Book signing! Which book would be getting the promotion?
From the acclaimed author of Desert Rose comes another heart-pounding tale told under the desert sun - Rough Divide. Roderick's journey continues, as circumstances leave him in the care of a hermetic healer who'd rather be tending anyone but him.
The tin mugs were blessedly warm in his grip - Thanalan's early hours were as chilly as its afternoon hours were stifling, and there were few better answers to that chill than a steaming-hot mug of coffee; and though he was no stranger to many bygone years of early mornings, himself, he couldn't help but wonder what it was that kept his guest watching a star-dusted horizon, eager for dawn's blush, day-by-day. Roderic's hat perched on the railing, by his far elbow - the man himself already staring eagle-eyed at the horizon, as his coffee-bearing counterpart's boots announced his approach along the wooden deck. "Made just the way you like it." Both men gave a wry chuckle; Graham had guessed, and rightly so, on that first morning - it would be an insult to put anything in this man's cup but the coffee, itself. A bit like the stoic, himself - what you saw, was what you got. "If they're both for you... then what, exactly, were you bringin' my way?" Graham hadn't realized he was still holding both mugs - that he hadn't actually given Roderic his, "...Was just thinking, s'all. You're... healed well enough t'ride, then?" Graham extended the mug, though only barely, "...at sunlight, I take it?" In two long, lazy strides the Elezen was upon him - the scent of leather, wood-smoke, after-shave, and coffee almost too heady - long fingers curled about his own, though only around one of those mugs, "We knew this day would come...and for a time, I think you were counting down the days until I was out of your hair - but I wouldn't dream of leaving without saying goodbye, now. Or thank you, or..." His words grew softer, the closer they came to the other's ear - trailing off, lest the man finally acknowledge that which had grown between the two during his convalescence. "Since you seem to want to keep ahold of these mugs so bad...," Easier to deflect from the inevitable with that sly grin of his, accompanied by the metallic ping of Graham's belt-buckle falling free - those long fingers no longer interested in holding either hands or coffee, "Keep your hold on those tins...an' if ya can't...just don't spill on me, hm?"
((The OOC below the cut!))
