The brunette Bard gave a sigh. It was the perfect morn for a poem - every metaphor bubbling in his mind like one of Dynaheir's tonics. The birdsong in the forest added further reagents to the ballad building within the Bard's brain. The opening to the tent was a little open, the early morning rays of light flickering into the tent, the golden rays illuminated the fair flesh of his companion - the heroic Ajantis Ilvastarr. Whilst they surely were not lovers, it did not stop the brewing concoctions of feelings stirring within Garrick's mind.
His eyes drew slowly over the Paladin's torso, a muscular expanse of milky flesh; it was often hidden from the sun underneath layers of chainmail, and platemail. Whilst the honourable Paladin seemed refined in his nature, it did not apply to his appearance beneath the Armour - as was apparent to the Bard - for coating the sleeping man's chest was a fair amount of hair, stretching from across his pectorals further down to beneath the furs, which were strewn across the man's lower half.
The haired gut rose and fell slowly, matching the deep breathing of the Paladin, and as so the Bard dragged his eyes from the ever-so enticing display of masculinity up to the man's face. It confused Garrick to no end as to why he insisted on wearing a helmet, even whilst they marched. He had a rugged handsome-ness to him, another thing that drew him to Ajantis much like his honourable nature, and lust-inducing body. He failed to compose any coherent lyrics to capture the true beauty of the man, each feature exaggerated in the Bard's mind. The soft, yet rugged curve of his stubbled jaw. His full and pouted lips, coloured and as desirable enough to wish to steal a kiss. The man's eyes were drawn, but the Bard fantasied swimming through the sapphire orbs behind the lids.
As much as he wished to indulge in the man, he knew that he could not act on his desires. A feeling that added yet another stanza to the continuous ballad that was the description of his companion. He could not act on his desires, no - for he respected him far too much as to do so. He could ghost fingertips over the muscles, or cup his cheek, and lean in to take that kiss he so much wished he could take; he could not, though - and so he resorted to brushing a few of the blonde hairs from his forehead, and sighed once more.
He so lusted for this dreary poem to transform into the most beautiful sonnet.