In the privacy of his chambers, King Ivar sat in the chair before the fireplace, his arms folded over his large belly. Staring with furrowed brow into the dying embers of the fire, he dreamed of glories past. He remembered fondly the forging of his Empire, the wicked villains and archenemies he had vanquished, and the loyal friendships he had forged along the way. His knights... The men and women who had fought side by side with him with the vigor, strength and hope of youth.
Many of those friends were gone now - retired, infirm or dead. Not even glorious deaths either, for some of them. Kremir Dualforce had tripped over a spellbook and tumbled from the window of his tower. Edirix the Teethtaker had pulled her back out at the age of 45 attempting to lift that vast two-handed greataxe of hers - bedridden until infection took her.
Ivar stared at the pudgy sausage-like fingers of his hands. He missed the days when they had been caloused, strong and bloody. Now they were discoloured only by the splotches of ink from signing so many royal decrees!
The kingdom that he had reforged was stable and secure, yet it seemed a hollow victory now. Peace had robbed him of his purpose. Oh, how he wanted to feel that youthful vigor again. To be an adventurer! To journey and fight and carouse and fuck whoever, whenever, wherever he pleased!
"This castle is suffocating me," he grumbled to the empty room. "I have to get out, I have to be fr-"
As he spoke, his eyes fell on the portrait of his wife hanging over the fire. There was one in every room. She was always there, watching him...
She would not approve. To live the life he wanted, he would have to do it in secret.
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