The Sleepy Sheep Tavern, however, lay no fewer than thirty seven miles from the nearest shrine dedicated to that particular deity, a distance greater by far than many of its patrons had ever traveled away from the place of their birth. Think they finally gonna fight?”
“Ha, I wish,” his friend muttered, the marginally younger man’s eyes drinking in the sight of the young women in question. No fewer than eight mugs of drink already clouded his mind and clumsied his tongue, but so much booze had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. She was the shortest of the six travelers, her youthful figure possessing all the lithe athleticism of a dancer or an acrobat. Read 6522 times |
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Wench like that’ll surely have a rump to die for buried neath all that metal. “There’s no reason to fight because you know exactly where we are, right?” the warrior asked, turning at last to face the final girl at the table. The pack’s ringleader was a tall redhead, her dark coppery tresses bound up in a long ponytail which split into halves the intricate sigil emblazoned on the most ornate cloak any of the tavern’s regulars had ever laid eyes upon.
