The Bards’ District, known for its proximity to the Bards’ Guild, is a place of artistic expression where detailed sculptures, exquisite paintings, and unnamable objets d’art lurk on every street corner and stall. Outside, inside, and every aspect of every building screams an artistic style that would, in nearly all kingdoms and empires, be restricted to adults.

Quasi follows the strand of mana past golden penis statues of various sizes and curvature, past fountains where two members twist into a double helix while squirting water into the air, between buildings gaudily depicting the male genitalia in all its glory.

“I feel like I just walked into a cyan light district,” Quasi comments as he walks through the streets. “Why in hell would Jessica go here of all places?”

Testudo nods, “Yes, why indeed. My conversations with her gave me the impression that she was a proper young woman who has no inkling for debauchery.”

As Quasi and Testudo head deeper into the shaft-ridden district, the artistry becomes more and more detailed and grand. Pulsing, artificial, sunlit veins follow the contours of phallic statuary rising from well manicured shrubbery.

Eventually, the two arrive at their destination, a dick riddled inn and tavern called Bearded Goodtime. At the top of the entrance is a massive cock the size of a ship created from tens of thousands of strands of woven rope.

“Huh, I’ve actually heard of this place.” Testudo comments.

“You have?”

He nods. “When I would dock at Svartalfheim for trade, I’d allow my [Sailors] to disembark to see the city. Many of them mentioned the Bearded Goodtime Inn and claimed it was the best inn they’d ever been to.”

“Well fuck me,” Quasi curses. “I told her to find the best inn in the city. This is probably my fault.”

Testudo shrugs, “You can't change burnt coffee. Just make the best of the brew.”

Quasi snorts. “Yeah. You’re right. Let's see what's inside.”

_____________________________________________________________________

Molucca leans back into his seat with a grin. He occasionally sips from the provided buttery nipple while he listens to the Greybeards quibble amongst themselves.

“-An [Emperor] is roaming our city! We should properly greet him.”

“But he’s an unknown [Emperor] from the far south, and if I remember properly, the South is quite poor. I don’t wanna waste time on an [Emperor] with little to no political or financial power.” says an elder.

“Are we sure that the South is still weak?” another asks. “For all we know, they could have become powerful over a short period of time. I mean,” the elder strokes his beard, “there's supposedly a demon [General] conquering the South with an army of monsters and undead.”

“Hmm,” an elder ruminates. “I wonder if the demon army and the demon [General] are related.”

“Unlikely.” a dwarf with a dead left eye and a scar going down the middle of it. The foremost [Battle Archmage] and former leader of the dwarven Mageguard stares at the murky liquid in his mug, deep in thought, “Demons don’t have much use for monsters unless they’re undead. More than likely a [Necromancer] summoned both the demon [General] and the undead.”

“So you think it's a coincidence, Florence?” Hreidmir asks.

Florence taps his mug and the mug frosts over. “Reports from the South claim there are very limited civilian casualties among the conquered cities and that once the old leadership is destroyed, the [General] installs local governors. This sounds nothing like the demon army to the north which scorches the earth and exterminates all before it.”

Florence takes a small sip of his cooled batanga. A sip that says more than his words. Hreidmar hides a grimace as he clasps his hands together.

“Hm. Regardless, what should we do with this [Emperor]?” Hreidmar looks at Molucca sitting quietly, nursing a drink. “Molucca, what is your input on the man's character?”

“Very eccentric. He’s a [Gentleman] of the highest caliber, a dreadful [Necromancer], and some kind of crazy [Bard].” Molucca says easily.

Hreidmar actually grimaces. “A [Bard]...” he says with annoyed disgust. His mind moves to the Bards' District, more specifically the Bards' Guild and to all it pertains.

“My [King],” Forad interrupts Hreidmar's thoughts, “regardless of the man’s standing, he is still the owner of the Haven. I say we entertain him and look for the chance to buy the ship- it is our heritage.”

“As if he’d be willing to sell the ship,” one of the Greybeards points out.

Forad shrugs. “Maybe he will, maybe he won't. Opportunity doesn't come to those that wait. I say we invite him over and have a talk.”

Hreidmir sighs, “Fine, we’ll prepare a feast tomorrow night. Molucca,” he looks at the relaxed dwarf, “go inform Quasi that he’s formally invited.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Go,” Hreidmir waves his hand at the [Admiral].

Molucca chugs his seventh free drink, gets up, and leaves the Greybeards to their squabbles. When the doors close behind him, Molucca stops in his tracks as he realizes that he’d forgotten to ask where Quasi would be staying.

“Thor's hairy anus!” he curses and starts running down the hall.

____________________________________________________________

“A fucking army! You brought a fucking army of- of bloody werewolves to Camelot. Have you any idea how dangerous and stupid this is, let alone how it looks?

Franky frowns, “I don't see what the problem is. I mean, sure, they’re strong, but they aren't anywhere near enough to be a threat to the city.”

Aodean screams. He stands up and points at a frightened [Maid], “Get me the strongest, coldest drink you can.”

“Y-yes!” the [Maid] quickly runs off.

The [Prime Minister] falls back on his seat and bonks his head on the table “Fuck!” he curses.

“I think you’re overreacting,” Franky says to the Australian man.

Aodean doesn't move at all. He just slouches silently forward until the [Maid] returns with a bottle of absinthe and two empty glasses. No sooner has she set them on the table than Aodean grabs the bottle, pulls the cork, and slugs back half. Franky stares forlornly at the empty glasses.

“Aaah.” Aodean takes a look at the label, then chugs the rest. He plops the empty bottle where his head just was.

“Franky,” he takes a deep breath, “that army of Lycans you brought had slaughtered an Aesir [General] and defeated three armies. The Aesir have publicly stated that any city which houses them will be counted as their enemies.”

Franky raises an eyebrow “So, what? You think they’re going to go to war with Camelot over something like this? The Lycans are only here for a few days and then they’re going south.”

Aodean tries to drink from the empty bottle, looks around for another one, then glares at the [Maid] when he can’t find one. She, “Eeps,” and rushes to the sideboard.

“Doesn’t. Fucking.” the [Prime Minister] punctuates each word with the bottle, ”Matter!” When the bottle comes down the third time, liquid sloshes over Aodean’s hand. He looks at it, then takes a swig. “When the Aesir find out we allowed the army to enter Camelot, they'll declare war.”

Franky grimaces, “That still seems crazy to me. I mean, they’re already fighting a major war in the East. Fighting us would complicate and stretch their army thin. I think you’re overreacting. I’m sure you can explain to them that it was a misunderstanding.”

The Australian finishes the bottle in his hand. He chuckles demurely, “Stretched thin? No, on the contrary, the Aesir are far larger and more dangerous than anyone realizes.”

Franky attempts to fold his arms, only to stop halfway when he remembers that he’s still missing an arm. He settles for resting his one arm on the kitchen table. “What do you mean?”

Aodean sighs. “Since the start of the war, trade with the East has decreased to a trickle while trade with the West hasn’t changed one bit. The western kingdoms aren't noticing any change in the quality of living. Other than a couple kingdoms close to the front, most of the West's military and people are completely untouched. At any point, the Aesir can call up dozens, if not hundreds of armies in the tens of thousands.

“Shit.” Franky curses and Aodean nods. The [Maid] silently sets two more bottles on the table, one in front of Franky

“Drink up.” Aodean reaches for his bottle, “Shit’s going to get crazy.”

___________________________________________________

Jessica sits at one of the dick-shaped chairs while nursing a dick-shaped mug as the proprietor of the Bearded Goodtime sits on her table with her hair in a dick-shaped bun.

“Miss Chanel-”

“Ahem,” the woman clears her throat and interrupts Jessica.

Jessica sighs, “Madam Chanel,” Jessica corrects, “I’m just here to get a room for me and Quasi. We don't need what you are offering.

Madam Chanel uncrosses her legs and lays down on the tabletop.

“Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. You can deny it however you want, but I sense the lust in your soul. You wish to sate your urges, but you deny them.”

“But-”

“Shhhh, no buts.” Without even seeing her move, Madam Chanel places a manicured finger over Jessica’s lips.

“You use your promise of chastity as a shield. You want love, both real and carnal, but you deny it because you fear the consequences. Your class, your skills, your promises. They are bonds you place upon yourself,” Madam Chanel cups Jessica's cheeks with both hands, “but the thing about bonds is that they will eventually degrade and need to be replaced. Your pain, your fear, your urges; through life and wisdom you’ve outgrown the cage you locked yourself in. Cast aside your restraints and grasp happiness and love. If not for you, then for that man you crave.”

“What? No, I don't-”

Madam Chanel chuckles, “My dear, you are in love with someone, and I don’t need a skill to figure out that it’s someone you travel with. You reek of jealousy, anger, and most of all, fear.”

Jessica blushes scarlet. She moves to push Madam Chanel’s hands from her cheeks, only to realize that they'd already moved away. The Madam had moved slightly away, giving Jessica some distance.

“I don't need anyone, only Eir.”

Like a cat waiting to pounce, Madam Chanel takes the opportunity, “But does Eir need you? I hear your words, but I sense cracks. Your faith was stronger, your loyalty absolute, but no longer. The wound is fresh. Come, Jessica, Tell Madam Chanel what happened.”

“No. I can't. Thats-” Jessica stammers. Her mind rewinds to her new class. A [Scourge Abbess], a class to heal and harm. A dichotomy of opposites that shouldn’t mix, but they do.

“Relax Jessica,” she waves her hand at the others within the inn. Residents, workers, and many, many students sit with their own drinks, most minding their own business, except for the students. All of the students are staring at Jessica and Chanel with a book open and taking notes. “Everyone has a story to their life that is both good and bad. They, like you, have wins and losses, triumphs and defeats, delights and displeasures, stress and relief, and all the dichotomies of life. They can judge you, but they can never judge you as much as you judge yourself.”

Once again, Jessica feels Chanel’s palm resting softly on her cheek.

“Now, tell me what ails you. What is it that struck your loyalty to create such cracks. What happened th-”

Before Madam Chanel can continue, her speech is interrupted by a tremor from the entrance to her inn.

“What is…” she begins, but her words are interrupted once again by a second stronger vibration. The enchantments on her door glows with potent power.

Frowning, Madam Chanel gets off the table. She prepares to release her aura, only to be interrupted by the loudest tremor yet. Her door glows a vibrant red as the age old enchantments absorb the impact.

Once the shaking subsides, silence overtakes the establishment. All eyes now stare at the entrance.

The dick shaped handle on the door turns. The door slowly opens and a man limps through followed by another.

The limping man looks around until he spots Madam Chanel and Jessica.

He grins like an idiot. “Hey, Jess, um, something happened recently and my leg kinda broke. Mind taking a look at it?”