Oh, this man was much more than he appeared to be, Azabeth had enough time to think as they stumbled backwards, and she couldn't wait to find out how much more. And no, they weren't going to make it to the bed, at least not first time - but the floor was not very comfortable to sleep on, and the redhead fully intended to win this bet...
xxxxx
Morning in Denerim; the Drunken Hare was quiet, its patrons recovering from the indulgences of the previous night, especially in one room at the end of the upstairs hallway. Poor Aurin would wake up covered in marks of all kinds - red scratches gridding his back and chest, bite marks in prominent places along his shoulders and neck, even bruises in a few places.
Unfortunately, he would also wake up alone.... and unarmed, in any sense of the word. The redheaded cardsharp was gone, and with her the armor, the sword, the padding beneath the leathers, and every scrap of clothing between the two of them. Aurin was probably lucky she left the sheets on the bed. The only things Azabeth had left behind was a note on the pillow in a looping scrawl (Your stamina is acceptable, my black wolf, but next time, you will have to do better than that. Azabeth) weighted down with a single button, torn in the heat of the moment from the shirt that had so nicely framed her valley of bliss.