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He didn’t trust that expression any farther than he could throw the oily bastard, which he doubted was very far. Arm-strengthening exercises clearly had not been part of his personal daily routine.
Who could inspire the appropriate levels of fear and mystery when people remembered your toddlerhood or your pimply years?
He wondered what monstrosity Zarconar slept in at night. Probably a bed carved to look like a dragon’s mouth. Or maybe on the backs of a dozen weeping virgins.
He knew immediately that this had been a truly terrible idea. An idea on par, perhaps, with stripping naked, covering himself with honey, and politely requesting a bear to fight him. Preferably while drunk, and declaiming insults about the bear’s mother. Who had probably been a perfectly charming lady of the ursine persuasion. His brain continued to provide helpful commentary on the nature of fighting bears and absolutely none of the carefully constructed questions he’d decided on before he started this completely insane course of action.
He could have used his cheekbones to cut marble and his golden hair had an insouciant wave that Gav suspected took his valet an hour to perfect in the morning.
He was an evil overlord and pain and rage were his bread and butter. It didn’t matter whose.
He was screaming, screaming not like a little girl as he’d feared, but more like a kid goat, which was even less dignified.
