Story Story Story.
“You really have an attention problem, you know. Do you understand why you’re here? Or why you’re speaking to a magical creature?” asked my unreal savior. Tapping his right front foot impatiently, he looked at me imploringly. I would have liked to kept moving, after being snapped out of my revere, but he actually wanted answers. I seriously thought about what reply wouldn’t make this gargoyle want to eat me, but then I started to wonder what gargoyles ate. I really couldn’t remember any legends about them, and certianly not any academic lore. After about 30 seconds of my thinking, Hemingway nodded and sighed dramatically.
“If you don’t know yet, you probably shouldn’t. Listen, I’m going to return to my post, and send you down the hallway by yourself. The cellar is unused, and the impostor priest has no idea it exists. Head to the back wall, and there is a grate in the wall, which will lead you to a bar down the street. It wasn’t originally a bar. No, I don’t know why it’s bar now. No, I can’t get your stuff back. Yes, you’ll see me again. No, it’ll be tonight. Go. Now.” With this, Hemingway turned and trotted back the way we came. And I was left alone.
I watched him leave, then fixed my shirt. I looked closely at the walls, the ceiling and the floor. I cleared my throat and willed myself to stop wasting time. After a bit of hard willing, I actually went down the hallway. I went around all three abrupt turns and went into the first door I came into. This was not a cellar. This was a grand old bedroom, with amazing furniture and a vast library on one wall. This is where I was staying for a couple hours.