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Summary
Diomedes’ steps quickly turned into long, nervous strides, his sandals sinking into the mud, and his vision blurred by the rain. His lips were pressed into a tight grimace and his brows drawn together in what the less attentive might have taken for a threatening expression, but which in truth concealed nothing more than intense nervousness.
After all, the Achaean camp under the storm became strangely silent and almost reserved. To the point that not even the sentries - spears tight against their chests, cloaks drenched - seemed inclined to stop a drenched king with an intimidating air, striding along like a man on a critical mission.
And he did have a mission. Only it wasn't important; it was actually stupid.
Series
- Part 6 of Italian P0rn Fest #19