What, Rory?”

“How long has it been since you fed?” he leaned in and whispered to her. “Hey,” he touched her hand.

“Rory…” she turned to look at him.

“You need to feed,” he smiled gently.

A glimmer of… something… passed across Layla’s face, and she shook her head, withdrawing her hand from Rory’s.

“No, I can’t right now. I… umm… I’ll hurt you. I… uhh, I’m gonna go take a bath,” she stood up.

“You sure?” he reached out, but she backed away from his hand.

“Yeah. Just… just let me go get myself together,” she smiled at him and turned to walk away.

“Layla?” Jack called after her.

She stopped, but didn’t turn.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, Jackson, don’t. I can’t… Not right now, okay?” she walked toward the bathhouse.

“Okay, Layla.”

He looked down at the plate of food.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Yeah, pretty sure that’s the problem,” Rory replied.