šŖ eheheheh
Free Tickets to the Gun Show
Sometimes, Alistair does things just to be sure he still can--just to make sure he hasnāt let himself go too far, fall too much into the pit-trap that is kinghood. Usually, he finds his reassurance out in the training yard, wielding a blunt sword against one of the knights brave enough to actually raise a weapon--practice or otherwise--against their king; but itās too early for anyone to be training, and if they are, itās likely because they crave the peace and quiet.Ā
But his body is itching, aching for strain, for work. He needs something to do to give them the stretch and burn that they crave, which is how he ends up with fingers curled into the wooden frame of the dining hall door, nails digging in until the wood splinters, arms straining as he lifts at what feels like an agonizingly slow pace until his chin touches the wood between his hands.Ā
When he hears the mockingly appreciative throat clearing from behind him, smooth lyrical tone all too familiar, he drops so quickly that the impact jars his legs as his feet meet the stone.Ā āDorian!ā he says, turning to meet his advisorās raised eyebrow and jaunty smirk, flushing even though he knows his friend is only teasing with the up-and-down sweep his eyes do over Alistairās body.Ā āI--wasnāt expecting anyone.ā
