Making-Up-Adventurers
@Making-Up-Adventurers

A paladin who takes their sword with them to bed. And the bath. And the beyond.


caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

Ryssa, rain-sodden, brushes her horse down in the inn's stables and fumbles a coin to the ostler's boy with numb fingers, before heading into the warm embrace of the taproom.

She expected the elf there already, but the sight of her is a relief nonetheless, a warming within. Ryssa pauses just inside the door, loosening her cloak and drawing the hair hair back from her face.

The elf is standing on a chair, tankard in hand, leading the taproom squires in song:

Oh, the paladin cares not if you're
In castles or in huts
Their holy sword's enormous
And they'll rearrange your guts!

Plus interminable call-and-responses about the paladin whipping their sword out to rearrange peoples' guts in the bath, the bed, and so on and so forth.

"Innkeep," Ryssa says, "I'll gladly take supper and a draught of ale," and leans her hip against the counter, eyeing the elf and premeditating several hundred filthy verses of What Grows In An Elf-Maid's Garden.


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