« The Secret Garden »
Unceremoniously, Sontaire arrived ‘home’ from her trip out, running her long fingers through her hair as soon as the door shut. Gods, that was a tedious client. Very fond of speaking about himself. This wouldn’t be a problem if he had actually been interesting, but as it was, he was dull as Whiterun’s colour scheme, and just as monotonous. Her face was fixed into an expression of fatigue, fur shawl wrapped about her shoulders, clasped in the front, although it came off once the rush of heat from the hearth was felt. She, truth be told, had not anticipated Bodran would just make himself at home, and so Sontaire hadn’t the foggiest what to expect when she went upstairs. The only thing on her mind was flopping down onto the bed and sleeping.
Hair loosened, flowing about her sloping neckline and shoulders, she unlocked the door to her room with a short ‘click’. She could finally kick off her boots, lay down, and —
Or she could just accomodate the be-robed Dunmer making himself at home on her bed. She heaved a sigh. That was her nice robe, too, not that she put it past him to do something she specifically told him not to do. His stupid tree-trunk arms might burst the sleeves, or he might rough it up and cause a run in the fabric, and what if he lost the belt, furthermore, what if he stained it —
But then she noticed what was in his hands. In a mad dash, heart practically jumping from her throat, she made to snatch it from his grip, exclaiming in a mixture of shock and, perhaps, despair, “Bodran! Where in Oblivion did you find that?! Give it to me, NOW.”
Bodran had by the time of Sontaire’s arrival finished the book—mostly by skipping to the interesting bits (i.e., the ones about himself)—and had read and reread the entries about himself until the amount of ego in the room could’ve choked a small horse. Sontaire’s entry was greeted by a smile so vain and conceited it was physically strenuous for Bodran’s muscles to express that kind of joy.
“Sontai—,” he began with a viscous voice, but stopped when Sontaire leapt at the bed like a puma. When it became apparent that she had no intentions for ravishing him on the bed, Bodran scrambled to get out from under the duvet cover, holding the book above his head. ”Sontaire! My lady love! Light of my life, apple of my eye, so on and so forth—” He gripped one of the bedposts, hoisting himself up and wriggling to get the book away from Sontaire’s hands. The book had power over her and that meant, for the greediest of thieves, that he had to hold onto it. ”—What does it matter where I’ve found it? I’ve read what you’ve written in your tome! How long have you kept your heart’s secret from me? Since we met?!?” Now he was flattering himself, but his voice became louder as Bodran became more impassioned (although granted his passion was turned towards himself rather than towards his ‘lady love’ clearly upset on the bed). ”We’ve played ‘Confession’ before! Why did you never utter a word?”