As Drake stared after Westin, he pondered asking if the man wanted to grab some clothes, but... fine. Westin didn’t seem bothered. Drake wouldn’t be bothered either.
Even so, he refused to drop his knife or his sheet. His personal self-confidence had nothing to do with it. It was the principle of the thing. People who were still sane did not run around LARPer hotels naked, and Drake was still sane.
He desperately hoped.
Drake followed Westin, at an easy jog, down the hallway into which he’d emerged and another which turned at a right angle off it. They passed dozens of closed doors which he didn’t even bother trying to open, which made this place massive. It really was a manor. It was also super nice, easily worth ten million dollars or more.
So had the big monk he’d murdered been some sort of rich reclusive serial killer LARPer? And all the folks he’d encountered so far were his hired help? If so, they seemed utterly determined not to break character, even with their employer murdered.
Drake could relate, in a way, given how poor he’d be after he got the bill for his wrecked truck. A job was a job. Maybe all these folks were as desperate for money as he was.
Everything going on was too weird for Drake to process it. He felt nuts trying to wrap his head around this place, but he didn’t have to do that. All he had to do was get out of here and find a phone. Then he’d let the cops deal with... this serial LARPer’s personal murder dungeon.
They reached a fine wide set of wooden steps, which Westin hurried down. Drake was right behind him. They had just reached the bottom when Lydia arrived alongside a third woman in a maid outfit. This one was short, slim, and had her blond hair in a high ponytail.
Both women held what looked to be stacked piles of clothes. Dark shirts. Dark pants. All far more ornate and silky-looking than Drake was used to, but clothes were clothes when all he owned was a sheet. His fingers were starting to cramp from maintaining his dignity.
“I have informed Cresh of our surrender, Lord Gloomwood,” Lydia informed Drake calmly. “The knights from Proudglade Manor have accepted our surrender and await you in the garden. I informed them you will bring Westin out and negotiate once you are dressed.”
Drake looked between her and the blond woman. “And you are...”
Lydia covertly elbowed the other maid. She jumped, visibly surprised to be addressed from both directions, and wrung her hands. “Oh! My name is Olivia, lord.”
Olivia looked as freaked out as if Drake had just demanded she sing karaoke in front of her graduating class, when she really didn’t like karaoke. She looked nervous as hell, but why? Was this about the name thing?
Westin had seemed real upset when Drake gave that robed asshole his fake name. Did these people think names had power? He vaguely remembered Westin saying something about names and domination, but Drake had been busy trying not to get murdered at the time.
He had promised himself he would just ignore this madness. He’d do that now. He looked to the piles of clothes the maids held. “Those are for us?”
Lydia nodded. “Your other clothes are being laundered, but if you wish to negotiate with the Proudglade knights for the release of Lord Proudglade, these will do. They are silverweave. They should provide adequate protection if matters turn violent.”
Drake ignored all that nonsense and focused on what Lydia had called Westin. Lord Proudglade? That’s right. The guy he’d avoided carving up today was apparently the fourth son of Proudglade Manor, whatever that was. And his buddies were here to pick him up.
“Great, good job.” Drake nodded to show his approval, though the fact that these people all believed they were “bound” to follow his orders was still bizarre. Didn’t they know he’d stabbed their employer to death in his torture dungeon ten minutes ago?
“Loooord!” A highly excited female voice assaulted his ears from the end of the hallway. “I have your bandages!”
Drake glanced that way to find the red-haired maid from earlier sprinting from another hallway toward them carrying at least six rolls of gauze. At least she’d found some bandages, though... she sure did seem in a hurry to get them here.
The woman wobbled to a shaky stop and offered her treasure. “Here you go, lord!”
It would be rude not to take these rolls of gauze. Not after all that running. Drake eyed her like he’d eye a snarling opossum and cautiously took the rolls. “Thanks.”
Westin glanced at him. “Shall I help you get bandaged up?”
“Sure. Thanks Westin, that’d be real great.” Drake looked around for help. “Is there somewhere we can both change? Somewhere private?” He wasn’t leaving this manor naked, and getting a moment away from these people would let him collect what marbles he had left.
Lydia thumped the second set of clothes on top of the first set Olivia—the blond maid—was already carrying. “Lead the lord and his guest to the foyer.”
Olivia almost bowed before she, probably, realized that would be impossible without dropping the pile of clothes. “Of course, mistress!”
Mistress? So Lydia was a mistress? Did that make her the head maid? As he looked her over once more—not lecherously!—Drake noted a white headband the other maids lacked. So was that her symbol of office? Did maids wear hairbands to show their rank to each other?
Olivia was already walking briskly toward a set of small closed doors beside a set of much bigger closed doors. Westin walked after her without a glance back, but Drake noticed Lydia still watching him intently. Was she waiting for another order?
“Hey, Lydia. Can you make sure we’re not disturbed?”
The dark-haired woman snapped her shoes together like a drill instructor. “No one will enter the room until you exit, lord. You may change in privacy.”
“Great. Thanks. You’re been a big help.”
Drake would be out of here soon enough. Once he was dressed. He would never see Lydia again, except maybe at his murder trial. If she testified. That was a problem for later.
He caught up with Olivia and Westin—dammit, didn’t anyone other than him care that the man was naked?—he winced as Olivia tried, and failed, to open the heavy doors while also balancing two sets of clothing. Westin stepped past her and opened the door himself.
Olivia gasped. She stared and trembled, watching him like he’d just kicked her dog in front of her. What was this woman’s problem?
Westin smoothly lifted the two sets of clothes from Olivia’s grasp. “Thank you for showing us to the foyer.” He looked at Drake. “My Lord Gloomwood? Shall we change inside?”
“Yes.” Drake adjusted his sheet. “Let’s do that right now.”
Even as Westin moved past him and Drake closed the doors, Olivia stood petrified. This close to her, Drake decided she was even younger than the red-haired maid—eighteen at best—and seeing her so worried made him feel like a massive jerk.
Yet he hadn’t done anything to her, had he? He’d even said she was doing a good job! Why would she be worried he’d do something bad to her?
Who cared? These people were all crazy. Time to get dressed and get the fuck out of here before a bunch of furries showed up and asked him to join them on a quest.
The room into which Olivia had shown them didn’t have much furniture, but it was just as opulent as the rest of the... manor? Sure. He was definitely in a manor, Gloomwood Manor, so he’d just call it that. This room had another one of those rich carpets, a bunch of coat racks, and some benches that looked just polished. So people probably took off their shoes here.
This whole massive structure was just so well-maintained it continued to boggle Drake’s mind. How had that crazy serial killer LARPer man kept this place looking so nice? How did he employ all these people? Maybe none of them knew about his torture dungeon?
No. Lydia and the redheaded Amazon maid knew he’d killed their former master. They’d been waiting outside his torture dungeon. Both also clearly acknowledged that the former lord of this manor was dead, and Olivia hadn’t hesitated a moment at following his orders.
Drake looked to Westin. “You said you could bandage me?”
“I’ll wrap your palm first,” Westin said. “Then, the rest of your scratches and wounds.”
Drake tried not to think about how uncomfortably close a still fully naked Westin was as the man expertly wrapped roles of gauze around Drake’s palm, chest, and arms. Westin was just being helpful. Like a male nurse. Who was naked.
Soon enough, Drake wasn’t bleeding any longer. His bandages felt snug. That was good, because these clothes looked to be made of thin fabric that would probably soak up blood. Still... at least they bore some passing resemblance to clothes he’d seen before.
The underwear looked more like swim trunks, poofed out and unnecessarily frilly. But they fit well, and getting something between his unmentionables and the rest of the world was a massive relief. These weird trunks even felt like silk, which was nice.
Westin already had on his weird swim trunks and pants and was sliding on his shirt, which of course fit him just fine. The man looked like he’d been wearing frilly LARPer clothes all his life, and maybe he had? Who was Drake to judge? He got dressed as well.
The shirt was comfortable, if a bit loose, and felt heavier than the dark fabric suggested. Was it weighted? Lydia had called it silverweave, but that wasn’t a real word, so maybe they’d just used a thicker than normal fabric. At least it fit him well.
The dark pants seemed to be made of the same material, and they didn’t hug his legs like jeans would have. Even so they, too, had a weight to them, more like heavy cargo pants than the thin black cloth they appeared to be. The clothing actually looked pretty slick... in a slightly pretentious way. He needed to get out of this place before he started spouting sonnets.
“That silverweave suits you,” Westin said approvingly. “Obviously, it is nothing in comparison to the grand outfits normally displayed by a manor lord, but since you wish to negotiate with our knights in good faith, dressing down may be the correct move.”
Drake frowned. “And why would I need to negotiate with anyone? I rescued you, remember? I saved your life when that old bastard wanted me to carve you up.”
“I have not forgotten,” Westin assured him quietly.
“Cool. So... let’s go get you freed.” So I can finally get the fuck out of here.
Westin nodded. “Know that I will argue strongly on your behalf.”
Drake didn’t know why Westin would argue strongly on his behalf and certainly didn’t care. It was time to leave the asylum. He didn’t know much about the adventurers of Proudglade Manor, whoever they were, but he doubted they wanted to be kept waiting.
As he moved to leave the room, Westin grabbed his forearm. “My lord. A moment? I fear you are not prepared for the coming negotiations.”
Drake frowned at him. “What negotiations?
As Drake stared after Westin, he pondered asking if the man wanted to grab some clothes, but... fine. Westin didn’t seem bothered. Drake wouldn’t be bothered either.
Even so, he refused to drop his knife or his sheet. His personal self-confidence had nothing to do with it. It was the principle of the thing. People who were still sane did not run around LARPer hotels naked, and Drake was still sane.
He desperately hoped.
Drake followed Westin, at an easy jog, down the hallway into which he’d emerged and another which turned at a right angle off it. They passed dozens of closed doors which he didn’t even bother trying to open, which made this place massive. It really was a manor. It was also super nice, easily worth ten million dollars or more.
So had the big monk he’d murdered been some sort of rich reclusive serial killer LARPer? And all the folks he’d encountered so far were his hired help? If so, they seemed utterly determined not to break character, even with their employer murdered.
Drake could relate, in a way, given how poor he’d be after he got the bill for his wrecked truck. A job was a job. Maybe all these folks were as desperate for money as he was.
Everything going on was too weird for Drake to process it. He felt nuts trying to wrap his head around this place, but he didn’t have to do that. All he had to do was get out of here and find a phone. Then he’d let the cops deal with... this serial LARPer’s personal murder dungeon.
They reached a fine wide set of wooden steps, which Westin hurried down. Drake was right behind him. They had just reached the bottom when Lydia arrived alongside a third woman in a maid outfit. This one was short, slim, and had her blond hair in a high ponytail.
Both women held what looked to be stacked piles of clothes. Dark shirts. Dark pants. All far more ornate and silky-looking than Drake was used to, but clothes were clothes when all he owned was a sheet. His fingers were starting to cramp from maintaining his dignity.
“I have informed Cresh of our surrender, Lord Gloomwood,” Lydia informed Drake calmly. “The knights from Proudglade Manor have accepted our surrender and await you in the garden. I informed them you will bring Westin out and negotiate once you are dressed.”
Drake looked between her and the blond woman. “And you are...”
Lydia covertly elbowed the other maid. She jumped, visibly surprised to be addressed from both directions, and wrung her hands. “Oh! My name is Olivia, lord.”
Olivia looked as freaked out as if Drake had just demanded she sing karaoke in front of her graduating class, when she really didn’t like karaoke. She looked nervous as hell, but why? Was this about the name thing?
Westin had seemed real upset when Drake gave that robed asshole his fake name. Did these people think names had power? He vaguely remembered Westin saying something about names and domination, but Drake had been busy trying not to get murdered at the time.
He had promised himself he would just ignore this madness. He’d do that now. He looked to the piles of clothes the maids held. “Those are for us?”
Lydia nodded. “Your other clothes are being laundered, but if you wish to negotiate with the Proudglade knights for the release of Lord Proudglade, these will do. They are silverweave. They should provide adequate protection if matters turn violent.”
Drake ignored all that nonsense and focused on what Lydia had called Westin. Lord Proudglade? That’s right. The guy he’d avoided carving up today was apparently the fourth son of Proudglade Manor, whatever that was. And his buddies were here to pick him up.
“Great, good job.” Drake nodded to show his approval, though the fact that these people all believed they were “bound” to follow his orders was still bizarre. Didn’t they know he’d stabbed their employer to death in his torture dungeon ten minutes ago?
“Loooord!” A highly excited female voice assaulted his ears from the end of the hallway. “I have your bandages!”
Drake glanced that way to find the red-haired maid from earlier sprinting from another hallway toward them carrying at least six rolls of gauze. At least she’d found some bandages, though... she sure did seem in a hurry to get them here.
The woman wobbled to a shaky stop and offered her treasure. “Here you go, lord!”
It would be rude not to take these rolls of gauze. Not after all that running. Drake eyed her like he’d eye a snarling opossum and cautiously took the rolls. “Thanks.”
Westin glanced at him. “Shall I help you get bandaged up?”
“Sure. Thanks Westin, that’d be real great.” Drake looked around for help. “Is there somewhere we can both change? Somewhere private?” He wasn’t leaving this manor naked, and getting a moment away from these people would let him collect what marbles he had left.
Lydia thumped the second set of clothes on top of the first set Olivia—the blond maid—was already carrying. “Lead the lord and his guest to the foyer.”
Olivia almost bowed before she, probably, realized that would be impossible without dropping the pile of clothes. “Of course, mistress!”
Mistress? So Lydia was a mistress? Did that make her the head maid? As he looked her over once more—not lecherously!—Drake noted a white headband the other maids lacked. So was that her symbol of office? Did maids wear hairbands to show their rank to each other?
Olivia was already walking briskly toward a set of small closed doors beside a set of much bigger closed doors. Westin walked after her without a glance back, but Drake noticed Lydia still watching him intently. Was she waiting for another order?
“Hey, Lydia. Can you make sure we’re not disturbed?”
The dark-haired woman snapped her shoes together like a drill instructor. “No one will enter the room until you exit, lord. You may change in privacy.”
“Great. Thanks. You’re been a big help.”
Drake would be out of here soon enough. Once he was dressed. He would never see Lydia again, except maybe at his murder trial. If she testified. That was a problem for later.
He caught up with Olivia and Westin—dammit, didn’t anyone other than him care that the man was naked?—he winced as Olivia tried, and failed, to open the heavy doors while also balancing two sets of clothing. Westin stepped past her and opened the door himself.
Olivia gasped. She stared and trembled, watching him like he’d just kicked her dog in front of her. What was this woman’s problem?
Westin smoothly lifted the two sets of clothes from Olivia’s grasp. “Thank you for showing us to the foyer.” He looked at Drake. “My Lord Gloomwood? Shall we change inside?”
“Yes.” Drake adjusted his sheet. “Let’s do that right now.”
Even as Westin moved past him and Drake closed the doors, Olivia stood petrified. This close to her, Drake decided she was even younger than the red-haired maid—eighteen at best—and seeing her so worried made him feel like a massive jerk.
Yet he hadn’t done anything to her, had he? He’d even said she was doing a good job! Why would she be worried he’d do something bad to her?
Who cared? These people were all crazy. Time to get dressed and get the fuck out of here before a bunch of furries showed up and asked him to join them on a quest.
The room into which Olivia had shown them didn’t have much furniture, but it was just as opulent as the rest of the... manor? Sure. He was definitely in a manor, Gloomwood Manor, so he’d just call it that. This room had another one of those rich carpets, a bunch of coat racks, and some benches that looked just polished. So people probably took off their shoes here.
This whole massive structure was just so well-maintained it continued to boggle Drake’s mind. How had that crazy serial killer LARPer man kept this place looking so nice? How did he employ all these people? Maybe none of them knew about his torture dungeon?
No. Lydia and the redheaded Amazon maid knew he’d killed their former master. They’d been waiting outside his torture dungeon. Both also clearly acknowledged that the former lord of this manor was dead, and Olivia hadn’t hesitated a moment at following his orders.
Drake looked to Westin. “You said you could bandage me?”
“I’ll wrap your palm first,” Westin said. “Then, the rest of your scratches and wounds.”
Drake tried not to think about how uncomfortably close a still fully naked Westin was as the man expertly wrapped roles of gauze around Drake’s palm, chest, and arms. Westin was just being helpful. Like a male nurse. Who was naked.
Soon enough, Drake wasn’t bleeding any longer. His bandages felt snug. That was good, because these clothes looked to be made of thin fabric that would probably soak up blood. Still... at least they bore some passing resemblance to clothes he’d seen before.
The underwear looked more like swim trunks, poofed out and unnecessarily frilly. But they fit well, and getting something between his unmentionables and the rest of the world was a massive relief. These weird trunks even felt like silk, which was nice.
Westin already had on his weird swim trunks and pants and was sliding on his shirt, which of course fit him just fine. The man looked like he’d been wearing frilly LARPer clothes all his life, and maybe he had? Who was Drake to judge? He got dressed as well.
The shirt was comfortable, if a bit loose, and felt heavier than the dark fabric suggested. Was it weighted? Lydia had called it silverweave, but that wasn’t a real word, so maybe they’d just used a thicker than normal fabric. At least it fit him well.
The dark pants seemed to be made of the same material, and they didn’t hug his legs like jeans would have. Even so they, too, had a weight to them, more like heavy cargo pants than the thin black cloth they appeared to be. The clothing actually looked pretty slick... in a slightly pretentious way. He needed to get out of this place before he started spouting sonnets.
“That silverweave suits you,” Westin said approvingly. “Obviously, it is nothing in comparison to the grand outfits normally displayed by a manor lord, but since you wish to negotiate with our knights in good faith, dressing down may be the correct move.”
Drake frowned. “And why would I need to negotiate with anyone? I rescued you, remember? I saved your life when that old bastard wanted me to carve you up.”
“I have not forgotten,” Westin assured him quietly.
“Cool. So... let’s go get you freed.” So I can finally get the fuck out of here.
Westin nodded. “Know that I will argue strongly on your behalf.”
Drake didn’t know why Westin would argue strongly on his behalf and certainly didn’t care. It was time to leave the asylum. He didn’t know much about the adventurers of Proudglade Manor, whoever they were, but he doubted they wanted to be kept waiting.
As he moved to leave the room, Westin grabbed his forearm. “My lord. A moment? I fear you are not prepared for the coming negotiations.”
Drake frowned at him. “What negotiations?
