He had fabricated every lie in the book to cover for him. On Tuesday, he had been riding. On Wednesday, he was at friend’s. On Thursday, he was ill from overexerting himself. If he was not dead already, the elf swore he would kill him.
He was a plague to this world, perhaps, or this world was a plague to him. It loathed him; he loathed it. What was he really? A token of salvation that they would never accept. He wished they would burn.