Sun Wukong greets us with relief while checking in a gaggle of harpies. Literal harpies. The smell is enough to make me wish I'd stayed on Mount Olympus, although the bird-women did apparently comb their feathers and hair to look presentable at the inn.
"Well, it's about time," Wukong chatters. "We're booked. Overbooked. There are several guests in the bar who are, shall we say, less than pleased that we bumped their reservation, but a lot of the overflow is coming from the Hades-Persephone wedding."
I grimace. "Are these harpies here for the wedding?"
Wukong tosses keys at the harpies, and they clutch the shiny gold objects with glee. "They are. Bride's side, if you can believe that."
"So, what about all the guests that got bumped?"
The harpies all cackle and make suggestions about what the guests can do with themselves that make Wukong's fur stand on end. "None of that." he roars. "LADIES. This is a high-class establishment. No foul language!"
