Tarquin Wroe wandered the banks of the winding, black-soiled river. The rushing water washed over his bare feet... only making him thirstier.
He couldn't remember the last time he had taken a drink... just that he couldn't...
Just why-- he could not remember.
He stared at the river waters... and at his torn trousers. His cloak and armor were in equally sordid states. He had worn his best clothes... in order to meet with... someone.
No... He was sure he looked fine. He wielded the sword she gifted him. He dressed up in his best, stiff-necked princely attire, just to impress her.
He had done everything she asked for... and more.
She wouldn't mind his appearance. She wouldn't mind how late he was. She loved him... and he loved her. Still, he was a Prince. It wouldn't be proper to keep her waiting. She had waited long enough...
