#the guildmaster

"У тебя какие-то проблемы со слухом, chica?"

The Dragonborn: Morally? No.

Brynjolf, sighing: Are you wearing pants?

The Dragonborn:

I finally designed a Halloween Chomby Oc like I said I would do one day.

He is the leader of the Neromancer’s Guild by night and by day he works as a tailor. He.....does not have a tail. Like it just fell off and never grew back the way it should have, so he had to make a fake tail (because a tail was 90% of his up right balance.) When you mess around with the necromatic arts, you often have a price to pay. He ain’t fooling anyone tho, they all know it’s a fake as fuck tail.

When he awoke in the middle of the night, he was not fine.

“Gods!” he groaned, his body curling up. Shooting pain had woken him from sleep, and it rushed through him, wrenching tears from his eyes. It felt as if a hammer had been taken to his hip, shattering the bone into a million shards of glass that stabbed and burned. The thigh wound was a secondary pain, but impossible to ignore because of the way it pounded, as if Merric’s heart resided in his thigh and was near to bursting through his skin.

He pulled himself out of bed and made it to the hallway, but another smash of pain quickly brought him down. The stone floor was cool against his sweaty face, and he stared at the crack beneath the door he’d collapsed in front of.

He felt a touch on his hand and awareness seeped back a fraction. “Need Etheridge,” he moaned.

“Hush. Lie still. I’m going to touch you.”

Merric trembled in response, teary eyes looking up at the man who crouched over him, naked save for a towel around his waist. Quinn was not smiling, but looking severe. He slipped warm fingers beneath the waist of Merric’s trousers until his hand covered his hip completely, then pressed against it with greater pressure than he had that afternoon.

Merric’s side flooded with warmth instantly, and within moments, the disabling pain diminished. It was still there, but no longer all-consuming. He shuddered, letting out a long, slow breath of relief. Quinn removed his hand swiftly, and then his arms were slipping beneath Merric and lifting him from the floor. Merric didn’t protest as he was carried, too weary from the intensity of the pain and half convinced he was dreaming. A door soon opened and Quinn stepped through.

“I’m tempted to feel flattered, considering you collapsed only a few steps from my room,” Quinn murmured, “but I’m sure it was only a coincidence.” He strode to the bed and laid Merric down.

The room was lit by candles, as well as a lantern on the bedside table, and Quinn’s face glowed warmly in the light. Merric hoped his own was in shadow, for he knew he was sorely bedraggled.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he began, sitting up. “And I’m in your debt for helping me, but I must go.” He shifted to stand, but Quinn pushed him back with a firm hand.

“You didn’t wake me,” Quinn assured, sitting on the edge of the bed. “As you can see, I was just returning from my bath.” A smile crept to his lips and Merric wondered if he had purposefully drawn attention to the fact that he was nearly naked. His broad chest was bare, and small drops of water clung to the hair there, sparkling in the lamplight. The towel he wore was short, leaving a significant stretch of muscular thighs on display. He was fit, sculpted, his skin deeply tanned. His hair, fashioned in a short, clean cut, was wet and fragrant, smelling faintly of roses.

Merric felt like a frail, pale, tear-stained nothing in such august company, without even considering how badly his hair must look. Again, he tried to sit up, and again Quinn pushed him down.

“Stop it,” Merric said. “I’m well enough to return to my room. Let me go.”

“Let you go?” Quinn asked with a wry rise of his eyebrows. “I find you in the middle of the night, writhing on the floor in excruciating pain, and you expect me to let you go so it can happen all over again? No. I’m not letting you go anywhere until you’ve been properly seen to. May I examine your leg?”

“Yes,” Merric answered. After all, he’d removed his pain before, and if Quinn’s touch would do so again, he’d be able to return to his room and die from embarrassment in private.

“Yes? Just like that? I expected an argument. I must say, I’m disappointed.” But Quinn didn’t look disappointed. He looked cautious as his fingers moved to unlace the side ties of Merric’s trousers. “I have to tell you,” he continued, pushing the fabric aside, “these are hideous trousers.”

Merric rolled his eyes. “All the apprentices wear them.”

“But you’re not an apprentice anymore. Though I’ll admit, I’m enjoying the easy access.” When Merric’s thigh was exposed, Quinn glanced up at him. “May I continue?”

“No,” Merric returned shortly. “I just wanted you to see how pretty my leg is.”

“It’s an exceptionally pretty leg.”

Merric wanted to hit him, to knock him out cold and drag himself from the room. “I don’t enjoy being mocked.”

Quinn managed to look affronted. “Mocked? Are you insulting my taste? Because I assure you, my taste is very good, and so are your legs.”

-excerpt taken from The Guildmaster: Book Three of the Vanguards of Viridor, Ch. 5

(Come read the rest! Available in paperback and kindle, etc. Here on Amazon and here on Smashwords--where it’s on sale for $1.50.)

A fine idea. We can discuss things like employee benefits, care for equipment and other mundane (but very vital) tasks. These mercenaries, they think it’s just about fighting. You cannot fight on an empty belly nor without good maintenance. The amount of second born sons and daughters going on campaign without a second horse is far too many.

The Guildmaster