He wore that easy smile of his—the one he wore when he was the Blade of Frontiers, saving innocents and slaying beasts. Was I the innocent or the beast?
we both know the answer to that question.
The relentless onslaught wore him out, his muscles raw, his innards still aching for more. He craved reprieve from it, a solace, or something — anything — to sate it, to head it off, to control it before it controlled him.
He would find it in a tucked-away druid grove: a man who’d jumped to their rescue, a hero who saved their hide from the goblin raid.