The Porter Is Not Interested in the Hero Party

20 – Reservoir Vipers (1)

We don’t have time to celebrate the death of the demon king. Even while I was busy heading to the city, I was looking in the mirror and tidying up my hair. It was because from now on, I had to brush my bangs and shave my beard beforehand so that I could face the city with a neat and attractive appearance.

Miele, who held up the mirror for me, asked me as I was absorbed in decorating.

“Why is the porter dressed up? We still have a long way to go to reach the city.”

“You have to arrange it in advance. Wouldn’t it give the impression that you live a tidy life on a daily basis? A woman is a very delicate creature, and she falls in love with even a trivial matter like this.”

I said while shaving my beard. Because he couldn’t afford to shave when he was walking around the battlefield or villages, his beard was already growing wild and dirty like chestnuts. When I lifted my chin and scraped away the grime, I could see my rough skin.

Millet poked her head out of the mirror and said.

“Skin without a beard is also messy, isn’t it better to just grow it? I’d rather grow it longer and wear it like the great sage of the elves. Stick a tree branch to your hair.”

“I’m not saying this to disparage the great sages of the elves, but it’s not the average old elves, but a normal-looking man with a beard and grass in his hair is called a beggar.”

Hearing that he was a beggar, the corners of Ashuria’s mouth went up slightly, but she cleared her throat and pretended not to be laughing. Lena said as she cleared the surrounding vines with her dagger.

“By the way, uncle. Every time I go to town, I am full of motivation. He was very depressed when he was working with us. Honestly, aren’t Nana Milena and Ashria much prettier than the neighborhood widow?”

A person’s attractiveness is not determined only by appearance. Obviously, both the widow who had a hot night the other day, and the widow who was lost while flirting with her, had inferior looks compared to our party members. But a widow was valuable because she was a widow.

“You don’t know the charm of a widow. Everyone. To spend a night with a widow is to take care of the jewel that someone has been dedicating their whole life to and make it shine again. It is more sublime and beautiful than anything else. I do this not just for taste, but for a noble mission and sense of responsibility.”

“So the bottom line isn’t that you like other people’s women?”

Lena tilted her head and asked. I shook my head and said firmly.

“Isn’t your husband dead? It’s not someone else’s woman.”

“Honestly, I want to know what kind of car it is… … . what… … . If it is your uncle, then it must be so.”

With her simple arrangement, the discourse on widows was cut short. Millet was still holding the mirror and making an incomprehensible expression, while Ashuria sighed and looked at me. The hero laughed softly and made his way forward, and the country road we were on had crooked signposts heading into the city.

*****

city.

Unlike villages, the city had an orderly energy flowing from the entrance. We threw ourselves into the lodging without asking anyone first, packed up our belongings, and scattered to do what we each wanted. The hero disappeared, saying he had something to say to the nobles who ruled the city, and Ashuria went to the church.

Millet disappeared to see the city, and Lena said she had personal business and disappeared in a different direction from Millet. I was brushing my hair again and whistling in the mirror at the inn. The fat innkeeper joked that I was trying to look good.

“Hey, there are so many women, who else are you going to meet?”

“Since my charm is so outstanding, I have to be able to stay still. I’m going to the bar.”

“yes. Good luck.”

Even if he didn’t wish me luck, I was a lucky man. In the last battle, the hero raised a ridiculous record and gained the foundation to expand the territory, and even got a private letter from the commander to get a chance to understand his disposition.

If this pace continues, I’m sure I’ll be able to meet a beautiful woman again and spend a passionate night in this city. Before I left the inn, I held on to the door and asked the innkeeper.

“Master. By the way, is there a drink called [Dogref] here?”

“Ah, [Dogref] will sell that at the bar. Go ask Kim. It’s expensive alcohol, but is it also used for ‘that’ purpose?”

The host smiled sinisterly as he pretended to pass the glass. I didn’t even nod my head at his question, I just laughed it off. If I adapt too much to a vulgar story, I also become a vulgar person. It was an unsuitable conversation topic for me, who does noble things.

“Have fun.”

The bar owner said that and waved his hand.

My steps receded, and I undid the hem slightly, revealing the pectoral muscles underneath my shirt. It was because widows liked males who radiated wild charm. Only people with neat faces, tall stature, and yet untamed fearsome sides were able to pass the tricky test of chastity.

Upon opening the tavern door, I see a group of drunks drinking in the late afternoon and some women sitting with hopeful anticipation to soothe their loneliness. And I could see the server busily crossing the tavern. The women sitting in the tavern at the time I entered, and I finished our search for each other by winking at each other.

But I didn’t run around like a dog that found its owner.

I stood at the bar counter and went to the owner, who was leisurely wiping his drink, and handed me some money.

“[Dogref] A bottle, please.”

The tavern owner seemed surprised when I mentioned expensive alcohol. He seemed to be proud of the fact that he was running a bar, but he raised his eyebrows and said to me:

“[Dogref]. You know good wine. Do you really like alcohol?”

I nodded.

“I like. I like to drink, and I like to share with others. I’ve heard that the dosu is incredibly high. Do fairly weak people faint just by smelling the incense? A friend of mine once sang that his wish was to drink this drink.”

The tavern owner laughed softer at his friend’s story. Real drinkers are people who know that drinking together is better than tasting alone. I felt like I got a passing grade from the owner through this story.

“[Dograph] is expensive. But it is an expensive drink. If he had tasted it too, he would have sang to eat only [Dogref].”

“That friend was from the Empire. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t drink [Dogref]. I couldn’t stop drinking.”

The owner looked at me. Her dark eyes looked at me and I opened my mouth.

“…Can I wrap it up right away?”

“Please make it firm. Even if it goes far, it won’t break.”

“All right.”

So I took a drink and moved back to my seat. He was next to a woman dressed in black and with dark eyes. She was sitting in a seat where I could hear the conversation between me and the tavern owner, and she was alone sipping from a small bottle.

Can’t we overcome the sadness of losing a family that has enough room or a loved one? Loneliness was reflected in her eyes, and the sound of her breathing was dizzying, like a groan. she said crossing her legs.

“Are you going on a trip to your friend?”

A sad story becomes an easy condiment to buy empathy. It was important to have a good facial expression here. You shouldn’t make an expression that looks like you’re going to cry too much, and your eyes should be wet as much as possible. And I had to continue talking calmly, pretending nothing was wrong while lowering my voice lightly.

“Yes. It happened. It is a common tragedy of war.”

“It’s a similar story. I… … .”

Saying that, the woman pushed the glass forward. The wine dripped from the glass and dripped. The alcohol touched her fingertips and moved to her lips, rubbing her lower lip and flicking her tongue. She didn’t say anything, but I had to catch my breath, as if I’d met a snake showering me with sweet coaxing.

She didn’t tell her situation to the end, but I could see what vulgar meaning the sentences that followed at the end of the blurry words contained. She lost her husband, and I lost a friend. Rather than talking, we brought up more stimulating stories through eye contact, and as we scanned each other’s bodies, we imagined what kind of pleasure it would bring to ourselves.

From cooking to sleeping, imagination has historically been an important condiment. We blushed even though we didn’t even reach, and the woman pushed the glass away and said.

“Would you like to come to your room? Let’s have a drink together.”

I nodded. with a lovely smile.

*****

In the end, the intense love affair that continued until the sunset could be said to be an act of making memories and burning them again, leaving nothing behind. I was lying on the futon in my underwear, and the woman was stroking my breasts in her arms.

The trained pectoral muscles tightened up and then relaxed again, following her hand.

“My husband… … . He went to war and won’t come back. He left me like this and left.”

I was a warrior for this moment. He was a counselor who listened to her sad story, and was also a tuner who helped women find their own voice with his fine skills.

“I was really, really lonely.”

Her hands hugged me tighter. I stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead, and she inhaled my body odor. Our eyes met and we pulled down the covers to explore each other’s bodies again.

“Ah… ! I do not like it… … .”

She clung to me with a coquettish voice, and I squeezed her hips.

And.

rattle!

There was the sound of the front door swinging open, and a booming voice spread.

“honey! I’m back! Work ended early!”

I was frozen in that position.

I looked at the woman with absurd eyes, but she avoided my eyes and said in a low voice.

“Boo, he said he would definitely come in a month.”

“…..Didn’t he die?”

“He, too, said he wouldn’t come back!”

The woman couldn’t make eye contact with me, her face dyed red. Even during this short scuffle, my husband was moving towards us with a rough stride.

“honey! are you in the room? Why aren’t you coming out!”

A man’s voice came closer. I opened the window and ran outside in my pants. Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and the voice of a man talking to his wife was heard.

“honey!”

“Oh, oh my… ! Are you here?”

phew.

escape success.