Rolling up to the knight's guild in a chainmail brayette and low-cut mail chausses watching my fellow knights visibly fluster under their helmets as their gaze follows up to my maille voider scandalously worn without a breastplate
writing historical fiction will make you google things like “when we’re towels invented?” “how much did a towel cost in American in 1885?” “historical average number of towels owned per household”
died and i came back normal. more normal than before even. such a regular guy it’s freaking everyone out. i’m ironing my shirts & doing the sunday paper crossword puzzle and the people i love won’t stop crying
Ugh, was having a great time mocking my recently imprisoned rival when I noticed the camera positioning makes it so that I appear behind the bars, thus framing me as trapped in a metaphorical prison of the narrative, now my whole day is ruined. Fuck.