Ruslan stirred in his chair inside his lazy pants. He tucked away his orc erotica book, sitting pensively. A fireplace beside him was lit, sixteen bottles of mead lay around his recliner chair. His house inside Markev was just a day before saturday - cleaning day, and thus was a mess. Bowls of what was once stew littered the sink, having been promised to been washed hours earlier. His herb and flower pants unwatered for the day. The floor was covered in dust and food-sauce stains, and his dog's muddy paw-prints. Still, Ruslan was no elf. Ruslan was a simple man, a working class man who did not care about having a messy home, even if he intended to clean it the next day. Ruslan sat there in his wifebeater shirt and grey sweatpants, thinking about all those elves he had ambushed on the road. "Yam will now into killing them in dream." He found his messy bed, and slept. Inside his dreams, the fight continued.
