The three remaining candles fought valiantly to stay alight, the dozen or so of their brethren having lost the battle, some still bleeding a stream of smoke. The tendrils of their tiny, all-too-brief lives rose to the ceiling like tiny souls being lifted to the heavens. The battlefield upon which their melted bodies were strewn was a half-score worn and ale-stained tables in a nearly empty tavern.
“And there it was, red and stiff as I’ve ever seen a cock, jutting from the furry mound of mud”
Eulummachus elbowed Ian, bushy brows flashing the wizard a knowing look.
“Am I right?” he asked in that over-loudness that spoke clearly of his generous consumption of wine. “I am!” he answered himself. “And it was the very… picture of virility!”
Now the old apostle’s arm flew around his friend, hand clasping the man’s shoulder and shaking him vigorously, for the benefit of the three drunk members of their audience. He moved his other hand towards Ian’s crotch, mocking to molest his manhood.
“It was a statue,” Ian muttered flatly, catching the old man’s hand before it ventured close enough to pose a threat, and shrugging out of the intended embrace. Eulummachus chuckled and beamed, pulling away. He had enticed yet another blush out of the wizard, which was no mean feat, due to Ian’s elven blood. Elves don’t normally blush as brightly, but then Ian was only half Astorani. His human side, it seemed, had plenty of blood for reddened cheeks.
Dear Grandpa,
Dear Grandpa,
Captain Hector,
I don’t know if you have ever had cause to travel through Carpathia. It isn’t a very friendly land. I can see why the Empire has been thwarted in their conquest of it; it’s hard enough to live here when you are native, and the land rejects the advances of the plow and the ox as much as the people reject the outside world.
