- [<] Status Log - created:: 2021-12-25 - status-updated:: 2022-04-01 * status-updated:: completed 2022-05-01 for [story-a-day in may prompt 1](https://storyaday.org/2022-day-1/) - [n] Notes - The women are from [[Cystyaln]] < [[Monstterra]] - [I] Ideas - An alien species that counts prestige in the number of spouses you've buried. Or is that too on the nose? It's kinda riffing off of First Wives Club. * [[2022-11-21 Tails]] * I like the idea of the serving staff being extremely well-paid and a high-prestige position, that feels like a nice subversion. - [b] Related - [[marriage in-round creates castes]] - [[2022.06.24a black widows & death cults]] - [l] Cross-posted to [notion](https://flashy-output-ea0.notion.site/A-Good-Host-001faa82f024440e813edb932dcc4c32). Six Monstterran widows sat around a carafe of moonfish bile and oh-so-casually inserted as many mentions of dead husbands as they could into their otherwise banal discussion of the weather. No matter what my childhood impassivity instructors would have said about making sure to keep an open mind about other cultures, Monstterran women were creepy when they counted coup. Thankfully, I'd spent most of my time in Monsterra hanging out in universities, where everyone was far too young for mating games. It wasn't like here in Srineport, where most of the time it felt like mating games were the whole point of the classes. Here, university existed only to subtly enforce a caste system that had been technically outlawed a century ago. The widow with ring of jade snakes wrapped around her prehensile tail held a priceless porcelain teacup a handspan from her nose and paused for effect. "Would you believe he expected me to *dance*?" "No!" the woman I was trying to serve nearly knocked the bowl of snapper pie right off my serving tray as she flung her hands up to cover her ash-grey cheeks. It had taken me sixteen years to work myself up to this position, learning everything there was to know about the cuisines of all the realms that could be reached from the aetherroads criss-crossing my homeland. I recovered my balance and kept on serving the appetizers. "I like this one," Green Snake said in a language I realized belatedly she didn't realize I knew. "I think it would make a good host for my sixth nest." "Do you desire entrees?" I knew better than to let her know I understood her language. Tourists liked to show off their efforts, and I was in the business of keeping rich travelers happy, not correcting their accents. "I want to eat a platter of roast wyvern on plumberry sauce," she said in awkward Maehlensh. "Of course, madame," I assured her. Wyvern haunch was a gamier cut of meat than anything we locals preferred, but some travelers preferred the more exotic cuts of meat, especially the dangerous predators like snapper and wyvern. We imported wyvern from the northern desert, so it wasn't even local, but since it came from this realm at all, I supposed she thought of as good enough. Monsterrans in particular ascribed high value to the strange. When I returned with their meals, the women were flushed with something that was certainly not moonfish bile, the purist natural substance in the known realms. The ancients had used moonfish bile to clean fouled wells and bathe newborns; it was no more likely to intoxicate than water. They must have smuggled in a little liquid bravery. Green Snake lunged at me while her companions launched themselves at the handful of support staffers scattered around the restaurant floor. The Porcelain Pig held no obvious protectors, and by Monstterran standards we were all helplessly delicate, but honestly. Did they not realize that all Srinese food servitors were trained diplomats? That every person in this room had at least ten years of instruction in combat magic? Green Snake gasped when I flung her back into her chair with a splash of indigo magic. "But you're male!" I offered her a little bow. "Would you like a box for the remainder of your roast wyvern, madame?"