A matter of pride

A tale weaver? He wrinkled his nose. A tale weaver didn't keep you fed or safe. Even navigation had a vital place. Weather reading and map making were valuable resources. Against his will, a brief image brushed across his mind. Of Isa, framed by firelight and expression one enthralled by the telling of a story. He shook his head, freeing himself of it. It didn't help that Isa was easy on the eyes. The Warlord knew there was nothing there but his own frustration and forced celibacy. Certainly, he could do better then the infuriating woman before him. If he ever brought himself to brake his vowels to his late wife.

They arrived at the training arena and the Warlord fell into familiar stretches his lithe, muscled frame rolling through the familiar motions with ease. "Loosen up, it'll make this easier." He ordered her. His voice a soft rumble in the lit cave.