Naturally, Essek floats, because he doesn't trust his legs after all of that. He manages to cast prestidigitation exactly once before they exit the carriage, but that is enough to make Percival's face presentable--much more so than a wipe with his ruined smalls, though Essek finds that unexpectedly appealing.

Though he knows it is utterly impossible to tell that he is wearing nothing beneath his dress, it still feels daring. He accepts his husband's hand down and doesn't release it, twining their fingers together as they enter the inn.

It is a high-end establishment, quiet and well-kept. There is no rowdy ground-floor tavern; only a small foyer, and the only soul who acknowledges them is the innkeep's older son at the front desk, who politely welcomes them back and asks if they require anything. Essek once again takes it upon himself to be the one to respond. "Not presently," he says with a pleasant smile. "But please send hot water for the tub in an hour or so."

The man's eyes linger. Either he has never spoken to a drow before or he can clearly tell something is going on. But the exchange is courteous and professional nonetheless, and Essek leads Percival up to their third-floor suite. The rooms are clean, comfortable, and spacious, and most importantly, the bed looks sturdy and there is a lock on the door. The heavy sound it makes when he turns it is immensely satisfying.