My face burns redder than the crimson cloth on the table.
"Shit, I am so sorry," I mutter, burying my impossibly flushed face in my hands to slump despairing in my chair, my back rigid against the cold slab of wood as I press myself against it, suddenly all too keen to disappear from this place entirely. I groan inwardly. Why, why of all things did that have to happen?
Ithuriel purses his lips in disapproval, but Fangorn flicks away my shame with a prominent flick of his finger. The bulky man makes his way over and looms beside me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and giving me a couple of comforting pats. Unfortunately, it does little to ease my tensions.
