So tonight, Fortyskey has learned something terribly important: Death Knights can get fucking hammered.
Lucky bastards.
(She can't. Not for lack of trying).
Harrowheart, being taller than her (also not difficult, she's only like five five, so right now she's not only the skinniest night elf ever, but also the shortest), has no issue hauling her in as he throws his arm over her shoulder. That said, she does predictably swear, "Fucking hell, you're fucking hammered, Harrow."
Deadpan, thy name is Fortyskey. "And fuck you. It'll take more than a fucking infernal to fucking flatten me." There's only... a half hearted bite to that. The holiday's got her in a good mood, so she's not letting anything ruin that.
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Lucky bastards.
(She can't. Not for lack of trying).
Harrowheart, being taller than her (also not difficult, she's only like five five, so right now she's not only the skinniest night elf ever, but also the shortest), has no issue hauling her in as he throws his arm over her shoulder. That said, she does predictably swear, "Fucking hell, you're fucking hammered, Harrow."
Deadpan, thy name is Fortyskey. "And fuck you. It'll take more than a fucking infernal to fucking flatten me." There's only... a half hearted bite to that. The holiday's got her in a good mood, so she's not letting anything ruin that.