The men are arguing. My shape tonight is female, but plain and dumpy; nothing to excite my targets' interest. I stand, squeezing past the more loutish of the two. I rub the hammered brass ring on the front of my purse across his shoulders, once, twice, thrice. "Sorry, master," I mumble, slurring the word. I am thus summoned and bound.
He ignores me.
"Yeah, I wish my wife was that hot!" the lout says. I smile. I no longer have the power to rain destruction across nations, but I retain my fondness for wordplay. I can smell the smoke already.
The Sweat Of The Peasant
9 hours ago