Angela's apartment was less a dwelling and more a one-eyed hunting trophy. The walls were adorned with the skulls of large animals, antlers, and an alarming collection of battle axes. The furniture consisted mainly of raw stone pieces that looked as though they had been ripped directly out of a mountainside. The air was thick with a musky scent and the odor of… imminent danger.
"Make yourself comfortable, poet," Angela cooed, tossing Paul onto a rock sofa that might have been more comfortable if it were still part of a cliff. "I'll get you a drink. I have a goblin wine that'll bite your ears off."
As she lumbered off toward a dark corner of the room, producing sounds of smashing crockery and colorful curses, Paul had a moment to process his situation. He was trapped. The front door was a massive, iron-reinforced slab of wood, and the only window overlooked a dark alley fifteen meters below. His elven agility could do many things, but it couldn't defy gravity with such brazenness.
Angela returned with two goblets that looked more like trophy cups, brimming with a steaming, purple liquid. She handed one to Paul. "Drink up. It'll loosen your tongue. And not just your tongue." She gave him a wink so powerful it created a draft.
Paul sipped the liquid cautiously. It tasted like battery acid and regret. "It's... intense," he managed to say, feeling his taste buds declare a strike.
"Just like me!" Angela laughed, downing her own goblet in a single gulp. She then sat down next to him on the stone sofa, making him jump. "So," she said, leaning her face close. Her single, massive green eye scrutinized him with predatory intensity. "Recite me a poem. One of those nice, sad ones about wilting flowers and broken hearts."
In a panic, Paul searched his mind for inspiration. "Uh... Roses are red, violets are blue... Your eye is one, not two..."
"I like it! It's direct! Minimalist!" she interrupted. "But enough with the words now."
With a sudden, lightning-fast move, she grabbed him and lifted him up as if he were a decorative pillow. Paul felt utterly powerless. Her strength was crushing, her passion a Category Five hurricane. She dragged him toward the bedroom, another room that resembled a cave furnished by an orc with a penchant for furs.
"This is too much," Paul thought, as his survival instinct finally overpowered his social paralysis. "I have to escape."
While Angela was distracted by trying to light a candle with a sulfurous puff of breath, Paul saw his chance. With an agility he didn't know he possessed, he wriggled free from her grasp, rolled off the stone bed, and bolted toward the door.
"Where do you think you're going, my little rosebud?" Angela bellowed, noticing his escape.
"To water the plants!" Paul yelled back, fumbling desperately with the enormous door latch. It was heavy, rusted, and clearly not designed for quick getaways.
He heard Angela's heavy footsteps approaching. The games were over. Her tone was no longer playful, but irritated. With a final, titanic effort born of panic, Paul managed to lift the latch. He yanked the door open and launched himself out, running through the dark city streets as if a dragon were breathing down his neck. He didn't stop, didn't look back, didn't even breathe until he was three blocks away, hidden behind a stack of barrels. His heart was pounding, his best tunic was torn, and he smelled vaguely of goblin wine. Aaron's "cozy hillside" had turned out to be a mountain actively trying to devour him. Exhausted, humiliated, and terrified, he slowly made his way home, vowing to himself that from now on, he would choose his metaphors—and his company—with far, far more caution.