He was due to arrive at any time: her rescuer, her bulging-thewed swordsman, her hulking hero. Cleave one measly goblin in twain and you’re suddenly the best thing since mead.
No doubt he would be half-dressed to accentuate his musculature, and reeking of sweat and confidence. She would throw herself at his feet and declare her love, which he would take with casual impunity and keep only as long as it entertained him.
If only I had been the one to come upon her in distress on the road that day. But, it’s just so dusty, and with my allergies…
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