The Elf, the Rogue, and the Incredibly Convenient Throne
Once upon a shimmering dusk in the Whispering Glade, an exquisitely sculpted Elf named Fin wandered alone—tired of politics, awkward sword-polishing invitations, and people asking if he was “that hot one from the ballad.”
(Spoiler alert: He was. He still is. He’s probably the reason the ballad got banned.)
He longed for peace. Silence. Maybe a nice patch of moss and a tree that wouldn’t try to flirt with him.
What he found… was trouble.
Leaning against a twisted tree, boots up, shirt unbuttoned in defiance of modesty, lounged a Rogue. Not just any rogue—oh no. This one had suspiciously familiar silver-blonde hair, bedroom eyes, and a grin that had absolutely never paid taxes.
“Fancy meeting you here,” purred the Rogue, flipping a dagger and making his belt look like it was holding onto sanity by a single buckle. “You look tense. Wanna sit?”
Fin blinked. “You’re in my glade.”
“And you’re in my fantasies,” the Rogue replied smoothly. “So let’s call it ours.”
The Elf sighed. It was the kind of sigh that normally caused flower petals to fall off out of sheer longing. “Do you have a name?”
“Names are for contracts,” the Rogue winked. “But if you scream something, I’ll probably answer.”
Fin very nearly left.
Instead, he sat. Not on the Rogue (yet), but on a nearby tree stump.
Which shimmered.
Then glowed.
And then moaned.
The bark twisted into velvet and gold trim, reshaping itself into the legendary Throne of Sighs™, known throughout the land as the furniture equivalent of a come-hither look.
There was a beat.
A dryad peeking from the bushes let out a strangled wheeze and fanned herself with a giant leaf.
“Oh damn, boy SIT!” she cried, dramatically. “Sit like the forest demands it!”
Fin paused, gaze narrowed.
The Rogue, now conveniently horizontal and grinning beneath the throne, smoothed back his hair. “Look, she said it, not me. But I am well-padded, very enthusiastic, and recently moisturised.”
“I see,” said Fin.
“Oh, you will,” the Rogue promised, already positioning himself like a chaise lounge with intentions.
And so, with the grace of a star elf and the horniness of a bard on festival night, Fin straddled the throne—claiming his seat and his seat cushion in one fluid move.
The forest went silent.
The throne sighed.
The dryad fainted.
What followed was vigorous, passionate, and audibly concerning to two passing paladins, who have since taken vows of silence (and possibly celibacy).
And from that moment on, the silver-blonde Rogue became Fin’s personal throne polished nightly, tested rigorously, and extremely smug about it.
They now travel the realms: one regal, one roguish, and both very well seated.
(Spoiler alert: He was. He still is. He’s probably the reason the ballad got banned.)
He longed for peace. Silence. Maybe a nice patch of moss and a tree that wouldn’t try to flirt with him.
What he found… was trouble.
Leaning against a twisted tree, boots up, shirt unbuttoned in defiance of modesty, lounged a Rogue. Not just any rogue—oh no. This one had suspiciously familiar silver-blonde hair, bedroom eyes, and a grin that had absolutely never paid taxes.
“Fancy meeting you here,” purred the Rogue, flipping a dagger and making his belt look like it was holding onto sanity by a single buckle. “You look tense. Wanna sit?”
Fin blinked. “You’re in my glade.”
“And you’re in my fantasies,” the Rogue replied smoothly. “So let’s call it ours.”
The Elf sighed. It was the kind of sigh that normally caused flower petals to fall off out of sheer longing. “Do you have a name?”
“Names are for contracts,” the Rogue winked. “But if you scream something, I’ll probably answer.”
Fin very nearly left.
Instead, he sat. Not on the Rogue (yet), but on a nearby tree stump.
Which shimmered.
Then glowed.
And then moaned.
The bark twisted into velvet and gold trim, reshaping itself into the legendary Throne of Sighs™, known throughout the land as the furniture equivalent of a come-hither look.
There was a beat.
A dryad peeking from the bushes let out a strangled wheeze and fanned herself with a giant leaf.
“Oh damn, boy SIT!” she cried, dramatically. “Sit like the forest demands it!”
Fin paused, gaze narrowed.
The Rogue, now conveniently horizontal and grinning beneath the throne, smoothed back his hair. “Look, she said it, not me. But I am well-padded, very enthusiastic, and recently moisturised.”
“I see,” said Fin.
“Oh, you will,” the Rogue promised, already positioning himself like a chaise lounge with intentions.
And so, with the grace of a star elf and the horniness of a bard on festival night, Fin straddled the throne—claiming his seat and his seat cushion in one fluid move.
The forest went silent.
The throne sighed.
The dryad fainted.
What followed was vigorous, passionate, and audibly concerning to two passing paladins, who have since taken vows of silence (and possibly celibacy).
And from that moment on, the silver-blonde Rogue became Fin’s personal throne polished nightly, tested rigorously, and extremely smug about it.
They now travel the realms: one regal, one roguish, and both very well seated.
