I was moments away from a plan.
I could feel it bubbling its way to the surface when a voice, distinctly not my own, asked me a question.
“I can see by your…position…you are in need of respite, sir. Might I interest you in a visit to the Palace of Forbidden Delights?”
The voice, as it turns out, emanated from a balding, skinny, hunch-back of a man, wearing what I’ll generously call a suit. What little hair he did have hung in greasy cobwebs over his shoulders, and he was, not that it matters, barefoot.
For three reasons I jumped at his invitation.
One: Palace. That’s gotta be good, right?
Two: Forbidden Delights. Really? I need to explain this one?
Three: Pretty much anything is better than my current ‘position’ of crouching in the dark hoping I don’t get crushed by a roving building.
So yeah. I tucked my kitchen knife into my belt (within easy reach, of course, I’m not a complete idiot) and happily marched off after my newest benefactor.