Just as Lorraine's breath evened out, soft and rhythmic in the lantern-lit quiet of the tent, the canvas flap stirred and Vaeronyx stepped inside. Or rather, filled the entrance entirely, his humanoid form so impossibly tall that he nearly brushed the ridgepole. His auburn hair, gleaming like molten metal touched by moonlight, framed an expression caught somewhere between ancient solemnity and outright scandalized horror.
"I see," the dragon king said slowly, his gaze dropping to Leroy's hands, still dutifully massaging the legs of his very pregnant wife. "Chivalry truly is dead."
Leroy did not look up, nor did he stop. "Good evening to you too."
