“Why do you insist on wearing your hood up?” Therion asked with disappointment. For a man with such carefully groomed side burns, he seemed oddly intent on hiding them from view.
Farengar stood, brushing off his robes.
“Get out,” he said, holding his head high.
“Are you sure?” Therion asked, quirking his brow, “I wouldn’t mind staying-”
“I would,” Farengar snapped, giving Therion a glimpse of his brewing anger and mortification.
“Very well,” the Dragonborn said, holding up a hand in peace. “I was only trying to help, Farengar-”
“Out!” he shouted, wrenching the door open.
“Gods, you are determined to deafen me, aren’t you?” Therion said with an indifferent sigh. “It’s not my fault you drank the damn love potion.”
Farengar descended upon him, dragging him to the door with strength surprising for a mage. Therion put up no resistance save for the last moment. Whirling around to face Farengar, a roguish grin spread wide across his face.
“Was it so awful?” Therion asked, holding onto the door frame. “I, for one, had a delightful evening.”
He savored the scowl on Farengar’s face as he shoved him from the room. Therion stumbled back, watching the door slam shut.
“Come on!” the mer shouted with a laugh, trying the handle and finding it locked. “Open the door, Farengar! I’m not leaving without my armor. A god gave it to me. And not one of the forgiving ones, either.”
Therion froze, a creeping sensation along the back of his neck. He snapped his gaze toward the Great Hall. The large room, which had been deserted all day, was now filled with people, all of them looking his direction. His audience included no less than Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, Irileth, his steward, Proventus, and a full escort of guards. As they returned his stare, Therion was suddenly acutely aware that he was standing before them with his shirt completely open and his belt half undone.
Irileth’s eyes were open wider than he had thought possible, while Proventus was staring intently at what looked like a blank parchment, every scrap of his bald scalp flushed bright red.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Fire and Potions - 8/?
Date: 2014-06-29 02:08 am (UTC)“Why do you insist on wearing your hood up?” Therion asked with disappointment. For a man with such carefully groomed side burns, he seemed oddly intent on hiding them from view.
Farengar stood, brushing off his robes.
“Get out,” he said, holding his head high.
“Are you sure?” Therion asked, quirking his brow, “I wouldn’t mind staying-”
“I would,” Farengar snapped, giving Therion a glimpse of his brewing anger and mortification.
“Very well,” the Dragonborn said, holding up a hand in peace. “I was only trying to help, Farengar-”
“Out!” he shouted, wrenching the door open.
“Gods, you are determined to deafen me, aren’t you?” Therion said with an indifferent sigh. “It’s not my fault you drank the damn love potion.”
Farengar descended upon him, dragging him to the door with strength surprising for a mage. Therion put up no resistance save for the last moment. Whirling around to face Farengar, a roguish grin spread wide across his face.
“Was it so awful?” Therion asked, holding onto the door frame. “I, for one, had a delightful evening.”
He savored the scowl on Farengar’s face as he shoved him from the room. Therion stumbled back, watching the door slam shut.
“Come on!” the mer shouted with a laugh, trying the handle and finding it locked. “Open the door, Farengar! I’m not leaving without my armor. A god gave it to me. And not one of the forgiving ones, either.”
Therion froze, a creeping sensation along the back of his neck. He snapped his gaze toward the Great Hall. The large room, which had been deserted all day, was now filled with people, all of them looking his direction. His audience included no less than Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, Irileth, his steward, Proventus, and a full escort of guards. As they returned his stare, Therion was suddenly acutely aware that he was standing before them with his shirt completely open and his belt half undone.
Irileth’s eyes were open wider than he had thought possible, while Proventus was staring intently at what looked like a blank parchment, every scrap of his bald scalp flushed bright red.