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Summary
“Sir Flins—?”
”Ah, Master Illuga. Excellent timing,” Flins says, smooth as ever. “My apologies for not greeting you properly.”
Illuga’s face warms as he takes in the sight before him: Flins, on his knees and bent at the waist, his chest sandwiched between broken wooden shelves and weighed down by books. At his feet lie scattered trinkets and scrolls, kicked around haphazardly. “Are you… alright?”
A wry chuckle escapes the compromised man. “As you can see, I seem to have gotten myself into quite the predicament. Might I trouble you for your assistance?”