“Thank you,” Hadrius speaks at the maid, watching as she bows low before him with River’s dirty bloodied clothes in hand, before stepping out of the room. That had been the last of them.
Slowly shutting the door, the warlord cracks his neck to the side then knuckles. His body is rigid and sore, a phantom ache between joints from the unrestrained shift that briefly surfaced whilst subduing the wolves. The wolves that dared harm her. It had left him fatigued but alert.
Hadrius walks across the room and lingers by the bathroom’s doorway.
Large and utterly decadent, as nearly everything pertaining to the warlord’s lifestyle is. Smooth grey marble and a lot of glass and mirrors lend the large room a somewhat surreal quality, steam from the hot water and lit candles only added to the effect.
