In the Blorana Plains there were a few towns scattered around. One of these towns were knowns for its famous Wine Slime stew and of course their wine. It even had a small chapel with a pastor.
But the trio searched for an inn. They had to rent a room first before doing anything else. Finally on the outskirts of the town they found a small inn called 'The Wanderer's Rest', a place that looked exactly like its name: weathered, simple, and offering the promise of quiet.
Jeanne entered first with Jack in the satchel.
They were welcomed by a small restaurant like area and the smell of cooked meat and old wood. There wasn't any waiters.
"Hello?" Jeanne asked.
Not even at the reception desk was there someone.
"I doubt anyone is here," Aria said, entering the inn last, her crimson eyes scanning the shadowy corners of the main room.
Jack decided to peek out and survey the area. He could hear the sound of breathing but not from one of them. And a weird snoring that sounded like a hog being choked.
"Someone is here," Jack said.
Hopping out of the bag, Jack led the group towards the main door with the sign "Employees only".
Aria pushed the door open. A short girl with her cleavage showing, was sleeping on a chair with a book about wine slimes open on her face. Her head leaned back against the wall, and her drool dripped down the open page, smudging the ink.
Deciding to wake her up, Jeanne coughed.
"Excuse me?" Jeanne said.
This didn't work.
"WAKE UP," Aria yelled, shaking the girl out of her slumber.
Jumping, the girl fell off the chair, landing face-first with a thud.
"I'm up, I'm up, I'm up, I'm up..." she said, quickly picking up the book from the floor. She gestured for them to come to the front desk. Her name was Amelia.
They were asking for two rooms while Amelia struggled to stay awake. But then another customer entered.
"Shit," Jeanne said.
It was the pastor.
She quickly hid her face and looked away.
The pastor walked right up to the counter, and glanced at her hands.
"Amelia your gloves are crooked," the pastor said.
Amelia, half-asleep, tried to adjust them. But the pastor kept talking, "You're still sinning by showing your wrists."
He turned around and saw Aria, who wasn't wearing any gloves at all. The pastor's eyes narrowed at her black rune tattoos.
"It seems some heretics have decided to defile our small town," he said. His voice was a deceptively calm baritone, the kind of authority that expected obedience and received it through fear, not respect.
"You all should be like this woman." He pointed at Jeanne. "A good follower of the faith."
Jeanne's stomach twisted into a tight knot.
"Anyways Amelia. I've brought these for you to hang."
Pastor Heron plopped a stack of posters on the counter. It was the wanted poster for Jeanne but he placed it upside down and Amelia didn't bother reading it.
"I'll get to it after my nap," the innkeeper said, shuffling away to god knows where.
"This is why you need a husband, woman," the pastor grumbled.
Then he turned to face Jeanne again. "Ah a good priestess like you is hard to come by, sister. Where are you travelling?" Heron asked.
Jeanne didn't answer. She didn't even look at him. Aria was about to pounce on him simply for the fact he was part of the church but the bell rang and someone came to get the pastor. The good shepherd left with a nod. Not checking again.
That was close.
Aria sighed, rolling her ruby eyes.
Now that the pastor was gone, Amelia was staring intently at Aria's hands. Her eyes were sparkling.
"I think they're beautiful. The black rune tattoos... They look sexy and rebellious. Very cool," the sleepy innkeeper gushed. Her gaze lingered a little too long on the dark, swirling lines, a flicker of undisguised longing in her tired eyes.
Jack also loved the look on her hands but those hands had disappointed him. He still was thinking about the reward he should ask from Aria and naturally having unlimited access to those hands was the reward that came to mind. Infinite handholding points generator.
Yet.
[Host should've read the rulebook. Handholding points can't be generated by ghosts or ghost hybrid unless the Host is also a ghost, or has certain evolution paths.]
Jack cursed. He was a fool, blinded by lust and the allure of points. Not even ghost hand could be used for points. The system had failed him again.
He was in a room with Jeanne as Aria had a seperate room.
"What's got you so grumpy?" she asked to the slime staring out the window.
"It's nothing," Jack grumbled into the glass, his gelatinous form leaving a small, smudgy print.
Jeanne sat down on the simple wooden bed, the mattress groaning in protest. She took off her clothes; it was already late.
Her boobs were perfect for him; he could play with them forever.
She wasn't big like Ella, but her pale skin seemed like it was cut from marble.
"You sleep with your gloves?" Jack asked, noticing the single, white glove still on her one good hand. Her left arm, a stump wrapped in clean bandages, rested against her side.
"Of course."
He frowned. A wife that doesn't want to hand hold and a ghost-hybrid who can't handhold.
"Let's just go to bed," he said.
Hopping from the window to the bed; Jeanne caught him midair by his core.
"You're not sleeping next to me," she said.
"What?"
Before he could refuse, he was put in the satchel.
"Be a good husband." She said and put the satchel on the nightstand. A small, fabric-covered cage.
Forced to sleep in this leather cage was humiliating. Yet he was also tired. That wine had made him drowsy, like a boozy slumber party he hadn't consented to. The moon came out and Jack was sleeping.
Shluck.
Jack jolted awake by the unexpected sound. A low, rhythmic thumping followed, a sound that was both wet and strangely familiar. He poked a single, curious eye out of the satchel. There, on the bed, Jeanne lay with her back to him. Her cute athletic ass was moving in a slow, rhythmic motion.
Squelch.
A moan, muffled by the pillow.
Her hips pushed back. The moonlight through the window illuminated her back, a landscape of pale skin taut over muscle. Her glove was on the pillow next to her.
Heat rose through Jack's gelatinous body. He should look away. A husband shouldn't spy. This was an invasion of her privacy. Yet he was mezmerized.
Chaning positions, Jeanne was now laying on her back, her nipples hard from the cool night air. Her hand still in her entrance. Her hips moved up and down to meet her fingers. Her moans increased.
The small room filled with her moans and the wet sounds of her pleasure.
"Why am I thinking about him." Her eyes were squeezed shut. She was biting her lip.
As her movements became faster, her breath hitching in small, desperate gasps.
"Why did he rescue her."
Jack froze. She was talking about him. He wanted to hear her reasons but another thought invaded. His ghost hand could still feel things. He wanted to touch her.
Her nipple was too adorable. He pointed his ghost finger and pressed it on top of it.
She stopped her movements and let out a yelp.
He retreated, his non-existent heart pounding with a mixture of guilt and arousal. Suddenly she got up. Opening the satchel, she saw Jack pretending to sleep. The slime wiggled in a pathetic, unconvincing imitation of slumber.
But Jeanne didn't believe it.
"You slimy pervert." Jeanne whispered, her face burning with humiliation.
The slap that came after echoed in the room and in his core. The next thing he knew, he was tossed outside the room and landed in the hallway.