Walter stood in the doorway of the Adventurer's Guild, looked, and listened. He never visited a bar in his life, but he imagined the meeting hall as the medieval equivalent. The scent of watered-down ale filled the air, and carelessly discarded shells crushed underfoot. He missed drinking soda. He wondered if the attached restaurant would boil him some coffee but doubted they stocked any.

He paid attention during the walk from Manticore Keep to the Adventurers Guild, and Walter noticed things he filtered out. Superiors often disparaged subordinates. The difference between the well off and poor meant the difference between a complete set of clothes or not, and some looked malnourished. Someone, a hired laborer, endured a dehumanizing beating and silently resumed their tasks.

Before, he dismissed the issues as a facet of this world. Now, saddled with personal responsibility, Walter felt guilty. He participated in, so, therefore, joined this world.

People stared at him, though no one said anything. Smiling and conversations became whispered rumors when he got close. Once again, he failed to connect faces with names. The clothes he wore, a black suit and cloak with a matching pointed hat, felt like a neon sign.

I didn't take my station seriously. I coasted along as I did back home.

Walter moved to the training yard, the only space large enough to organize the monstraculture, and watched from the shadow of the doorway.

As usual, Elin matched the beauty, a ten-out-of-ten, expected of a woman with an ancestral bloodline that mixed with video game heroines. If DaVinci practiced 3D modeling, then he would have made Elin.

Walter picked the skin-tight elf-work she wore, conservative and classy compared to the skimpy costumes this world historically expected. Walter kept reminding Elin she was allowed to pick her clothes, but she staunchly deferred. Since he, out of respect, offered no alternatives, she wore nothing else in public.

He, of course, checked out her rear.

Wait, why is she wearing a different set of pants and not the leather ones I bought? Maybe they're being cleaned?

She supervised the work.

Lucy, the guild member in charge of their records, flipped through a stack of papers and took notes. Erik, grinning and charming, lifted and displayed processed samples and reported facts. Workers scurried, their worry matched their haste, to unload the rented wagons and organize everything into stacks. When Lucy commanded, the workers nodded and politely agreed with her insults, but never rested. Each one needed this job to avoid starvation, probably.

One of the workers, a young teenage boy, ferried a heavy clay jar of manipulated slime jelly, stressed beyond caution, and tripped. It shattered. None of the others spoke up, so the boy was probably alone. The jar cost more than he had ever counted, and he froze in fear. Lucy sucked in a breath to tongue-lash him, but Elin stepped forward. Elin looked serious.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry!"

"No need to fret. Are you hurt?"

The boy ogled her from the ground, and Elin sparked an unintentional crush.

She might be the first woman to show him kindness. It's not like I don't understand, kid. Don't get carried away.

Lucy said, "Lady Elin, I promise you, this cretin will pay off this debt, even if we have to flay the skin off his back."

"It is no issue," Elin raised her hand to slow Lucy's momentum, "We can replace the jar. Erik, is the jelly poisonous?"

Erik said that the jar was not a threat, that he stored dangerous alchemy in safer containers, and the boy's hands would be stained purple a little while. He enlisted the sniffling boy, already dirtied, to scoop up the recoverable material into another jar.

"Beloved?"

Elin turned and noticed him first. The way she sensed his presence led Walter to joke she could use him as magnetic north if she were a compass.

She grinned, "Of course, I could always find you."

Walter enjoyed a cleansing breath. However, the short-lived spike of joy died when he looked at the kid's terrified face. He gawked at Walter like a dinosaur might trample him, so Walter stopped only one step into the yard.

Relax. Dirty thoughts about Elin aren't a crime. She's mine, though, tough luck. Between the princess and this, now I understand why wizards seclude themselves in towers.

"Is something wrong?" Elin asked.

Elin and Walter walked arm-in-arm, while Walter explained to Elin that Prince Peterby would visit tomorrow. She nodded, listened, and agreed, as she usually did. Her feet moved compliantly, on auto-pilot, where he directed, while she let her eyes wander to the market street. Walter never danced before, but he couldn't imagine it much different.

Elin sniffed the wafting scent of grilling meat like a starving lioness. She stopped, smirked, and held out her hand. After Walter dropped the copper coins into her palm, Elin jogged off to accost the booth. He resigned himself to a lifetime of handing out coins on a case-by-case basis.

When Walter reached for the second skewer of meat, Elin grinned and pulled it away.

"I can feed myself, you know."

Still smirking, Elin shook her head. "I want to take care of you." When she leaned forward, Walter offered his ear to be whispered into. "I obtained more Heart's Herb."

"Be seated. Watch me."

Walter plopped back into the chair when Elin shoved him with a finger.

"You like these kinds of things, correct?"

"You don't have to."

"I desire some of the same things. As I keep telling you, beloved, ex-paladins are human, too. Beside the point, am I not obligated?"

"You're not really--" Walter abruptly stopped talking and ordered his muscles to relax, then he lounged. After he propped his head up and half-covered his face, he said, "Show me." He hoped he looked like a nobleman in charge.

She stood in the main room of their home. They never stripped here, so the entire thing felt exhibitionist.

To Walter's surprise, she unlaced her corset and exposed her breasts. He figured that would be last, or her pants. Her fingers worked into the edge of her thigh-high boots and fiddled around, apprehensive like a lost kitten, until she made up her mind. The tearing of fabric filled the air. The thin cloth over her hips shredded, and the remainder clung to her thighs like stockings. She left the boots on.

She left the freaking boots on!

Walter's knees wanted to flex with anticipation. If he looked composed before, then he doubted he did now.

So that's why she changed out pants. She planned this.

He stood, and she shook her head.

"There's more?"

"No," she admitted.

"Then why say no?"

She shook her head again, and he struggled to understand why she denied him.

"How badly do you want me, beloved?"

Oh. The ripped pants were a hint. Oh.

He stood. Elin put both her hands on his chest. "Wait," she said, her face reddened, "Only a little more forceful like we discussed. My strength fails against you, so," she sucked in a breath and stammered, "Iincrease the intensity slowly. Is that alright?"

He nodded; she swallowed.

As he stepped forward, her feet moved compliantly, on auto-pilot, while she meekly stared at the floor. She bumped into the wall with nowhere else to go.