Emperor’s Lanceboard

Dawn came too soon. As she slumbered in his bed, Arledge dressed himself for the day to come. Though he lacked the benefit of a full night's sleep, there was an undeniable relief and sense of refreshment to his previously worn and tired state. As he dressed himself, he paused to look at his nude body in the mirror.

A life of hardship and peril had left him with scars of various types. Though a man of his middle ages, old broken bones ached in a way that made him feel older on cold nights. Yet, as he gazed upon himself in the mirror and reflected upon his own body, he was reminded that he still had many years until he could hope to retire. Toned and athletic, with just a touch of a beer gut, he was built for the role he played: soldier.

Still, it was his latest wounds that filled him with a sense of perverse…pride. With a sense of reverie, he lifted his injured hand and admired the still-fresh bite mark upon it. Gazing upon the wound, it felt like a badge of honor, a bedroom war story that had earned him a military medal. His gaze then wandered from the bite mark on his hand to the claw marks that raked his hips. 

In the passion of the moment, such wounds were endured without hesitation. That her pleasure was his pain and in turn, his pleasure. Previous battle wounds had been a point of pride, a testimony to his endurance against the odds. These wounds were different, and that realization made him once more look to her sleeping form in his bed.

In the better light of the rising sun that spilled through the cracks of the shuttered windows of his room, he could admire the curves of her figure, better see the details of her battle scars, and note the oddest detail not previously easily seen last night. Dark grey tattoos upon her onyx flesh.

Turning from the mirror to dress himself before heading out for the day, he swore one thing. Before returning from today’s patrol, he would stop by the local cleric's cottage. Once there, he planned to purchase a charm to prevent them from conceiving a bastard. That is assuming fate would be kind to him the coming night and not deny him the intimate distraction he needed from the recent horror.

Dressed and ready to face the day, he left the room and walked down into the commons space in the tavern. But before he left the bedroom, Arledge made certain to put on his gloves and gauntlets.

Later that morning, as he stood before the rough roster of surviving local garrison, he clenched his armored fist just once, savoring the pain from the bite wound, thinking of her. This would be a good day.