Another town. Another overpriced room. Another suspicious stain on the ceiling.
I'm in bed. Naked, sweaty, blissfully splayed out like a satisfied goddess. Next to me: the Dwarf. Broad. Hairy. Reeking of smoke, sweat, and something that might've been stew earlier. He's got that smug post-coital smirk like he just won a bar fight with his cock.
I'm just about to drift off—maybe dream of honey cakes and no responsibility—when—
Lute.
Off-key. Romantic. Pathetic.
I groan into the pillow.
The Dwarf grunts. "Your bard's at it again."
I roll onto my back, tits half-covered in a sheet that smells like goat.
"That's not my bard," I mutter. "He just… follows me. Like herpes."
"Oh flame-touched jewel of the darkest night—" floats through the shuttered window.
"For fuck's sake," I hiss. I sit up, grab the closest thing (a pillow, someone's sock, who knows), and throw it at the door like it personally wronged me.
Then I shout, loud enough to rattle the balcony rails: "I'm working!"
There's a beat of silence.
Then: "May I at least… worship at the altar of your feet?"
I slap a hand to my forehead. The Dwarf chuckles beside me, rolling onto one elbow to watch.
"Wait your turn!" I yell back. "And bring two silver this time!"
Pause.
"Do I… tip in advance or—"
"Shut up, Oleander!"
The Dwarf is full-on grinning now. "He's persistent."
"He's delusional."
"Charming, though."
"He once wrote a ballad comparing my nipples to sun-kissed olives."
"Good olives or cheap ones?"
"Pickled."
We both laugh.
Outside, the lute twangs again, like it's apologizing for its owner's soul.
I roll back into the Dwarf's arms, sighing. "Gods help me," I mumble, "I'm gonna marry that idiot, aren't I?"
The Dwarf pats my ass fondly. "At least he'll sing at the wedding."