Page 84 of Astarion

No more pleasant for the horse than for me, I imagine. There had to be all manner of metal bits digging into the druid’s hide, even if the armor didn’t have a…What would you call that, anyway? Butt plate? Ass plate? Something like that?

The horse took a corner at a brutal pace, driving all thoughts of terminology out of his head and causing den Suriel to clutch frantically at Astarion’s waist. The druid snorted irritably.

“Hey! You can’t ride in the city!” shouted a Flaming Fist mercenary as the druid nearly ran him down.

“Apologies!” den Suriel called back. “Paladin! Matter of life and death!”

“Fucking paladins…”

They raced the dawn from district to district until at last the horse came to a skidding halt outside the Rat’s Run. “Good boy!” den Suriel said, patting the animal’s neck. “Good horse!” He rummaged through his pockets. “I’m sure I’ve got a sugar lump in here somewhere…”

“I have a name,” the horse said, shrinking back into the shape of the druid. “And I do not eat sugar lumps.”

“I’ll buy you a drink, then.”

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Err…” Den Suriel held the door open, and Astarion dove into the shadowy interior. “I’ll make a donation in your name to the church of Mielikki?”

“That would be acceptable, yes.”

“I suppose it takes all kinds,” the paladin said when he caught up to Astarion.

“Does it, though? Really?”

The Rat’s Run was quiet at dawn, or at least as quiet as it ever got. The sailors had mostly either passed out or been dragged back to their ships. The remaining patrons were either professional drinkers or had just gotten off work. Astarion rarely saw the place at this hour and was grateful for the griminess of the windows. Sunlight oozed in like a viscous liquid rather than stabbing like a spear made of flame.

Astarion tossed a coin to one of the bartenders. “Food and hot water sent up to the room, if you please. I believe I have priest splatter on me.”

The bartender’s lip curled. “That is a remarkably disturbing phrase.”

“It’s a remarkably disturbing sensation.”

They reached the room. Both men sank down onto their respective beds and let out nearly identical groans.

“Badger’s balls, but I hurt,” den Suriel said, mostly to the ceiling.

“My arms feel like I flew for an hour, then climbed about fifty walls, then carried a man in plate mail.”

“It’s half plate. And I walked, more or less.”

“That’s not what my shoulder says. Are you calling my shoulder a liar, sir?”

“Depends. Is your shoulder going to challenge me to a duel?”

Astarion pretended to consult it. “It says its seconds will call upon yours. I think it means my knees.”

“It’s out of luck there. I’ll be lucky if my knees can get me to the bathtub.”

Someone tapped on the door. Both men groaned again. “Come in!” Astarion called. “If you wait for us to open it, we’ll all die of old age.”

It was Lief, carrying a tray. She set it down on the desk and surveyed them both. “You two look like death warmed over.”

“Am I warm?” Astarion asked vaguely. “I don’t feel warm…”

“Chivalry requires me to stand when a lady enters the room,” den Suriel said. “You’re going to have to give me a minute.”

The goliath laughed. “I’m no lady.”