The fancy piece in question has never in his life felt such a powerful desire to grasp his shirt (which is not within easy reach, between dog and woman and ordinarily tolerable dwarf) and pull it against his chest like some damsel. Or to wipe turkey grease from it.

It's fine, Preudame's taking care of that—in the interests of not being covered in turkey grease, she's more or less done before he actually pushes her head away from him with one firm hand. Madam.

Madams.

Yngvi.

Maker.

“T-t-t-t-oo small.”

...to be a dragon leg. Despite its impressive size. Sure, this is what we're talking about. He's never lost an erection faster in his life.