The sun is high in the sky when I meet the Wyrm. Although the shock does pale in comparison to the pain in my feet from stumbling and staggering in those awful deathtraps of shoes. The heels are thin, spindly sticks adorned with jeweled roses; my enchantment with them lasted as long as it took to get halfway down the first flight of stairs from my suite. But I refuse to cave, refuse to give in. I spent ages putting together the outfit, it was going to be worn if I died for it. I very nearly did on the third flight, but what does it matter? As long as I had enough time before I lost consciousness to arrange myself into an artistic pose, and my hair dishevelled itself in a manner that bespoke elegance. And if the Wyrm decides to kill me, then perhaps it might tear my throat in as poetically tragic a manner as possible, and then drop me in a tasteful arrangement of limbs. The pain in my feet pales in comparison to my bewilderment when it verbalizes: Howdy. What does one do when f...