<div class="floatleft">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/ea/04/e8/ea04e8ddd6af3c8e3d007947f087752d.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><strong>Simon Merryweather</strong></span></span><br/><hr/>Half-Elven Bard | 30 HP<br/>Character Sheet (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1158190)<br/><hr/><br/>Our story begins atop of a grassy hill that overlooked a small village named Mormouth.  The hill is still there if you wish to see it, but the village is now long gone.  There, our hero met the lovely Rhialla Ramkin, and fornicated with her beneath the noon sun.<br/><br/>It is indeed true that this tale is of a hero who does not seem like much of a hero at first.  A hero in any other tale would arrive upon a steed, adorned in gold-laced armor, glimmering and sparkling under the summer sun.  But this tale is quite unconventional, because it begins with our hero, Simon Merryweather, wearing nothing but his brown leather boots.  And let us say, if we truly are as honest as our patrons oft describe us, that we are not being unkind when we describe the young troubadour as having an unremarkable physique.  For he was of frail body and long of limb, with large hands and feet (though we must at least permit that he was hung like a beast).  He did not have the sinew of mighty mountain men, nor the the alacrity of assassins or acrobats, but you must know--as everyone around these parts does--that Simon was breathtakingly beautiful.  Men envied him and women desired him, although he was then merely penniless and untried.  Still, his engaging large almond eyes, set apart at a distance upon his dark countenance, shone brightly with mirth and kindness, and afforded the fair people of Mormouth respite from a hard life and oft cold company.<br/><br/>Also unlike the heroes of yore, who were instead off saving damsels, fighting monsters, or righting wrongs, our tale begins with our would-be hero in the midst of coitus.  Our hero was no gentleman about it either, and it is lamentable that our listener should be introduced to him just as he was struggling to deny himself the pleasure of spilling his seed into his loyal confederate.  Because, as it turns out, the dark-skinned lad was on his knees, cradling a lovely shepherdess's upturned thick bottom in his large hands, gathering her juicy hips and rolling them over his long erection, piercing Rhialla's tight cunny to the rhythm of the blacksmith's hammer in the village beneath the hill.  He squeezed her buttocks firmly as he bordered an eruption.<br/><br/>"...  I am going to cum...!" he said whilst gritting his teeth with intense focus.  Fighting that particular urge was the only fight that young Merryweather had ever been in.  It was truly a recurrent conflict, too, for the carnal association betwixt bard and shepherdess was one he had known many times before.  Just as he was about to purge himself of the infernal seed in his loins, he shook uncontrollably and held onto Rhialla's hips desperately.  Merryweather was selfish in that he did what he wanted, and what he wanted just then was to come inside his friend, whom he cherished and adored.  And he did.  He came, but he pumped his molten goo from Rhialla's gender with his hard plunger by carrying on without a moment of surcease and without a period of refraction.<br/><br/>"... Ughn!  Ughn!  Ughn!" he groaned with each painful thrust, until finally, he came again.  This time, the stud was tired, and he collapsed atop his darling friend, still buried deep within.<br/><br/>"... Always an intriguing diversion," he said, eyeing Rhi mischievously whilst affording her a friendly kiss on the nose.   "Thank you."