‘Perhaps I should follow Edored’s advice after all and get mind-numbingly drunk first,’ I said sourly. ‘Might do wonders for my creativity.’ ‘Alternatively,’ he said, face straight, ‘you might wake up from your mead stupor and find you named your sword Creon’s Glorious Biceps, which I would of course approve of, but which would probably not be very happily received by certain alves in particular.’ I huffed a laugh, trailing my eyes down over his torso. ‘Tared would be lucky if your biceps were the first body part I’d think of.’ The edge of wickedness in his grin could have sent me to my knees.
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