Being party leader was a glorious job. You got all the limelight, all the glory. The more fame the party gained, the more you benefited.
At least, that was the story—how it went in the tales and fables.
Truth be told, it was a shitty job.
You had to organize the party… keep a bunch of wayward lunatics with extreme individuality together as a cohesive force. If the party rose, you rose. If it fell, you fell too. And sometimes, it came with really shitty chores.
What chores, you ask?
Well... hmmm.
Perhaps the shitty job of carrying a living pair of lips.
And that wasn't even a figure of speech. Damon was literally—truly—carrying a pair of living lips. The lips of a woman long dead… after goddess knows how many centuries.
Damon had done a lot of things. Once, he'd bitten off the eyes of a war troll. He'd even hugged a hideous beldam.
But this… this took the cake.
The lips were small and delicate, perched on his shoulder. However there was no body, absolutely no pyshical form.
