Forthwith, I give up on time
for it has given up on me.
It was my earnest intent to see to the clearing of the fallen trees yesterday. My plans for reconstructing The Brubu's Servant have been forestalled repeatedly; a fact which has given rise to my ire for my own inability to administrate affairs when the temptations of exploration, study, or intrigue appear. My poor, derelict airship, one day you shall go aloft bearing myself and my "cargo", this I swear.
Self-deprecation aside, this morning's eve was must eventful. Just as I was departing the town square bound for the Elder Willow's woods, I caught a most pleasant aroma wafting on the breeze, and followed it to its source. Little to my surprise, I at once identified the scent after seeing through the open doors of the Bordello a tall pint of ale perched atop the bar, which beckoned me to breach the doors of the maison de tolerance. A young athanasian wench with golden locks stood just past the threshold. The unfortunate woman scarcely had a stitch separating her cock lane and kettle drums from any of the numerous corinthains that frequent this coffee house.
She seemed to believe that she was on holiday and that Glint was a resort, of which she planed to boast to her collegiate chums upon her return. Had it not been for her less-than-casual mention of her future plans, I would have easily mistaken her for a dollymop or a night flower, and indeed, I had. She prattled on about this and that, an agent that had arranged for her trip, boasted of her usual piety (a detail I very much doubt) before absorbing herself in a tall glass filled with something "tropical".
My interest was very much attracted away from her general Carrollian flimflam for I did not much care which hole she came tumbling down, nor what color of hare she chased to arrive on this island. It is not that I lack appropriate inquiring motives regarding strange and novel individuals, but rather it was that beyond her stood a fully clothed Miss Gwendoline Footman.
From my particular position, I had seen her only a day or two previous, but I was aware the months may have passed for her, and so I endeavored to catch up on her latest doings. From the look of her, she had been getting on in this odd little isle quite well, being somewhat moderately dressed by local customs, and had even managed to collect what must have been every single belt buckle on Glint and fashioned them onto a pair of ruff-looking boots. She tells me that little matter with the local magistrate has been mostly cleared up, however the capricious Miss Clara had yet to return her weapon; which of course is the very life of all primitive people. Nonetheless, she expected the sword to be returned to her in short order, and seems genuinely pleased with the overall outcome of that trifle affair.
The good Miss Gwen also shared news of her fortuitous rise in prestige to a posting in the Bordello that she called a "bouncer". I have yet to piece together her exact meaning, but I believe, from her interactions with the dame de maison, the gorgeously shrewd Madame V, that she has been elevated to a lesser assistant role insuring the safety of patrons that imbibe beyond their limits, a common occurrence. Even the dirty puzzle that lingered in the doorway very nearly needed Miss Gwen's guiding hand before she chose to resume her doorward locomotion under her own unsteady power.
Miss Gwen graciously provided introductions between Madame V and myself, clearing up my previously-held false belief that Miss Kristina Locke was the proprietor of the Bordello. I do wonder just how much of the local labor pool is absorbed by Madame V's employment. It seems a slim sum take wages from some other source; a fact I must be mindful of now that I am in her debt, but only a minor way. She did seem a bit preoccupied with reducing the general modesty in the room by all but insisting that we all disrobe for fear of heat exhaustion.
While her concerns are well grounded in both pragmatic hearth wisdom and scientific knowledge, she is the first tropical inhabitant to successfully talk me out of my coat, corset, and knockabout boots for fear of the heat (and she managed to exact a price yet unnamed for the use of the powder room and bath, see now how shrewd she is?!?). Mind you, she was not the first to convince me to adopt local garments. It is most difficult to argue for conservative dress when every gladius-wielding centurion mistakes you either for barbarian royalty that would fetch a large sack of coins in the Roma markets, or some foul succubus arrived to do them in. I suppose that wrap continues to serve me well, for after donning it the oppressive equatorial heat came to be far more tolerable.
Speaking of the astucious Abbess' most skilled covey, I purposed one young pinchcock by the nom de nuit of Volcano, an apt description of his arbor vitae's mettle as I found out. Of late, I have found myself in want of a well-qualified and discrete doctor, and so I have been utterly neglecting my hysteria treatments, of which I usually attend to as often as two or three times weekly. Well, to alleviate my growing emotional unsteadiness, I decided to take in the services of my pretty Volcano, whom I had assumed a mandrake. However, I was relieved to find him eager to occupy the velvet when the opportunity arose.
It would seem his foppish visage and dandy doings are unrelated to his spirit for, shall we say, service. I would be remiss if I failed to mention that his expert hands do wonders for tired muscles and his "special" instrument readily probes the most tender pools of passion with grace fit for a queen and fire suitable for Vulcan's forges. Ah, his beauty would solicit tears from poor Helen and prompt Aphrodite to darken the heavens in jealous rage, for even she would be eclipsed in Volcano's presence.
I would but see this rapturous son of Eros rise swiftly to the pinnacle of entertainers, but alas I fear his growing reputation would place such demands on his time that I might not be able arrange another taste of his honeyed aroma. Still, I must be sure to convey my absolute satisfaction to the Abbess, preferably without reminding her of my running bill, for I'm sure Miss Locke's pen will be quick to make note. Oh, how I feel that I will be selling Madame V my very soul (if not my knickers) so very soon... Vice, why must you be so alluring?
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