Intergalactic Summit

It pleases me no end to have induced creativity in a member of Gradient. And they said it was impossible!

I am not surprised that it was you, Sweet Pea. I'll put your name in the Little Red Book. Should you get tired of monotonous humdrum and develop the urge to become a Harbinger of the Apocalypse, you just give me a ringieding.

On second read, I've grown rather fond of the salesman.

One of Mother's friends has a thing, about converting heathen people to the Imperial Faith, using interpretive dance to convey the fundamental message of the Scriptures.

I'll say that conversion via interpretive dance probably has a lower fatality rate than other methods, that people are perhaps more familiar with, such as e.g. slavery and all that.

Probably.

So... What y'all high on?

SETTING: A gambling den and house of ill repute. Within, people drink, laugh, smoke, and commit sinful acts of debauchery and indulgence. The furniture is broken down, the whiskey is watered down, and the inhibitions are heading down. The lighting is subdued, and at a table, the TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN loses hand after hand at poker. Several years have passed since the ring has come into his position.

Blond haired temptresses gather around him, giggling and beckoning to him. The TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN fancies a bit of comfort following his losses. He picks a girl from the smoky, sweat-smelling gloom and slides over her way. "Heya bootiful." he drawls.

The WANTON HARLOT smiles back at him sweetly. "Thirty an hour, or a hundred for the night." she says. All business, all the time, those Amarr!

The TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN is a bit shocked that she was so forward; you see, he had lost all of his money, his donkey, his shoes... he had lost everything of value, save the ring he wears which bears the graven image of the HEATHEN GOD. He doesn't waste a second. "How's 'is?" he says, holding up his hand.

The WANTON HARLOT nods. She gently takes the TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN by the hand. "That will do very nicely." She proceeds to lead him up the rickety stairs to her small room, a room which smells oddly of corn chips and stale beer. The TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN does not seem to notice the smell. The two commit repeated acts of sin, in numerous positions.

Following their carnality (Is that even a word?! It is now!) the WANTON HARLOT lays in bed, smoking a cigarette, while the TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN slips his ragged trousers back over his skinny legs and fastens his belt. "Lay the ring on the bedstand" the WANTON HARLOT says, quietly.

The TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN does not skip a beat. He bolts from the room, fast as he can, which was, of course, his plan the whole time. In an instant he's off, down the stairs, and in a mere moment, he has run from the ramshackle structure. He jumps on the back of his trusty donkey - the same one he no longer legally owns - and is off at breakneck donkey speed down the dusty streets of the small village.

"HAHA!" thinks the TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN. "That'll teach 'er!"

"Muh scorch" the HEATHEN GOD muses.

The WANTON HARLOT casually takes aim from her window with a rifle. The TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN spends his last few moments wondering why he suddenly fell off of the donkey, and why he is so very dizzy.

The HEATHEN GOD is pleased.

The WANTON HARLOT kneels and removes the ring from the TRAVELLING CURRY SALESMAN'S finger, which had only just ceased twitching. She examines it for a few moments, estimating its value, and then slips it onto one of her fingers. She turns and walks back toward the whorehouse, before pausing and looking down at her hand, at the graven image of the HEATHEN GOD she now wears.

The HEATHEN GOD is very, very pleased!

"Your scorch." she smiles.

The WANTON HARLOT is the first person we encounter who's name has any significance whatsoever; her name is ZURA KOR-AZOR.