Almya swats him, knocking his red hat askew. "I'm not. It works in the old stories. Who wants to try?"
Gaul fiddles with the fabric of his gi, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "But he." He frowns, and tries again. "It's kind of ... off-color? What if he doesn't want a kiss? From anyone, I mean?"
Ulren rolls his eyes and pushes past all of them, rolling up his white sleeves. "Then as the resident healer, I declare it a medical emergency. It's all right," he says to the elven guards. "I'm a white mage."
Clef glances back at the sentries with a wince. They look like they regret everything up to this point. Gaul says, "This is just unseemly."
Almya snorts. "If it works, you all owe me a tankard."
The prince's attendant finally recovers enough to sputter, "You're going to kiss him? That's your solution?" He doesn't say "that's the Light Warriors's solution?" but the tone is clear.
Almya may be a crass, boisterous ogre -- but she's their crass, boisterous ogre, so Clef draws himself up and says, "I'm surprised you haven't already. If you've a better suggestion, let's hear it. Otherwise, all avenues should be exhausted."
Ulren brushes the prince's hair from his forehead, feeling for fever. Satisfied, he bends down and brushes his lips against the elf's -- then again, lingering a moment longer, before pulling back.
Nothing. Clef huffs, chewing a corner of his lower lip. Well, what did they expect? Astos doesn't seem like the fairytale type.
The attendant begins wringing his hands. "I don't think, ah, that is -- you see, the prince prefers--"
Almya towers over him, hands on her hips, armor catching the candlelight just so. "I'll tell you what the prince prefers: heroes. He wants to be rescued from his slumber, not coaxed from it by a frail nursemaid."
"Excuse me?" Ulren sputters, while Almya pulls him off the bed. Clef catches him, and they exchange exasperated looks because, well, ogre.
She does look like a hero, bent over the prince, holding her scabbard with one hand and his chin in the other. She kisses him once, firmly, for ten whole seconds. It's a beautiful tableau -- ultimately shattered when Almya releases the prince's lips with a smack.
"Huh," she says, frowning down at him. "Guess I was wrong." She does a fabulous job of ignoring the attendant's ire. "So, Astos?"
Hero; FFI: Elf Prince/Anyone; G
Almya swats him, knocking his red hat askew. "I'm not. It works in the old stories. Who wants to try?"
Gaul fiddles with the fabric of his gi, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "But he." He frowns, and tries again. "It's kind of ... off-color? What if he doesn't want a kiss? From anyone, I mean?"
Ulren rolls his eyes and pushes past all of them, rolling up his white sleeves. "Then as the resident healer, I declare it a medical emergency. It's all right," he says to the elven guards. "I'm a white mage."
Clef glances back at the sentries with a wince. They look like they regret everything up to this point. Gaul says, "This is just unseemly."
Almya snorts. "If it works, you all owe me a tankard."
The prince's attendant finally recovers enough to sputter, "You're going to kiss him? That's your solution?" He doesn't say "that's the Light Warriors's solution?" but the tone is clear.
Almya may be a crass, boisterous ogre -- but she's their crass, boisterous ogre, so Clef draws himself up and says, "I'm surprised you haven't already. If you've a better suggestion, let's hear it. Otherwise, all avenues should be exhausted."
Ulren brushes the prince's hair from his forehead, feeling for fever. Satisfied, he bends down and brushes his lips against the elf's -- then again, lingering a moment longer, before pulling back.
Nothing. Clef huffs, chewing a corner of his lower lip. Well, what did they expect? Astos doesn't seem like the fairytale type.
"Hold on," Almya says, striding forward. "I'll try."
The attendant begins wringing his hands. "I don't think, ah, that is -- you see, the prince prefers--"
Almya towers over him, hands on her hips, armor catching the candlelight just so. "I'll tell you what the prince prefers: heroes. He wants to be rescued from his slumber, not coaxed from it by a frail nursemaid."
"Excuse me?" Ulren sputters, while Almya pulls him off the bed. Clef catches him, and they exchange exasperated looks because, well, ogre.
She does look like a hero, bent over the prince, holding her scabbard with one hand and his chin in the other. She kisses him once, firmly, for ten whole seconds. It's a beautiful tableau -- ultimately shattered when Almya releases the prince's lips with a smack.
"Huh," she says, frowning down at him. "Guess I was wrong." She does a fabulous job of ignoring the attendant's ire. "So, Astos?"