At this point, Jorah interpreted her derision as a healthy challenge. The flirt chuckled as they made their way. He sang softly:
(It's to the tune of the mexican hat dance.)
He continued the silly diddy of The Lady who Doth Protest, tossing his blade casually, returning to his usual ways with the warmth of the fresh day. As they stepped into the ruddy dirt street, his song fell away.
A large stone-walled community center was surrounded by a handful of half-burned thatch huts. Jorah hesitated.
The lady can't bear the sunlight,
Nor the sweet smell of flowers six.
For the lady loves nothing more
Than a trite problem's Orlesian fix.
(It's to the tune of the mexican hat dance.)
He continued the silly diddy of The Lady who Doth Protest, tossing his blade casually, returning to his usual ways with the warmth of the fresh day. As they stepped into the ruddy dirt street, his song fell away.
A large stone-walled community center was surrounded by a handful of half-burned thatch huts. Jorah hesitated.
Do you smell that, warden? Is that...he muttered, holding the words unspoken, for the scent of decaying human flesh is a uniquely jarring odor that strikes revulsion to the core.
06-02-2024, 07:31 AM
