Bob had grown up in what could be, generously, termed an economically disadvantaged area. He'd had to skirt around junkies as a kid, and had been indirectly exposed to drug addicts who had reached rock bottom.

The drug den he was walking through carried notes of that same sickly sweet song of despair, but it didn't carry the same rancid, unwashed desperation. The people partaking of the various perception-altering substances, or spells, were clean, and well kept.

"This is where people come to get fucked up," Yorrick said, gesturing broadly across the building. The drug den was setup in a multistory warehouse, and the interior had different areas separated by curtains, although Bob could clearly see someone throwing themselves around inside of the areas and bouncing off the curtains, which raised a suspicion that there was some magic involved.

"Good afternoon," a voice said quietly from behind them. Bob turned and found himself looking up at a tall, slender figure. He was guessing some sort of reptilian species, but it wasn't one he'd seen before.

"Gharn," Yorrick turned and smiled, "This is Robert Whitman, who has recently joined the Empire as a citizen. I'm showing him the dark underbelly of our society, and the men and women behind us are recording it, so that a full and truthful account of the Empire can be shown to the people of Earth."

"Welcome to the Parlor of Perceptions," Gharn gestured broadly across the warehouse. "Here you can find nearly any perceptual alteration you'd like. I'm afraid I can't offer you a tour, as our rules prevent inspection or interaction with any of our clients by anyone who isn't employed to see to their needs."

Bob steeled himself. "What kind of drugs do you sell here?" He asked.

Gharn huffed. "Clearly nothing you'd partake in," he sighed, "but we have substances or spells that can elevate or depress your mood, accelerate or decelerate your heart rate or metabolic functions. We also have hallucinogens that range from adding afterimages, or heightening the sense of touch, to complete replacement of all five senses."

"How addictive are they?" Bob asked. He'd heard that all it took was one dose of heroin to become addicted.

"Physically, they aren't," Gharn replied. "We've worked very hard to ensure that even those substances which would normally be addictive, are not. Of course, from a mental standpoint, they are as addictive as the user allows them to be."

"Awesome," Bob muttered.

"We've only had a few people from your world visit us, but they've enjoyed themselves, I can assure you," Gharn said.

"Nothing personal, I just grew up in a place where drug addiction destroyed a lot of lives, a place where those same drugs often offered the only escape people could find, so I'm predisposed to dislike them," Bob tried to smile. "I understand that things are different here, but it's not something I think I'll ever be comfortable with."

"Of course," Gharn nodded, "I could smell your unease and discomfort. I wish the best on your exploration."

Bob nodded in turn, and made a beeline for the door.

Stepping into the street, he shook himself.

"Sorry," Yorrick said quietly. "I hadn't realized this would bring up any bad memories, although I should have read between the lines."

"Yeah, that place is..." Bob shook his head. "Not good."

"I prefer The Buffet myself," Yorrick admitted, "but The Parlor answers a need."

"How many indentures can you tie to it?" Bob asked. "Because even if you remove the physical addiction, the psychological addiction is still there."

"No more than any other vice," Yorrick replied with a shrug.

"Excuse me," one of the camerawomen, Ellen, interrupted, "one of the things we should probably include is the cost of going to that place, in terms of crystals."

"Something mild, like your marijuana, would be a single crystal an hour," Yorrick explained. "While a full sensory substance would be more along the lines of twenty."

"Thank you," Ellen replied, stepping back.

"What's next?" Bob asked.

"The Pleasure Palace," Yorrick sighed. "This one is probably going to bother you," he paused, "I know some of the activities there bother me."

"This has all the portents of a disaster," Huron fumed.

Kellan shook his massive head. "Even if Bob endorses the Empire, the vast majority of Earthlings like to think of themselves as good people. They'll eschew it simply because of the vice they openly tolerate."

"Then we should launch our own 'advertising campaign,'" Huron replied. "Allowing the Empire to increase their numbers is a mistake, but not taking the opportunity to bolster our own is sheer folly. We're finally in a position to outnumber them! We went from being a tenth of their population to having half again their numbers!"

"What do you envision our advertisements to proclaim?" Kellan asked as he shifted comfortably atop his hoard. "The only amenity we offer that exceeds that of the Empire is the stationing of Healers at the entrance to our Dungeons. Our cities, even Harbordeep, are smaller and not as well protected. Thanks to that stones cursed Geas, we don't have a stockpile of Affinity Crystals that we can offer, and while we enjoyed an initial head start in adapting Earth's technology, the Empire is emptying its reserves to pay for professionals from Earth to install their infrastructure."

"We can, and should, proclaim that Greenwold stands in the Light," Huron insisted. "Our taxes are lower. We allow, nay we encourage people to found their own towns and cities. We need only point to Rifugio as an example."

Kellan snorted. "Jack built Rifugio entirely on his own. He neither asked for, nor received any aid from us. Earthlings aren't stupid, regardless of being level zero tier fives, and they tend to be rather more skeptical of any claims made by both governments, and religions. Jack has not hidden the costs associated with the construction of Rifugio. Without his early advantage in gathering crystals for the services he's brought to Greenwold, it would be impossible for any but the top ten richest people, or the top one hundred richest companies to accomplish the same feat. Of course, given the pending economic collapse, that may not even be true any longer. Our citizens have nearly everything they might want from Earth, leaving those wealthy men and women, as well as those huge companies, little to exchange for the crystals they would need."

"Your Majesty, do you want to see the Shadow grow?" Huron sounded exasperated.

"Huron, for a number of reasons, of which you are well aware, the Karcerian Empire has chosen to treat Greenwold with utter indifference, save for those rare instances when one of their citizens is called to the light and starts trouble," Kellan shook his head again. "This situation is ideal. Given the temperament of your clergy, should Greenwold suddenly boast superior forces, is there any doubt in your mind that the call for a holy crusade would ring out? Or that many would answer that call? No, it is better for Greenwold if we are the smaller, weaker power. Your Church can rant and rail against the Shadow, ensuring the faithful have a target to both fear and hate, all while knowing we can never assail it."

"We do not preach hate, Your Majesty," Huron said stiffly.

"Of course you do, old friend," Kellan chuckled. "You can dress it up as cautioning your flock to seek shelter in the light, avoiding the darkness, but you know as well as I do that by keeping the people ignorant of the Empire, you're fostering an environment in which they will inevitably grow to hate the shadows, if only out fear."

"I don't believe they hate the Shadow, only that they fear it," Huron disagreed.

"You spend too much time attending to your duties as the High Priest, and not enough observing those who attend services outside of Harbordeep," Kellan rumbled. "I can assure you that you'll find hatred aplenty." He sighed. "I can see that you're set on this path. I won't lift a claw to hinder nor aid you in this endeavor, so long as you stick to the facts."

Bob looked up at the building with a grimace. His experiences as a child had left him with a bitter understanding of prostitution.

"If you'd prefer, I can ask the administrator to join us," Yorrick said quietly. "With your divine blessing, you'll be able to confirm the veracity of her words. The camera crew can partake of a guided tour and interview the individuals offering their services."

Bob reached up and dug his fingers into Monroe's ruff, considering the suggestion. The truth of the matter was that he did not want to go in there. If he was going to give the Empire an endorsement of any sort he needed to see everything.

"No," he shook his head, "if I'm going to suggest people come here, I need to see it."

"If at any point you need to get out of there, just let me know," Yorrick said before gesturing to the camera crew that they were going to enter the building.

Taking a deep breath, Bob followed Yorrick into the Pleasure Place.

They were immediately greeted by an elegantly dressed young woman. She looked young, but Bob was aware that reincarnation threw those assumptions out the window. She was wearing a long crimson evening gown, and while it boasted a modest neckline, when she turned to greet Yorrick, he could see that her back was exposed all the way down to a pair of dimples just above her hips. It was also slit along the side nearly to the hip, exposing a flash of smooth, well-toned thigh.

Bob squinted his eyes closed for a moment, then shook his head. Something was wrong.

"Mr. Wrathsbane, such a rare honor," the woman's voice was low and sultry, "and such a shame that you aren't here on more personal business."

Yorrick chuckled. "I've mastered my sins, and I've always regarded the Palace's outlets as suboptimal for my vices. Still, it's always a pleasure to see you. Bob, this is Sierra Hel'Scarn, the absolute best person to identify what manner of indulgence would best satiate your lust. Sierra, this is Robert Whitman."

Bob opened his eyes, and found the woman had turned towards him. He offered his hand, and she took a step closer before taking it in her own, keeping their hands close to her, nearly brushing against her chest. Now, he could smell her perfume, a dark, heady aroma that caused him to open his mouth slightly.

Then it hit him. Another, underlying scent, this one nearly forgotten, hammered into him, and he grimaced as he closed his eyes and jerked back. Unwanted and half-buried memories of hiding in his closet while his mother 'entertained' her guests arose unbidden to his mind. The moans and groans, the sound of flesh slapping together, and above all, that smell. He took a step back, then another, shaking his head. A third step back removed him from the cloying smell, although it still clung to him.

"My apologies," Sierra was saying as his mind caught up, "when I was advised of your visit, I was not informed that you were..." she hesitated a moment before finishing, "damaged."

"I think I prefer the Earthling phrase 'a trauma survivor,'" Yorrick disagreed, stepping in before Bob could reply.

"Trauma survivor," Sierra appeared to roll the phrase around in her mouth, somehow managing to make the term sound sensual. "Yes, it does more aptly describe his condition." She shook her head. "No matter, we cater to all of our client's needs." She smiled gently, "You should come back to us when you have more time," her eyes flickered to the camera crew, "and more privacy. We can help you work through your troubles."

Bob clenched his jaw for a moment, biting back a retort. He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped a text message, then offered the phone to her at arm's length, the message unsent on the screen.

'Please bathe, or have someone who has just done so provide the tour. The smell brings back bad memories.'

Her eyes widened for a moment, and she passed the phone back. "I'll have to ask your forbearance for a short while," she said with a smile, and then languidly turned and glided through the door at the rear of the lobby.

"Sorry about that," Yorrick whispered to him, "I didn't realize the degree to which this place might impact you."

Bob nodded stiffly.

Sierra returned several minutes later, now wearing a dark purple dress in the same style.

"Please, join me," she murmured, gesturing for them to follow her out of the lobby through a door to the left.

They entered a long, broad hallway. There were comfortable chairs next to each doorway, although all were unoccupied.

"We've cleared the hallways of waiting patrons," Sierra explained as they approached the first door, where she knocked twice.

A young woman emerged, smiling brightly. She was tall and voluptuous, with long black hair and bright blue eyes. She was also completely nude.

"Mistress Sierra," she said happily, "these must be my future clients."

"Leah, for the moment, they're merely interested observers," Sierra replied. "Please explain your specialty."

"Well, I for one don't mind voyeurs," Leah's smile turned wicked, "although it seems a shame that there's nothing for them to watch." She shook her head and sighed theatrically. "Such is life. My specialty is pleasure," she drew out the word. "Even the most demanding client will find release in me. Well," she amended, "within this vessel. Most of us don't offer our actual bodies here, although when you're summoning a perfect copy of your body, and directing it with your will, experiencing what it experiences," she licked her lips and her eyelids fluttered, "is there really a difference?"

"So you summon a copy of yourself?" Bob asked curiously.

"Sometimes more than one," Leah winked at him. "I invite you to imagine what you could experience with three of me." She pirouetted slowly.

Bob frowned. "How many copies can you summon? I've found that once you surpass your tier, even a heavy investment in intelligence and wisdom isn't enough to handle the stress of the mental links, although barrage obviously extends that to a considerable degree, with the caveat that the control and feedback becomes more akin to delegating instructions to a group, and again the intelligence and wisdom of the group, as well as that of the caster, has a significant impact on the manner in which the group interprets the instructions."

Leah blinked, and Yorrick hid a chuckle with a cough. She cupped her breasts in her hands and inspected them for a moment, then looked up at Bob and sighed. She then glanced at Sierra. "He's no fun," she complained.

"He's not here for fun," Yorrick said smoothly, "although keeping in mind this is going to be seen by billions of people, I can assure you that the business will come."

"Those are my assurances," Leah winked at Yorrick, "and thank you for that setup. To answer your question, I'm limited to seven, which is my tier."

"You aren't under any sort of coercion to be here?" Bob asked.

"Oh, darling no," Leah shook her head. "From the direction of your questions, I gather you're a summoner as well, so let me assure you, I'm here because I love this." She shivered, closing her eyes, goosebumps covering her skin. "The feeling of power as men give themselves to me, offering me their everything is intoxicating. As a priestess of Vorax, their offerings go directly to my Goddess." She shook her head. "I donate all of the crystals I earn here to the Church, as I easily meet my needs by delving one day each week." She opened her eyes and ran her hands over her breasts, tweaking her now stiffened nipples. "You should come delve with me, I might have a few tricks to show you," she licked her lips.

"You do wear armor, right?" Bob asked with a frown.

"Hedon preserve me," Leah muttered and slouched, crossing her arms under her breasts. She glared at Bob, then at Sierra from underneath her eyelashes. "Yes," she pouted, "I wear armor, I'm not an idiot."

Sierra coughed.

"Sometimes, I wear armor," Leah amended.