“Make way for Carly, and the mighty Ritz,” the doorman says. We stride onto the floor bedecked in all our shiny golden bits, fine silks and velvets. You’ve seen us before, a-swagger between tavern, store and dock, awash with all that can be got with coin. No iron gate, no strongbox with its lock withstands our trickery. Oh, if you join in discourse, by my beauty quick-bespelled you’ll fall into enthusiastic trance— and every precious item that you held will slip away, in quick and graceful dance into my pockets. Though I rob you blind, you’ll smile and shrug—say, really—you don’t mind. Written by lorepunk.eth

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