Well ... this isn't Paris

[averygoodshot]

Aramis had given the Queen his word: he would not go back to Paris. That he wants to is not in question. If he cannot go back (though if, he tells himself, he happens to stumble into the door to Paris, what could he possibly do but go through?), well, there is no saying he cannot still explore what the Nexus has to offer.

This is how he happens to find himself on a sun-drenched beach inhabited by scantily-clad women (and men, too, it seems) who seem to freely provide frothy, cold drinks. It's called, he learns when he asks, Risa. Where this Risa is? He has no idea. Progressively, he cares less and less.

Somewhere along the way, Aramis's heavy leather doublet is shed and he even takes off his boots, and after three of those frothy drinks, he ends up sprawled in a chaise, one foot in the sand, chin tilted up to the sun.

There may or may not be women hovering around. He doesn't touch, nor does he encourage but he does look (how can one not when there are mere scraps covering the most delicate bits?

This is quite a place he found his way to, isn't it? No adventure (at least not yet), but he raises his hand and another one of those frothy drinks appear. Indeed.