Keith and the rest were back at the Elverstone Stronghold, with the rest having to stay permanently until the specific day came. Fresh from the bath, he shuffled his way out, donning a cozy beige loosely-tied bathrobe.
His hair was still slick and all with drews from the locks of his hair and fringes formed dews, dripping to his striking profile and down to his lean neck and chiseled torso.
Now, he was in his bed-chamber as it was early morning, and rather cloudy weather, but ample light still graced the room enough for him to work near the wardrobe—wiping off the sword with a clean cloth.
A lot happened during the harsh time they put effort into it; he lost count how many times they stumbled, tripped, and fell as their voice cracked, but they still did it with grace.
When he got to learn it was a way to determine the favor of 'Frost Wyrm' for the matter, it paled him, and shuddered thinking about it.
