Galloping Abs

Hi, I'm Feloss! I’m a person probably, and I write gay stuff, sometimes #NSFT (Not Safe For Tumblr). Fic tag! AO3! Ko-fi!

[cuubism]

my friend and i have been losing our goddamn minds over the photography in this zillow listing and i feel the need to share it with you all too

the lighting??? the fog?? the atmosphere???

this shit is like high art and it's a ZILLOW LISTING . and that's not even all the photos!!! what the fuck!!!

[chronicallyhaughty]

syrosaur

outfit design cmmssions for @nattvingen @vaethryn

I got this BEAUTIFUL commission from Syrosaur of my former Sunreaver, current san'layn, Alluriel... so I wrote a short thing about her lmao. Do go check Syr out, she is incredible at what she does!

——————————

In the city’s wreckage, Alluriel goes hunting. Voices are calling out, some panicked and some, like the ones she recognizes from the Council of Six, more steady. There’s a veritable horde (ha) of adventurers of every kind rummaging through ruined towers and shattered buildings for survivors or for trinkets, Alluriel doesn’t know and doesn’t care: she follows her nose. Nobody gives her a second glance; she is not the only unnaturally pale elf in this crowd, and far from the only undead presence here.

Whenever she sees a familiar face, she ducks away, using the drab hooded cloak as a shield from prying eyes. She’s only here for one person. There’s no need for anybody else to have seen her. It’s strange: the faces, the ruins, they should elicit an emotional response. She spent most of her living life in this city, around some of these people, and now that everything has shattered into a million pieces on some strange shore, she feels… nothing.

Nothing but a pressing sense of urgency.

There’s a lot of blood in the air. Enough to almost distract. And yet, the worst part is when a calm voice rings out, strong and clear as a bell:

“I want the injured to be gathered far from where the vaults fell, and keep a perimeter!”

Lord-Admiral Jaina Proudmoore. A beacon lighthouse in the stormy sea of frantic attempts at organization. Standing alone.

Unprotected.

The effort required to tear herself away from the fantasy of sinking her fangs into that supple neck and ripping until no Light on Azeroth could put her back together is indescribable. Yet someone else needs her attention first. She turns her back as the woman keeps calling out instructions, willing her fangs to recede and tentatively reapplying the glamour that covers the scarring. A fireball taken point-blank will do things to a face that makes one stand out in a crowd, even among adventurers. Lethal stuff, fire.

Her own flame wants out, wants to dance around her fingers, wants to seek that pretty blonde head and turn it into charcoal. But no, she is nimbly climbing over what remains of the city of Dalaran for a reason, Void take that murderous bitch.

Away from most of the crowd she finds that reason, covered in rubble and what was once a bookshelf. Heaving it off of her is an easy task for a san’layn on a mission, but she must be cautious. Alluriel may be hardy, but this high elf woman is not.

“Luri? You’re here…” sighs Mira, glasses lost somewhere and hair a complete mess. Her eyes, squinting, seem to threaten to flutter shut.

“So are you,” Luri says, moving her with infinite care.

“Not made of glass, Luri,” echoes through her head, a memory from shortly after she woke in this form.

No, Mira is not made of glass. When Alluriel had lain dying, burned and bleeding on the cobblestone of that alley, her last memory is of Mira’s face twisted into a grimace of complete denial. So, it didn’t really come as a surprise to learn what she had done to resurrect her, the collected Mogu techniques and the Scourge methods stored away by the Council for “research” secretly blending into something close enough to a san’layn for Alluriel to call herself that. Unlike Mira, she’s never made extensive study on the art of necromancy: the details are beyond her.

Details Mira had had to try explaining to her after their reintroduction to one another – after Alluriel had woken in that hidden workroom, grabbed Mira by the throat, thrown her across the room with one hand, and tried to drain her blood.

In contrast, Alluriel moves her much more slowly now. She knows in some dusty part of her memory that one shouldn’t move people who might have taken injury to their spine, but Mira seems to be intact, if scraped up. Her blood smells sweet as sin, like always, but Alluriel has learned to compartmentalize this scent.

“Shielded myself. And… the shelf. Helped, I think.”

Alluriel shushes her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Blood magic can be used in many ways, and this is one of the more kind ones: using a fang to prick her own lip, she presses her mouth to Mira’s. In a perverse mimicry of breathing air into another’s lungs, Alluriel focuses her mana on transferring vitality with her blood.

Every sluggish beat of her dead heart means Mira’s will keep beating at its regular, bird-like cadence. The use of tongue is… perhaps not so essential to the transference, but it’s making Alluriel feel better, and if Mira’s quiet moans are anything to go by it’s making her feel… better, as well. A soft push of Mira’s hands against her shoulders, and Alluriel remembers that the living require air to stay that way.

She pulls back, reluctant, and indeed Mira has more color to her cheeks, and not just because she is blushing. She gasps for her breath but still smiles at Alluriel, and that dead heart of hers lurches pleasantly.

“I’m glad you came, Luri.”

Alluriel holds her close.

She will always protect that which belongs to her.

[syrosaur]

[chronicallyhaughty]

I saw the animated blood elf teaser on Warcraft's twitter last night.

——————————

"What?"

"It's a whole new way of interacting with the runes! Oh-so-elegant, don't you think?" She's earnest, he can tell even with her short ears.

"But it's–" my spell, Aethas finishes the sentence in his mind, but doesn't say. The human woman blinks at him, expectantly. "Nevermind. Can I see it again?"

She hands the scroll back to him, and there it is. Plain as day, down to the flairs on the runes themselves. His idea, his handwriting, his spell.

His mind reels. What does this mean? He spoke to others about this spell, certainly, because he was proud of it. It's a good spell! Elegant, even. He even showed some of his teachers. Is there a name on it?

His eyes land on a signature. "Council of Dalaran". What? He never submitted it for publishing. And certainly not without it bearing his signature. His classmate yelps when he stalks past her, and then she's calling after him, but he can't hear a word she's saying. He can't stop walking now.

The steps up to the Violet Citadel seem endless under the midday sun. Light, protect me.

It occurs to him, as he stands outside of the room where the Council meets with students, that he could be risking something, here. That by making a fuss he could be marked as "troublesome", depending on which of his fellow students stole it. This could perhaps even destroy any hope he has for becoming Archmage in the city, Sunreaver or not. But... it's his spell. And he can prove it. He knocks on the door.

"Enter," calls a bored-sounding, masculine voice.

Aethas does, finding Archmage Ansirem seated by the round table taking up the floor. It's absolutely covered in parchment. So, perhaps it was just a clerical error! Maybe he can get it fixed easily.

"Archmage Ansirem," Aethas says with a polite bow, "I just had this spell brought to my attention."

He spreads the scroll out over a mostly flat part of the table. Archmage Ansirem glances at it, then at Aethas with a wan smile.

"Yes, that. Quite good, isn't it? If you've academic questions, your teachers should be more than adequate–"

"It's my spell." It feels good to say. His voice echoes a bit in the cavernous ceiling.

Archmage Ansirem's smile... thins.

"No. Look at the signature, there: Council of Dalaran. You're mistaken."

Aethas is stunned, again, for the second time in an hour.

"But. I wrote it."

"Based on Dalaran magical principles older than you, boy."

"But it was my idea to shape them like this–"

"You listen to me." Archmage Ansirem slams his hand on the table, making Aethas jump.

"You're an apprentice. You don't own anything you write within these scholarly halls. Listen to yourself, would you deprive everyone of easier runework out of a misguided desire for clout? For status?" After making up these possible motivations – and certainly not projecting, surely – the Archmage leans back in his chair once more, clearly pleased with himself. "Ridiculous. Learn this lesson well, boy: it doesn't matter what your family name is. Nobody will believe you over us. Now get out of my sight."

Standing outside on those steps, mass-produced scroll crumpling in one shaking fist, Aethas thinks that Archmage Ansirem was right about one thing. He will learn this lesson well.

Don't trust the Council.

[chronicallyhaughty]

Follow young Aethas, grad student, as he navigates a startling, sudden influx of attractive men who all seem to want in his pants! Whatever (whoever) shall he do?!

[Lor'themar/Aethas, Halduron/Aethas, Rommath/Aethas, more TBA, NSFW, Ko-fi]

I made this for wonderful @syrosaur's birthday! It isn't a fic as such, it's more kind of a... text-based CYOA game? In the spirit of visual novels, but without the visuals??? And it all leads to porn????? Idk. I plan on adding a few more paths but thought maybe someone else would like to "play" it lmao

(Vague college AU, you get to decide if they're elves or human, TWs include: teacher/student stuff, sex in public spaces with the risk of discovery (depending on your choice in paths), be aware and proceed according to your own comfort and preference)

[chronicallyhaughty]

Now also on AO3!

[chronicallyhaughty]

Got A Taste For Your Loving

“How much can he take?” Lor’themar asks, swirling the whisky. He’s slumped in the armchair like a lord on a throne which, in this house, he kind of is. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing his hairy chest and the gruesome scar cutting down the middle of it. Halduron snorts and strokes his palms over Aethas’ thighs, up and down, up and down, trying to soothe his obvious nerves. Aethas is avoiding looking in Lor’s direction like seeing him might make this all the more real. It’s already very, very real. “Anything I can give him,” he shoots back, and Lor’themar grins and tips his glass at him, then takes another sip.

[Halduron/Aethas/Lor'themar, NSFW, AO3, Ko-fi]

So me and Syrosaur have been talking a lot about a Crime AU lately, and we got to talking about Aethas staying with the triumvirate and how that might play out... well, maybe it would go like this!

——————————

“How much can he take?” Lor’themar asks, swirling the whisky. He’s slumped in the armchair like a lord on a throne which, in this house, he kind of is. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing his hairy chest and the gruesome scar cutting down the middle of it.

Halduron snorts and strokes his palms over Aethas’ thighs, up and down, up and down, trying to soothe his obvious nerves. Aethas is avoiding looking in Lor’s direction like seeing him might make this all the more real. It’s already very, very real.

“Anything I can give him,” he shoots back, and Lor’themar grins and tips his glass at him, then takes another sip.

It’s strange how restless Halduron feels in this moment. He has shared pretty people with Lor before – plenty of people, several times – and never felt even an inkling of nerves. But Aethas, as always seems to be the case, is different. Hal’s never needed this much convincing, either – far from it. More often than not he’d be the one offering. But this time Lor had needed to wheedle, cajole, and straight-up beg before they ended up here.

‘Here’ being the three of them situated in Hal’s room at the mansion that Lor’themar generously shares with his closest allies – and Aethas, lately.

Some unsavory people catching wind of Aethas’ connection to Halduron (and thus, Lor’themar) had led to an… unpleasant incident. Once they had finished dealing with the situation and gotten Aethas to the hospital Hal had asked Lor to extend his protection to him, at least for a while. Lor’themar, being the good man Hal knows him to be, had readily agreed.

Things had been great for a while, Hal had easy access to his new favorite person as he recuperated and got to sleep soundly at night, safe in the knowledge that Aethas was out of reach of any thugs with more guts than sense.

But then Lor had started to notice Aethas. Had wanted Hal to share, a little bit.

So now Hal is sitting on his bed with a tense Aethas in his lap, trying to keep him from bolting while also trying to communicate without words that Lor should shut up now, thanks.

He seems to get it well enough, occupying himself with expensive liquor and staring intently at the gap between Aethas’ sweatpants and his cute little crop-top. Understandable, Hal also enjoys trying to count the freckles on any bared slip of Aethas’ skin. Aethas, who’s still very tense.

“Hey,” Hal tries, bringing one hand up to nudge Aethas’ chin, “forget him. He ain’t shit. Pretend like it’s just us.”

Aethas looks at him like he’s grown a second head, but doubtfully says,

“I’ll try,” so he can’t be that scared.

Hal has spent weeks training Aethas to know that he can always safeword out of a sexual situation, so he’ll trust him now, to know his own limits. And Lor is a good guy . He won’t push too far. But if he does, Hal will deck him, and Lor knows that, too. He’s the only person alive who’s allowed to lay a hand on Lor’themar Theron. Well, except Rommath. And Liadrin. But whatever, they’re not here. Aethas is.

‘Peach’, his cropped shirt says, and below the cute illustration and the hem lies the expanse of his soft, bare stomach. Endlessly fascinated, Hal runs the back of a knuckle down his treasure trail firmly enough that it won’t tickle, and Aethas gasps so light and airy.

Hal still can’t quite believe that he’d been a virgin when they’d first met. There’s something so utterly magnetic about the guy, so how did nobody throw him down and ravish him before Halduron got to do it? It’s hardly some kind of reward for a good life lived well, but Hal will accept it nonetheless...

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[Ko-fi]

[chronicallyhaughty]

Bird in the Hand

“A survey of the runestones is long overdue, we are all in agreement on this.” Rommath nodded, and though his mouth was covered like always, Hal just knew he was smirking under there. “As this matter is intrinsically tied to the safety of our people, there is nobody else I would trust more on this mission,” Lor’themar continued, looking at Hal so earnestly, and Hal would ordinarily agree with the sentiment, but… Asking him to accompany a mage as they survey the runestones felt a bit too close to babysitting for his comfort.

[Halduron/Aethas, NSFW, AO3, Ko-fi]

Okay, here we go! Multichapter fic attempt! I have an outline, just gotta get the work done!!! (Beware – further kinks to be added!)

——————————

One never really gets used to being dumped. Halduron Brightwing has his eyes closed as he draws a deep breath, smelling hay and feathers and bird droppings, holds the air in his lungs for one moment, another… then sighs all of it out. A beak nudges his head, ruffling his hair affectionately.

‘I just don’t see us working long term,’ she had said.

Halduron opens his eyes to stare at the barding of his hawkstrider – his trusty Cerila, so named by his youngest sister – and his fingers laced through the straps. Feeling around, it’s a bit loose by the bridle so he tightens a buckle there before grabbing the reins and leading her outside. Her bright white plumage shines in the low sun.

They had been bold words for a woman who only gave him a month to try to prove himself. She hadn’t liked that he didn’t have much time for her. Well, maybe she simply had too much time, spending it all doing nothing to help anybody. Why he’d ever thought to try dating a socialite he’s not sure, but whatever. No use crying over spilled wine, as the saying goes.

He knows better than to get invested, he thinks firmly to himself as he mounts up and they make their way out of the courtyard, nodding at Oninath as he passes him and his recruits. This is why he typically tends towards renting partners by the hour, rather than try to keep them interested in spite of his many forays into Eversong. Speaking of…

“A survey of the runestones is long overdue, we are all in agreement on this.”

Rommath nodded, and though his mouth was covered like always, Hal just knew he was smirking under there.

“As this matter is intrinsically tied to the safety of our people, there is nobody else I would trust more on this mission,” Lor’themar continued, looking at Hal so earnestly, and Hal would ordinarily agree with the sentiment, but…

Asking him to accompany a mage as they survey the runestones felt a bit too close to babysitting for his comfort. At least the mage in question seemed as unhappy with the assignment as Hal was, even if Aethas Sunreaver was wearing that awful cowl, hiding his face. His body language told a clear story to anyone who cared enough to look: he was uncomfortable. To be standing before the three of them, to have been chosen for this… busywork; whatever his reason, they would likely have that much in common to fuel conversation during the trip. Or stop it dead at every turn, more likely.

And so here Halduron is now, dismounting at Thuron’s Livery and waving at the young woman who jogs up to take Cerila’s reins as he unhooks the saddlebags one by one. He is to leave his rather conspicuous warstrider behind in favor of a more drab individual provided by the stable master. This mission does require if not stealth, at the very least some discretion. He nods his thanks to the young woman who is already talking to Cerila in low, soothing tones and grabs his gear, slinging it over his own shoulder. He gets one last scratch in next to her beak before he lets the woman lead the animal away. No need for the bird to see Hal with another, after all.

He finds his reluctant companion standing awkwardly some ways away from the paddock by the main livery building, watching the hawkstriders within. The birds are of good stock, Perascamin Thuron providing many young sin’dorei with their first mounts as they first venture beyond the Thalassian borders. While not trained to bear heavy armor or see active combat, Thuron’s birds are well-known to have even temperaments, even if all hawkstriders are naturally inclined to do combat with would-be predators.

Aethas is dressed in simple adventuring-type clothes, looking like any fresh-faced mage just out of training, and with his face uncovered it is plain to see that he is apprehensive – far more so than the mission details warrant, as a matter of fact. Two young hawkstriders want to inspect the same tuft of grass, one of them shoving the other aside, causing it to throw its head back with a loud squawk and Aethas about jumps a foot into the air, clutching his staff close to his chest. Ah. Hal grins...

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[Ko-fi]

[chronicallyhaughty]

It ended up being one chapter longer than I had originally planned, but it's finished now! :) Please check tags! :)))

[househunting]

$799,000/6br Waterford, MI

[chronicallyhaughty]

Bird in the Hand

“A survey of the runestones is long overdue, we are all in agreement on this.” Rommath nodded, and though his mouth was covered like always, Hal just knew he was smirking under there. “As this matter is intrinsically tied to the safety of our people, there is nobody else I would trust more on this mission,” Lor’themar continued, looking at Hal so earnestly, and Hal would ordinarily agree with the sentiment, but… Asking him to accompany a mage as they survey the runestones felt a bit too close to babysitting for his comfort.

[Halduron/Aethas, NSFW, AO3, Ko-fi]

Okay, here we go! Multichapter fic attempt! I have an outline, just gotta get the work done!!! (Beware – further kinks to be added!)

——————————

One never really gets used to being dumped. Halduron Brightwing has his eyes closed as he draws a deep breath, smelling hay and feathers and bird droppings, holds the air in his lungs for one moment, another… then sighs all of it out. A beak nudges his head, ruffling his hair affectionately.

‘I just don’t see us working long term,’ she had said.

Halduron opens his eyes to stare at the barding of his hawkstrider – his trusty Cerila, so named by his youngest sister – and his fingers laced through the straps. Feeling around, it’s a bit loose by the bridle so he tightens a buckle there before grabbing the reins and leading her outside. Her bright white plumage shines in the low sun.

They had been bold words for a woman who only gave him a month to try to prove himself. She hadn’t liked that he didn’t have much time for her. Well, maybe she simply had too much time, spending it all doing nothing to help anybody. Why he’d ever thought to try dating a socialite he’s not sure, but whatever. No use crying over spilled wine, as the saying goes.

He knows better than to get invested, he thinks firmly to himself as he mounts up and they make their way out of the courtyard, nodding at Oninath as he passes him and his recruits. This is why he typically tends towards renting partners by the hour, rather than try to keep them interested in spite of his many forays into Eversong. Speaking of…

“A survey of the runestones is long overdue, we are all in agreement on this.”

Rommath nodded, and though his mouth was covered like always, Hal just knew he was smirking under there.

“As this matter is intrinsically tied to the safety of our people, there is nobody else I would trust more on this mission,” Lor’themar continued, looking at Hal so earnestly, and Hal would ordinarily agree with the sentiment, but…

Asking him to accompany a mage as they survey the runestones felt a bit too close to babysitting for his comfort. At least the mage in question seemed as unhappy with the assignment as Hal was, even if Aethas Sunreaver was wearing that awful cowl, hiding his face. His body language told a clear story to anyone who cared enough to look: he was uncomfortable. To be standing before the three of them, to have been chosen for this… busywork; whatever his reason, they would likely have that much in common to fuel conversation during the trip. Or stop it dead at every turn, more likely.

And so here Halduron is now, dismounting at Thuron’s Livery and waving at the young woman who jogs up to take Cerila’s reins as he unhooks the saddlebags one by one. He is to leave his rather conspicuous warstrider behind in favor of a more drab individual provided by the stable master. This mission does require if not stealth, at the very least some discretion. He nods his thanks to the young woman who is already talking to Cerila in low, soothing tones and grabs his gear, slinging it over his own shoulder. He gets one last scratch in next to her beak before he lets the woman lead the animal away. No need for the bird to see Hal with another, after all.

He finds his reluctant companion standing awkwardly some ways away from the paddock by the main livery building, watching the hawkstriders within. The birds are of good stock, Perascamin Thuron providing many young sin’dorei with their first mounts as they first venture beyond the Thalassian borders. While not trained to bear heavy armor or see active combat, Thuron’s birds are well-known to have even temperaments, even if all hawkstriders are naturally inclined to do combat with would-be predators.

Aethas is dressed in simple adventuring-type clothes, looking like any fresh-faced mage just out of training, and with his face uncovered it is plain to see that he is apprehensive – far more so than the mission details warrant, as a matter of fact. Two young hawkstriders want to inspect the same tuft of grass, one of them shoving the other aside, causing it to throw its head back with a loud squawk and Aethas about jumps a foot into the air, clutching his staff close to his chest. Ah. Hal grins...

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[Ko-fi]

[chronicallyhaughty]

Follow young Aethas, grad student, as he navigates a startling, sudden influx of attractive men who all seem to want in his pants! Whatever (whoever) shall he do?!

[Lor'themar/Aethas, Halduron/Aethas, Rommath/Aethas, more TBA, NSFW, Ko-fi]

I made this for wonderful @syrosaur's birthday! It isn't a fic as such, it's more kind of a... text-based CYOA game? In the spirit of visual novels, but without the visuals??? And it all leads to porn????? Idk. I plan on adding a few more paths but thought maybe someone else would like to "play" it lmao

(Vague college AU, you get to decide if they're elves or human, TWs include: teacher/student stuff, sex in public spaces with the risk of discovery (depending on your choice in paths), be aware and proceed according to your own comfort and preference)

[voiceofnature]

In the early 1800s a man named Little Jon lived in this so called earth cabin (swe. ‘backstuga’) located in southern Småland, Sweden. An earthen cabin is built partially buried in the ground, in this case there’s three walls of stone and one wall made of wood. In Sweden earthen cabins was common in the forests from the 1600s until the late 1800s. Link

[poisonnightmares]

[hometoursandotherstuff]

After having gone snow blind from looking at white houses all morning, I finally came across this beauty, built in 1905, in a refined Edwardian style with elements of the prior Arts and Crafts movement in London. It’s been carefully reno’d- cozy colorful, and a bit moody. 

Greeted by a black staircase with an attractive black & white runner. The walls are a sophisticated, moody deep green with black trim. 

Cozy and formal navy blue living room. But, there are whimsical touches, such as the pencil drawing over the fireplace.

A black dining room gets lots of light thru floor to ceiling windows and a door to the garden. Plus, a fireplace with a green tile hearth stands out.

Love this feature- windows open from the kitchen to the dining room. 

The kitchen is fabulous. Trendy forest green cabinetry and a pink ceiling with a built-in matching pink cabinet.

The kitchen opens to a breezeway that leads to the patio.

Another bit of fun on the stairs - a framed Dracula poster.

Upstairs is a tranquil deep green and black main bedroom. 

Beautifully updated bath with deep green subway tile and white mosaics.

A sophisticated nursery in deep blue and black with a stunning fireplace.

These beautiful stairs lead to the attic guest room.

The guest room has been remodeled with two big skylights and window seats, plus a sink.

Patio with stunning gardens.

Further back on the property is a wonderful greenhouse. 

https://inigo.com/

[emartus]

Some beautiful garden🌸🌸

[enochianribs]

oh to have a silly little house like this...

[enochianribs]

the inside has to look like this.

[langdonsluxiouslocks]

@imdistressed look at this!!!! 🥺 might even be crying who knows

[nyxshadowhawk]

Diagrams from a thirteenth-century version of the Ars Notoria.

[chronicallyhaughty]

Dark and Stormy

A night on the Isle of Thunder then, and one in Dalaran now. Aethas seeks refuge.

[Halduron/Aethas, AO3, Ko-fi]

A brief trip to the past, then back to the now, because I miss the boys.

——————————

The weather on the Isle of Thunder is, surprise surprise, absolute shit.

It’s never not raining, and if it comes down vertically, Aethas counts that as a decent day. It more often than not persists in coming down at an angle that on the really bad days borders on horizontal, and if he could, he would leave this Light forsaken rock behind and never look back.

“You are not expected to join us for this part, Archmage.”

Aethas hasn’t been able to figure out yet if it had been intended as a door closed in his face, or as a kind sentiment borne of pity, but either way he had bulled his way past it, insisting on coming. Just as he insists on staying.

Certainly the saurok are disgusting and disease-ridden, but the Grand Magister and the Ranger-General are both at their own designated locations every other day with not a peep of complaint, and so Aethas will hold firm as well. Even after weeks of trading off fieldwork with recuperation – if anything can be called that on this damned island – and dealing with the badly concealed looks of concern Hathorel and the others give him.

He is needed here. And he needs to work, to be useful. This is too important.

He has nightmares of being frozen in ice.

But he has a unique perspective, and skills and a history that makes him too valuable to order home; he had seen it in the Regent Lord’s eye when he argued his case. Whatever his motivation had been, he’s too clever to put aside an asset when it can still be of some use. It had been an argument easily won.

And this is his reward, getting to trudge back to camp smelling like rot and decay with rain coming down in sheets and freezing him to the bone...

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[Ko-fi]