e n c a n t a d o r
Quinta from the hills?
Encantador spends a moment trying to remember who had ruled in the hills before Ivan, but the man’s name cannot spring to mind. Shameful, considering he was my king. His brain is too foggy, his tongue too thick and clumsy, so he only nods and says, “Welcome, Quinta. You may stay as long as you need.”
Out of habit, he dips his head to her respectfully, remembering too late her cloudy eyes. Idiot, she cannot see you. He eyes her for a few moments, wondering if her shy manner is due to her disability, or simply part of her nature. Either way, it does not seem he will get much conversation out of her, and he is in no mood for pulling teeth in his current state.
He chances a look at El Aran, and his eyes beg for silent forgiveness. I’m too tired. I cannot deal with this right now. He feels frayed and broken and can see himself growing irritable the longer he stays in the company of a stranger, though it would be through no fault of her own. “Pardon me, but I’ll leave you ladies to your privacy.”
And so he leaves to get some well-deserved rest.
six-year-old stallion of the desert; son of el barroco and writhe
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