Not Today

Even a naked lead cannot save the final act. Your thoughts are elsewhere, but the songs would be caterwauling even if the story didn’t devolve into sexless nonsense. Both love interests make her turn away in disgust in sudden moments of convincing acting. And your neighbours whisper loudly and chastely, making plans to leave you behind.

"Quite the disappointment." He has the good grace to sound apologetic. "But we really must be off."

Another evening gone...

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

Beside him, the Thoroughbred Blonde applauds longer than anyone else.

{if Connected: The Thoroughbred Blonde = 5} You flash the Commodore your sweetest **** smile, assuring him that the evening has not been a disappointment at all. The Blonde titters. He apologizes, and again, too embarrassed to notice her looks. You assuage both your guilt and he promises to write, soon.

They leave and two notes arrive early the next morning.

The Innkeeper’s Eldest brings them with breakfast, entering your room without a knock and smiling all the while. She slams toasted bread and runny eggs down on your desk, spilling some coffee over the gilded rim of a bone-white cup and bending low to stack the envelopes on top of the unfurled newspaper.

”Sir.” She curtsies and leaves you to it.

He sends a proper letter. Three pages of thin paper, folded to bursting. One is preprinted, a military document used to – or so you gather – schedule meetings between important people, officers maybe, or even generals. It is annotated in red ink by strange handwriting. You would guess a woman, the Experimental Ensign maybe, but she does not seem the type and the words are not quite right, mechanical almost in their precision.

The next is written in the same hand, taking dictation of his muddled thoughts and rambling explanations. And it must have been written the day before, else the mysterious writer would have had to meet him in the dark of night.

He added the last one himself, hasty scribbles and a question that hovers unasked around the edges. You will meet again and _he _will do better. Some justifications sound like brags, but his promise not to bring her again sounds anything but. He mentions sharing a whore, musing on what is and is not proper. On the norms governing soldiers and sailors, Mariners and nobles. The letter ends with another promise to meet again on your return, and with a repeated vow of friendship.

Hers on the other hand is perfumed, a small slip hidden behind his. She wastes few words, the soft cursive whispers:

I enjoyed meeting you. And I would like to do so again.

Thinking of you

Three jagged letters connect her given name with her family’s noble legacy. And the three small numbers below point to an infamous quote from an infamous novel:

I enjoyed your cock. And I would like to do so again.

Wet for you

{else} You **** a smile and assure them that the evening has not been a disappointment at all. The Blonde shrugs and lets him help her into her coat. He apologizes, and again, promising to write you in the morning.

They leave but the note arrives early.

The Innkeeper’s Eldest brings it with breakfast, entering your room without a knock and smiling all the while. She slams toasted bread and runny eggs down on your desk, spilling some coffee over the gilded rim of a bone-white cup and bending low to stack the envelope on top of the unfurled newspaper.

”Sir.” She curtsies and leaves you to it.

It is a proper letter. Three pages of thin paper, folded to bursting. One is preprinted, a military document used to – or so you gather – schedule meetings between important people, officers maybe, or even generals. It is annotated in red ink by strange handwriting. You would guess a woman, the Experimental Ensign maybe, but she does not seem the type and the words are not quite right, mechanical almost in their precision.

The next is written in the same hand, taking dictation of his muddled thoughts and rambling explanations. And it must have been written the day before, else the mysterious writer would have had to meet him in the dark of night.

He added the last one himself, hasty scribbles tinged with vociferous remorse. You will meet again and he will do better. Some justifications sound like brags, but his promises sound genuine. He mentions sharing a whore, musing on what is and is not proper. On the norms governing soldiers and sailors, Mariners and nobles. The letter ends with another promise to meet again on your return, and with a repeated vow of friendship.

{endif}