The next stop after reading the letter my first stop was the bank. I could have managed since by Wilmette’s choice were staying in the poorer part of the city, and he’d paid room and lodging. The inn was paradise considering where I’d been living for the last year. But I yearned for creature comforts.
After depositing a small sample of blood and after a crooked and wizened blood mage whose face was lined with some long drawn out bitterness confirmed that I, was me, they consulted their books and discovered that I had fifteen pieces of platinum on deposit or 375 gold.
Keep in mind that the empire did not actually use metal as coinage. Instead, each denomination of coin was cast out of some incredibly hard ceramic and dyed the color of its denomination. Coppers were brown, Silver was grey, Gold was Yellow, and Platinum was White. There were also half and double coins of each denomination that were marked with either a red for half, or blue for double, dyed center.
One side of each coin had the value of the coin in both Magrith, Lantra and an Imperial form of Braille. The other depicted a profile of the Emperor, may she live forever.
My first stop, after asking directions, was to the “best bladesmith in town,” which I found out eventually was not turned out not to be the best bladesmith in town. Note to self: Never ask a banker their opinion on the merits of weaponry.
It wasn’t that the man that the bank sent me to was incompetent. I tried out some of his blades, and they balanced well and were decently forged, but they were meant for the layer of nobility that never fought anything except the occasional duel. And I did not need the gilt or encrusted gemstones, the fancy layered steel techniques, the etched mythological monsters rampant on the fuller, and especially not the enameled family crest on the hilt.
Since the sword smith would not tell me who his main competitor walked into a bookstore next. At least this place was familiar. Anyone who has stepped into a rare bookstore would have been able to picture the interior of the store. Dust covered shelves like isthmuses rising into a fertile archipelago of knowledge.
I started to browse through the stacks, and after a while, I noticed a few things. Firstly, there were no books on magic on display. Secondly, all of the histories in stock were histories of the Empire. No other countries were had been written about. Sure there were ancient fables, poetry, literature, language, and the sciences (limited such as this world had) from other nations on the shelves but nothing about their culture, society, system of government or even how other nations beside my own rose or fell.
I did find a rather phenomenal hand-drawn guide of local herbs and their properties. And another of common magical herbs found in dungeons and areas of high mana. There were also a couple of introductory books on alchemy that I looked through and decided to put back down.
I walked to the counter where an elderly man was sitting on a stool with his head in deep in a book. I’m was not entirely sure he’d even been aware that I’d entered the store.
“Excuse me,” I said.
The man still stared enraptured at his book. The only reason I was sure he wasn’t dead was that he chose that minute to turn the page.
“Excuse me,” I said again this time louder.
The man looked up. “Oh. Dear me. How long have you been standing there? This is just so fascinating. It is this completely original novel written by a great master author in Zabrin, a nation nearly a thousand miles from here. The main character is some sort of half man with a ring that can turn him invisible. He is on a quest to throw this ring into a volcano. Nine wraiths are chasing him who have succumbed to their own ring, and he only has his friend Samwise to provide companionship. It is riveting.
“This is by the same man who published, just last year a play about two young lovers who commit suicide because their families are feuding and will not let them be together. What was that line ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.’ Where does he get his ideas… This Pierre Menard as he calls himself he is a master… a literary master I tell you. Though he does have a strange name. It must be a pen name. Foreigners are strange.”
I rolled my eyes. Book people. Gotta love em. “I was hoping you had some spell books? I didn’t see any on the shelves.”
“We do, though we usually keep those locked up. They can be pricey. Not that books are inexpensive. But spell books must be handwritten by a master mage. That makes their circulation limited.”
I nodded. The runes, the embedded power would be hard to do with by laying block letters individually on a printing press or even etching a copper plate.
“I was wondering if you had anything on healing. Specifically purification, diseases, and sickness. As well as maybe something on boosting the immune system.”
“Hmm, I don’t have a lot of books on healing, but I will bring what I have.” He turned around, and I put the books on herbology down on the counter.
The bookstore owner returned with three books. I opened the first one, but it went into detail about the spells Wilmette had already taught me. I put it aside. The next book was pretty much the same thing, with a couple much more basic spells that and variations that I could have figured out on my own. I pushed that one aside too.
The third book began the same way but then began to go into an exhaustive and detailed account of the human anatomy. Then began to deal with things like contraceptive spells, spells to prevent rheum in babies, spells to cure goats and cattle, and other common spells a village healer might want to know. From there it began to discuss the various flues and sicknesses that regularity passed through a small town and how to combat them, how to purify water, sanitary practices, how to mercifully euthanize someone who would never recover, how to dispel demonic possession, and a million other useful bits of information.
I said, “How much for this one.” Holding up the third book.
“I don’t know anything about healing magic, but most people usually buy one or the other of the first two. They are classics on the subject. The third book is much less popular.” The book seller said.
“I already know the information in the first two books. I’m more interested in this one. While this demon dispelling spell looks suspiciously like mumbo-jumbo, the rest of it looks intriguing.”
“Ten silver for the spell book,” he said. “And seven for each of those books on Herbology.”
“Okay. That makes sense. My next question and I hate saying this, so forgive me, but do you have any books on…” and switching back to my horrible Cretian I said it “gnacks.”
“Oh! My ears, my poor-poor ears! What a horrible abuse of such a lovely language. I am tempted to throw you out of the store for saying pronouncing something so badly.”
I sighed, “Spare me the editorializing. First teach me the proper pronunciation, then the word in Magrith, and then answer my question. Do you have any books on the subject?”
We spent a few minutes healing my broken language and then he went through the stacks of books and came back a few minutes later holding two books.
“Knacks are rare,” he said. “They aren’t talked about, and they are written about even less. It’s even harder because sometimes everyone assumes some has a knack when all they have is a captured dungeon core. You might have to go to a university library to find what you are looking for.
“The only thing I have is a book about a well-known pyromancer from about six centuries ago who almost burned down this continent and a man with a healing knack who swept through the lands followed by his followers. He said death couldn’t keep him. And he would be back one day. Funny. It almost sounds like a twice lived, though this was centuries before they started to show up. Still, I’m surprised that this isn’t on the banned list. Maybe I should bring it up the next time Lord Er comes around. Wouldn’t want to get into any trouble, even accidentally.”
“Banned list?” I said.
“Oh yes. It is very inconvenient, but what can I do, I have to follow the rules or I might end up on in prison or worse. That would be horrible. Do they even have books in prison? Though if they had books in prison would it be all that bad. I wouldn’t have to deal with customers, though the torture I imagine would be dreadful. I suppose it depended on the books. If they were books I hadn’t read, or if I was suddenly overwhelmed by really annoying customers. Something to think about, something to think about.”
“Banned List?” I said again.
“Yes, from the Inquisitors. Who are you that you don’t know about the inquisitors. Any book containing any mention of any system of government other than our glorious empire is banned punishable by death. Any history of our empire written by someone from outside our empire is banned punishable by death. Any books about the Twice-Lived is banned punishable by death. Any books written by known Twice-Lived in other kingdoms are banned punishable by death. Lord Er comes around twice a year to audit my shelves with a long list of known titles. And I am required to send him the names of anyone trying to sell me books on those subjects. It is tedious. Especially since there are rare book collectors, who buy such things. I could make a fortune if Lord Er was just a tiny bit less vigilant. Maybe if I were in prison about to be executed, they would let me read those books? No, I doubt it. That man takes his responsibilities far too seriously!”
Then he paused and said. “Forget I said that.”
I sighed, “Already forgotten. I guess I will take these three books then.” Indicating the one healing book and the two books on herbology. “Oh, do you have any books on dungeons. Common types, where to find them, cores, monsters, that kind of thing?”
“Fascinating subject dungeons, I believe I have just the book you are looking for. It was written by a mage long ago who was an avid dungeon diver. We owe most of our knowledge of dungeon cores to his work. Anyway, the book contains everything you mentioned as well as a few handy spells if you have the right affinities. It has been in print for close to 3 centuries, and nothing more authoritative has ever been written, simply because going into a dungeon is incredibly dangerous. People who want to update or revise the book, tend to disappear.”
He went off to where he kept the magic books and returned with a thick book, that I quickly leafed through. Most of it was in movable type, but there were indeed hand drawn runes for spells, and the book itself reeked of arcane energy.
“How much?” I said. No matter what I would take it, but I couldn’t let on how much I wanted this book.
“Eight Silver.” He said.
“Less than the healing book?”
“There are far more copies in circulation. It is a popular book, even among non-mages. Anybody who dreams of making quick riches by looting a core wants to read that book. I have five copies in stock, and it is easy to get more. I would have charged you the same if you had bought the first or second healing book. The one you chose is very esoteric.”
I paid for the four books and was about to leave when I had one last thought. “Can you direct me to a competent sword smith and herbalist?”
“As to a herbalist, Lady Petunia Petunia-eater Petunia is three buildings down. She is the best herbalist in the city. I know nothing about weaponry; now if you excuse me, I was about to read about revealing Isildur’s heir in my book. That Pierre Menard is a genius.
“Thanks,” said and left his bookstore with all my new loot wrapped in a sheet of lambs leather and bound tightly.
Lady Petunia Petunia-eater Petunia was another damned half-elf. How could I tell? I’ll tell you. She told me. Other than that she looked exactly like any other human.
“What quit staring, never seen a half-elf before.” Lady Petunia Petunia-eater Petunia said after I had walked into her shop and turned to close the door.
In truth, I had been looking at her boobs which were marvelous, but whatever. Ignorance is better than sexism. “You’re only the second half-elf I’ve ever met.”
“What can I do for you, young man.” She said.
I set my pack down on her counter and pulled out the bundles of plants I had collected from the dungeon. Most of them were wilted. I had tried to dry them in the odd hours when we weren’t walking, so none of the plants were rotting. One or two I had even managed to keep alive by watering and giving the occasional bit of sunlight.
“I just went on a dungeon dive with my mentor. I don’t know if any of these are valuable or what they are worth. I don’t know if any of these are harvested correctly. I honestly have no idea what to look for. I did just buy this book,” I pulled out the book on Herbs found in dungeons. “But I would be interested in a trade. Knowledge, for these plants. I’m sure at least one or two of them are worth something.”
Then I looked at her, as she slowly picked through the plants. A look of interest was in her eye. “So what exactly do you want. Precisely.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Tell me what these are. Show me the proper way to harvest and store them. Teach me what to look for to find more or different herbs. Tell me the values I should sell them for. If you know any nature affinity runes or spells to aid in this, teach me those too. If you agree to do that, these plants are yours.
“And before you say no, this could work out to be a good arrangement. I am positive this will not be the last dungeon I enter. I imagine that getting high mana plants must be extremely difficult. Having someone who owes you a favor and can get you the plants you need could have benefits.”
“Done,” she said. “When can you start? Are you sure you are as young as you look? You sound like you are ready to spit fire and drink blood, not play games and chase girls without quite know why you are chasing them.”
“My father ensured that I grow up quickly. Anyway, I have some more errands to run today, but I will be back when I have an hour or two tomorrow. Is there a good time?”
“As long as I don’t have customers, any time should be fine.”
“Then I will see you tomorrow,” I said, “one last thing, do you happen to know where I can find a good sword maker in this city?”
“Goodness me, no. But you should ask at the mercenary guild. They are always coming in her to buy healing tonics. They would definitely know the better places.” And she gave me directions to the mercenary guild.
A little while later I walked into the Mercenary Guild.
“Whad’da ya want half pint.” A massive person trying to be man-bear-pig said lounging by the door. “You’re too small to join. Come back when you’re taller than my balls. Unless you’re here to suck my balls, in which case why don’t you come right over. You look small soft and squishy, and that’s just the way I like em.”
His drinking buddy reached over and put his hand on the liker of small squishy things and said, “Careful now; he could be a customer.”
“Are you a customer? Or are you here to suck my balls?” Yelled the first mercenary. “Don’t tease a man, tell me. Tell me quick; I’m getting mighty horny with you standing there all soft and squishy. Didn’t I tell you, you’re just the way I like them.” He turned to his drinking buddy, “Didn’t I tell him that.”
“You did. Now calm down. Kid, why are you here?”
Before I could answer, I heard someone yell from across the room. “That’s the mother fucker who killed Cliisa last night. He’s the reason why I will never walk again. I am offering five gold to the person who kills that kid.”
The big guy who had been calling me soft and squishy stood up. He was nearly eight feet tall, and covered in muscles. He wore armor that was a mixture of overlapping metal plates and leather, and he pulled out an enormous sword. What the hell was it with these mega oversized mercenaries and jumbo monkeys? Did they put something in the water? Mana. Scratch that. They put mana in the water.
I backed up.
“I guess you ain’t sucking my cock today boy. It’s too bad. I do like them soft and squishy, but on second thought, you look tough and scrawny.”
His partner backed up. “Be careful. He killed two of our own last night. The kid has teeth.”
I needed to end this quickly, but I didn’t want to kill the big guy. I didn’t like this, but I’d already drawn too much attention last night. Besides, this was pretty much like the standard prison logic. In jail, pick a fight with the biggest guy in the yard, and you won’t have to worry about dropping the soap for the rest of your incarceration.
On the other hand, I couldn’t end this too quickly, or else they might think it was luck. I hoped big meant slow. And that he was as stupid or drunk as he was acting before I came in. The sword worried me though.
I ducked under an overhead slash, and rushed in, throwing three empowered punches in quick succession to his stomach. His stomach was the highest place I could reach. But I hit him hard and heard him grunt in pain.
He tried to reach me with his off-hand, but I backed away, keeping my eye on that sword. One second is gone. The blade whistled towards my head, and I moved around it. I tried to grab at his sword hand with a nerve hold one of my long-ago instructors had shown me, and almost managed it. That is I grabbed hold of the right place, but his arm was like iron, and I could barely hold on let alone cause the kind of pain I was trying to do. Four seconds. Instead of letting go of his sword arm I kept hold. The nerve pinch was worthless but, five seconds…
The sword had reached the apex I was dangling holding on to it with one hand; his other hand was reaching for me to rip me off. My feet were dangling in the air with no leverage. I kicked and connected with his body, with his solar plexus and empowered myself. Way more than I had been.
In only slight slow motion, the big guy dropped his sword and I heard, and extended crack from the bones in his chest. He was falling backward, driven backward about 5 feet from my kick, and I was moving the other direction, sprawling towards the door I entered.
The one second was over. I walked over and picked up his sword from the ground. Shit was heavy. He lay on the ground out of it. I held the sword dangling over his throat and said “Yield?”
He looked up at me and croaked “Yield.”
I put down the sword beside him, eyeing the now silent tavern, then forming the runes of healing over the man on the ground, I proceeded to heal all of his wounds and then get rid of some old bruises and fix some areas in his body that had never healed right. “I am neither soft nor squishy. And if I choose to have you suck my cock you will open up your mouth, gag it down deep, and swallow like a good bitch,” I said.
“While I have mana left over, does anybody else need healing?” I said.
“Free?” asked a mercenary incredulously.
“Free.” I said, “Why don’t I heal you.” I pointed to the man who had offered five gold to kill me. "I’m sorry about your friend. I regretted last night. And I know you are a mercenary. You were just doing a job. I got in the way of that. Let me fix your legs as a small repayment.”
Bruxton the mercenary was pulled over to me in a small wagon by three of his friends. He was wrapped in a cloth diaper because he still hadn’t figured out how to urinate without the use of his legs. He smelt of piss and booze.
I began working immediately. The runes forming quickly and I tried something and gave the healing process just a tiny bit of a boost from the extra mana I had gotten from my knack.
At that moment I felt something click. It was as if healing now suddenly made sense. As much sense as moving quickly did. As much sense as the little tentacles, I could send out to steal or give mana always had.
I had a healing knack. I just couldn’t use it on myself. Still one more thing to keep quiet. Though I wasn’t sure what the point was when the runes were so convenient and widespread.
Bruxton’s knees healed quickly. I then followed up and made some minor tweaks fixing some problems on the rest of his body. I chucked a bit when I discovered that he had Leukemia that was in stage 3 and which had almost reached stage 4 but I set about to fix that too.
“You are lucky I stopped by,” I said. “You only had humor growing in your bones. I estimate you only had about six weeks to live.”
“So you say,” Said Bruxton.
“I don’t care. You’re good. Get up and go away.”
I turned to the bar. “What else do I have to do to make things right. You men and women work in a dangerous job, so I cannot accept all the blame for what happened last night, but I will be damned if I am going to walk around this city waiting for you guild-mates to jump out of the shadows at me. They won’t succeed, and I will have to kill them, but I will if I have too.”
A man dressed in gleaming chain mail stood up. He looked wealthy, and he commanded a great deal of respect in the room. “I am Captain Alelm Eagle Cedar, could I have your name?”
“I am Elm, but if you want something more formal, I am Elm of House Lysturgus and the Clan Naato. My patrimony and matrimony are irrelevant for this discussion.”
“Elm,” said the Captain, “You are welcome in this establishment. A servant of Lord Er stopped by a short time ago telling us you had been trained by Wilmette.” An awed whispering broke out among the mercenaries. “I am glad to see his reputation as a mentor is well earned. I would have stopped this fight before it happened had I been given a chance, but I will admit I was curious how it would resolve itself.”
“If you would like to completely make amends, then know that though Cliisa was a woman, she left a wife behind who is now a widow. A sum of 10 gold would see her fed and clothed long enough to move on. But that is your choice.”
I reached into my money belt and counted out 15 gold and walked over to the captain and handed it to him.
“Good, now then. Why are you here? You are too young to join. You need to be at least 16 and have your status. Do you need troops?”
I looked away, “Um… this is embarrassing, after all this excitement. Well… I broke my sword and dagger inside a 20-foot tall bright orange goblin, and I was wondering if anybody knew a good bladesmith. The one, the bankers, sent me too made weaponry fit for the nobility and not for actual use. I want something strong, flexible, durable, hopefully with some rune magic used in the forging.”
“So you walked into the belly of the beast hoping to ask for directions?” the Captain asked.
“I wasn’t expecting this much drama.”
“That is obvious. Well, I know the man you are looking for. He is a fine smith though impatient with frivolity and a purist with his craft. He is not a mage. Unfortunately, I don’t believe there is a single runic metalsmith within 300 miles of here. But he does make good blades.”
“Well then,” I said, “If you wouldn’t mind telling me how to find this mysterious man, I will leave you to your drinking and be on my way.”
A few minutes later I was out in the sunshine walking again. Rays of light gleamed off of the cobbled stone streets. The buildings were made of stone but painted in shades of white or ochre. They were built side by side facing the main street. Most of the rooves were made of painted clay shingles, and more than anything the city reminded me of the city of Bruges in Belgium, which I supposed was logical since Bruges medieval town that had managed to escape the second world war bombings.
The street I was walking down then opened up into an enormous field that was lined with well-groomed trees. A small but quickly moving stream ran down the center of the park and decorative bridges crossing the stream in places. The park itself might have been 100 yards across, but regarding length, standing on one of the bridges, I could look in one direction and see the city walls, and in the other direction I could see the sheer mountain face the city buttressed against. A waterfall fell from a great height off the mountain and gathered into a pool; it was the run off of this water that fed the stream.
Across from where I was standing was an enormous building. It dwarfed anything that I had seen so far in the city. The size was monumental, but not honoring any person or event; palatial, but not housing any king or noble; sacerdotal, but not pertaining to any function of the divine.
It was the House of the Status.
Or at least that is what I had been told by the Captain, who told me to look for it and then make a turn to the left.
Walking down that street and then down another side street and then down another road. The buildings here were more industrial and functional. I passed a stockyard full of cattle. The smell of manure from the stockyard and the smell of blood from the slaughterhouse combined in a charnal bouquet. The sword smith’s establishment was supposed to be just a bit further, and I wouldn’t have stopped but thought the wood and wire of the fence behind which I could see the branded cattle waiting to be processed, of I, happened to notice a cow doing something odd.
It was scratching in the dirt with its hoof.
While I imagine random hoof scratchings aren’t that unusual for cows, it was what the cow was scratching that stood out. While absent-mindedly chewing on its cud, this cow was writing out intricate and abstract calculus expressions in the mud. I had discovered another Twice-Lived.
I watched it for a while. In my head, I named her “Betsy,” and Betsy moo-ed but ignored me. The level of pure mathematics that the cow was engaging in was too my extremely limited perspective mind-boggling. Admittedly at this point in time, a cow counting to five would also have been mind-blowing.
The district that the blade smith kept his workshop in was well kept and professional without any ostentation. There were workshops and homes for leatherworkers, glassblowers, clothiers, and even one or two mages offered their services.
When I walked into the workshop a man wearing a heavy leather apron was busy hammering on a bar of steel. There was an oppressive heat in the air from the flames and the smoke from the carbon impurities in the steel.
I watched him work, rhythmically hammering, each stroke regular and precise. No wasted motion, no flourishes, the force of every hammer blow exactly as hard as the one before it. At long last, he quenched the blade.
“I seen ya watch’n. I ain’t look’n for an apprentice at the moment, though ya look like ya got the patience for the job.”
“I’m not here for an apprenticeship,” I said,
“Then why ya here. Don’t look like the sort who would waste a man’s time for chit chat.”
“I was hoping to buy a couple of blades. A sword, a few knives. The best you can make. Something fitted for my size. Heavy, but not too heavy. But able to take and give a hard strike. I hit well outside of my weight, and my last sword shattered. If you know or are, a decent mage, who can enchant the blades for durability and sharpness that would be appreciated too. If you don’t know the mage but know where I can find the spells, I might be able to learn them and add them to the blade myself.”
The bladesmith paused as if in thought and looked me over.
“Kids like you, usually still learning. Ya sure, ya don’t want a good practice blade. I know the real thing looks all fancy and impressive to the girls. I remember what it was like to be young. But I don’t want ya master down here yelling at me after ya cut ya leg or handoff.”
“I don’t have a master, and I am practiced enough with a sword not to cut myself,” I said.
“Mind if I verify ya skill. Not that I’m doubt’n ya, but well… yes, I’m doubt’n ya.” The Smith walked over to a box and opened it. Moving some items out of the way he removed a box that he took out. Replacing the items he’d taken out, he then stood and handed me the box.
“Open it,” he said.
The box was a long polished pine case. Inside was a layer of fabric and a sword and scabbard. The scabbard was made from steel and eels leather, and the wrap on the hilt was made of eels leather too.
I took the sword out of the box and placed the box on the floor behind me. It was just the right size for me and felt incredibly well balanced in my hands. Removing the scabbard, I looked at the blade itself. It was a masterpiece of ironwork. Perfectly balanced, thin, strong, supple.
Quickly I did a few of the sword kata’s that I had learned long ago but hadn’t practiced in years. They came back to me, though I was a bit rusty. The feel was incredible.
“How much for this sword,” I demanded.
“So ya was be’n honest. Ya do know how ta swing a blade. Sorry that one there. It ain’t for sale. It was my son’s when he was your age. I was planning to give it to his boy when he comes of age. But I can make you something similar.”
I sheathed the sword, put it back in its box and handed the box back to the smith. “I’m told family is important. I understand. How long before you could make me something similar.”
“I reckon about a week. I don't know spell work, but I can get ya some ground up core dust and add it ta the iron. Let it take ta magic easy. Cost about three gold, though. Can you afford that? My work ain’t cheap.”
Without even haggling, I counted out eight gold and placed the coins on their his hand. “Seven more when the blade is done. I will also need at least two daggers. They don’t have to be as well fitted as the sword.”
He led me into another room. There were swords on display with scabbards lined against every wall. There was also a table with nearly one hundred daggers on display.
“Why don’t I just use one of these swords,” I said already knowing the answer but curious about what he would say.
“None of them are the right size. Ya still growing need ta grow into ya sword. Need to take measurements for that. Daggers are over here. Eight silver each.”
I began to try different daggers out and eventually found four that I liked. Instead of trying to narrow it down some more, I just bought all four. I could always use a good weapon.
Saying goodbye to the smith, I promised to be back at the end of the week. And laden down with all my purchases, I made my way back to the Inn.
The innkeeper motioned me over and said: “The Tutor you requested is at that table.”
There was an old woman sitting in the table that the innkeeper indicated. She looked like she was nearly 90 and a cascade of long grey hair tumbled down her back and lines were folded into her skin. I walked over to her and said.
“Hello, my name is Elm. You are my Cretan teacher?”
The woman rose, and she shook as she rose, but her movements were still graceful. In perfect Cretan then again in Magrith she said “My name is Elenn Nightingale Winterberry and I am indeed your tutor.” Her voice twinkled like a bell but did not carry much over the sounds in the inn.
“Do you mind if we study upstairs in my rooms. I promise no harms will come to you. It is just that the common room is too loud.”
She nodded her head and held out her hand like a lady, and I held it as she stood up. Together we slowly made our way up the stairs. It took three times the amount of time it probably would have taken me to climb the stairs, but eventually, we neared my room.
Just then a completely naked Wilmette stepped into the hall. He seemed surprised to see me. Four naked women were hitting each other with pillows in his room.
He looked at me. I tried not to look at him. He looked at the woman I was with. He looked at me again. Then he said one word and went back into his room.
“Pervert!”