PGDO: Ragnir’s Lucky Seven

[Jim Roberts]

[Feb 3 – Spindrift]

> Josie was admittedly less of a “gear head” than her fellow Pussycat
> Val. However, as the band leader, Josie had supervised more stage
> assemblies and strikes than she could remember. And even she was
> impressed, particularly as the offerings designed for travel all had
> custom fitted hard sided black road cases.

Finally, it was time for the shopping expedition to move on. Over the
course of the day, Val had secured replacements for *some* of the more
critical of her ageing components, and had a line on more. Not to
mention, a whole stack of homework for her to peruse should she ever
wish to make the investment in newer “solid state” gear. But now, more
than one shopper was beginning to notice that the kebabs, as tasty as
they had been, had not been particularly large, and had now been some
time in the past. The travellers were now quite interested in dinner.

Fortunately, Tramma had that part of the evening well planned. One last
cab ride took them to their final destination in the higher end casino
district not far from the waterfront. Close enough to offer fine evening
views, but not close enough to share in the downmarket working part of
the harbour. At least, not the classier end of Casino Row.

“Welcome to Ragnir’s Lucky Seven,” a uniformed doorman boomed while
another liveried footman helped the Pussycats and Pals descend from
their cab onto the ornate forecourt of one of the city’s better
establishments. Like its neighbours, Ragnir’s was both a hotel and
casino, the latter probably the main source of income. But like the
other higher end establishments, Ragnir’s Lucky Seven strove to provide
a *combined* experience, either at the tables, the dining halls or
showrooms, or in overnight accommodation that varied from quite fine all
the way up to the truly excellent. All depending on how much the guests
were willing to pay.

Like the better places on Casino Row, Ragnir’s was designed to catch the
eye of the well heeled passerby making the inevitable sojourn from
casino to casino along The Row. Ragnir’s was painted in a mix of pastels
and would have fairly shimmered in the morning sun, had the travellers
arrived earlier. Now, as dusk approached, circles of maintenance free
ever burning torches mixed in with dwarven stonelights provided a
fascinating interplay of flickering lights and shadows, all designed to
somehow invoke the image of kyrene dunes. Well tended palms and the door
staff costumed in turbaned robes all combined to complete the effect,
and the Pussycats gaped in awe while Finfin settled the final bill with
their cabbie.

Once they had been ushered inside, the Grand Lobby stretched before
them. On either side were the extensive rooms of the casino itself,
conveniently located on the ground floor to ease visitors into their
enticing depths, filled with the rattle of gaming wheels, the clack of
dice, and the far quieter commands at the dealer led card tables. Also
for the convenience of the guests – and the management – there was not a
window in sight, the magical lighting designed to keep the visitors
comfortably disconnected from any external signs of the passage of time.

Acting as their local guide, Tramma led her pals over to a long front
desk that was clearly the hotel’s reception. A modest line of other
tourists and guests were lined up, waiting their turn with one of the
many desk staffers. However, Tramma conducted her friends off to a
quieter side of the desk where there was no line. Instead, some fine
gold filigree announced that this was the spot for VIP checkins.

The sole desk staffer looked up as Tramma approached, and beamed as he
examined the bard’s reservation. “The Finfinfin party; very good. No
bags to check in?”

“No sir,” Tramma confirmed.

“Then let’s see you to your room straightaway.” The staffer rapped a
small bell, and a uniformed porter appeared to conduct the VIP guests to
their room. “Ma’ams? Sir? Would you prefer the elevator or the stairs?”

“Oh, the stairs,” Tramma breezily answered. “I bet my pals want to have
a chance to admire your fine establishment, starting with the casino
itself.”

However, the gaming tables were not their initial destination, and the
bellman led the guests up a wide, sweeping staircase leading to the
first of a handful of upper floors. Tramma was not wrong in her
prediction, and the Pussycats were particularly keen to peer into the
stages and showrooms on the second floor. “Big halls are here, and
smaller ones one level up,” Tramma explained as they continued their
ascent ever upwards. “Ragnir’s not really known for big musical numbers,
and more for poetry slams and the like.”

The bellman did his best not to hear the remark, though he couldn’t help
but grin. Josie, however, looked dubiously at her pal, and Trama
chuckled. “Yeah, I know, right? He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

The silver-haired bard frowned, and admitted, “that’s not really the
full story, though. One of my professors said Ragnir was years ago
something of a wheel in the music scene, and more or less got fed up
with it all or something and semi-retired to a life of luxury and bad
poetry. It appears he’s got the ‘itch’ again, though.”

“Or maybe he’s beginning to, from the stories I heard on the Wagon Train
last fall,” Tramma speculated. ”He had a major act drop right into his
lap; hopefully he’ll wise up. But in the meantime, I’ve scored some
tickets for an after-dinner show down the street.”

“But dinner first?” Mel asked hopefully.

“Dinner first,” Tramma confirmed as they continued to climb a few more
flights of stairs. Before long, the stairs ended in a small lobby. A
stout glass door blocked any further progress. Stenciled on the
transparent portal in gold leaf were two words – “Imperial Suite”. With
a keyring, the bellman unlocked and opened the door, bowing the guests
to continue inside.

Beyond, an obvious security staffer calmly watched as the newcomers
approached, while behind a podium a tuxedoed man beamed at his guests.

“Good evening ladies, and gentleman,” the man obviously in charge asked
urbanely. “Can we help you?”

“Evening,” Tramma replied cheerily as she handed over some papers she’d
arranged on her visit a few days ago. “Checking in, please.”

“The Finfinfin party?” the man genially asked, and found his own answer
in the paperwork. Finfin nodded his approval; the establishment was
clearly taking security seriously, and the local guardians were not
willing to simply accept the bellman’s word that the guests were legit.

“Most excellent,” the maitre’d stated after carefully checking the
paperwork. “Welcome to Ragnir’s Lucky Seven, and on behalf of the
management, I would like to wish you all a *most* lucky night.”

For some reason, that triggered a round of giggles among the apparent
“schoolgirls”, even as one of the obvious guards unhooked one end of the
rope line while another opened a stout wooden door leading into the
famed penthouse suite. Ignoring the giggles, the man at the podium bowed
as he ushered the guests within. “Dinner will begin shortly,” he
advised. “And you are just in time for appetisers and drinks.”

True to his word, just beyond the stout doorway defending the suite from
interlopers was a finely appointed dining room tastefully appointed with
fine kyrene carpets, with a staffed full bar just to the side.

“Great!” Tramma enthused. “But I think me and my pals could use a
freshen up and a change more than a boozeup.”

“Very good, madam,” the maitre’d replied evenly.

“C’mon, folks!” Tramma encouraged the others. “I bet the living space is
just beyond. Let’s get changed!” The bard’s prediction was entirely
correct; the fine dining room was only one part of the penthouse suite.
Within was a tall, open plan central room that would not have looked out
of place in a kyrene sheik’s palace. The floors and walls were tiled in
a pleasing mosaic, and a central stone fountain burbled happily. Ornate
dark wood latticework adorned the walls, with spiral stairs leading to
an upper balcony loft, while windows decorated in cunningly carved see
through lattice shutters gave a fine view of both the harbour and of the
city’s evening lights. Doors led off to what would turn out to be
smaller bedrooms off to the side.

The Master Bedroom quite caught the attention of all of the travellers,
and after shucking their uniform shoes, more than one of the
“schoolgirls” enjoyed bouncing on the large – and remarkably soft –
central bed. Finfin hoped that he was not just projecting his *own*
hopes and desires, but if he was guessing correctly, the looks all were
sending his way suggested a role they might have in mind for him for
some further bouncing later that night. Perhaps. But first things must
be first, and they had a fine evening of *other* entertainment planned
for the night before any possible later activities.

The Master Bath suite, however, did not meet with quite as much acclaim.
It was certainly nice enough, and downright posh, with polished mirrors,
marble countertops, and running water plumbing. However, the central
tiled tub, while enticing enough, looked just a *bit* on the small side
for a crowd of this size.

Until, of course, Tramma followed up on some stories she’d heard from
both her adventuring as well as college pals, and led the rest of the
expedition out onto the fine rooftop gardens. There, lush stone planters
nearly overflowed with palms and ferns, surrounding a very enticing
swimming pool alongside a poolside bar and cabana. Better yet,
discreetly shielded by a fine wall of ferns was a separate hottub,
providing plenty of room for a group this size, as well as the needed
privacy for those who wished to forego bathing attire.

“Now *this* will do very nicely,” Tramma judged, and the rest of the
crew fervently agreed. “But that’s for later. C’mon, girls. Time to swap
these fun costumes for our posh togs.” Tailing the procession, Finfin
well understood the plan; one of the venues they planned to visit that
night had a strict dresscode, requiring tuxedoes for the gentlemen, and
evening gowns for the ladies.

Fortunately, some slack time over the past day or so and Mithi’s Arcane
magics had been able to craft a custom fitted gown for each of the five
ladies, while tradition held that Finfin’s own Dress Uniform would
easily pass muster. Given Tramma’s invitation to the “girls” to get
changed, after unlimbering his haversack with its Bag of Holding, the
elf was prepared to find a side room of his own to get dressed, leaving
the “girls” their privacy.

However, a gentle hand on either elbow quickly dissuaded Finfin from
that notion. His presence in the changing room was actively requested.
Once again, the elf felt that odd feeling of cognitive dissonance creep
over him. By now, all but one of the ladies present had most detailed
and intimate knowledge of his gender; the only lady lacking that
*direct* experience was Val, and the dusky Pussycat had most certainly
had ample opportunity to observe, if not “experience” Finfin’s
attributes that clearly marked him as a male of his species. But for all
that, just at the moment the elf really was being treated as “one of the
girls”, invited to take equal part in joining in the general melee of
helping everyone out of their schoolgirl togs, leaving only those
moments of needed privacy for each of the travellers to enjoy the indoor
running plumbing.

But once those necessaries were completed, none had any hesitation at
all about peeling down to the skin before getting ready to change into
their evening gowns. Not to mention helping the elf out of his own
street clothes, making ready to change into his own evening attire. In
the bohemian communal living backstage in the Plains Expedition, the
ladies had long ago made it clear that the elf had no need to avert his
gaze, and to respectfully admire whatever he wished to see. Just as long
as the admiration *was* respectful, and that the ladies were, in turn,
free to admire right back – which they cheerfully did. Further
dispelling any possible notion that for all he was just now being
treated as “one of the girls”, he was most demonstrably NOT a girl.

Chuckling, Tramma lightly sang

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things most certainly belongs.
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

That was, however, the only possibly steamy meme of the moment. Just
now, the focus was more collegiate than erotic, everyone working
together to help each other look their very best for the coming evening.
That meant helping each other sponge away any dirt or grime from the
day’s rummaging, followed by collective hair brushing and other
collective group preparations. Into all of which a bemused Finfin was
invited to participate, Mel and Mithi showing several of their pals just
how the elf enjoyed having his own flowing tresses brushed as he in turn
gently brushed Josie’s flaming locks.