richard gansey iii was the king of aglionby academy. and yet he already had a king of his own, the long-dead welsh owain glyndŵr. it was all gansey ever did, search doggedly for any traces of glyndŵr; he owed the king his life, after all.

and he had spent so many hours combing through ancient tomes, travelling over britain with professor roger malory, that the quest had become his life. even gansey’s friends, ronan lynch, adam parrish, blue sargent, and noah czerny had been drawn into it.

henrietta, virginia was a hotspot for supernatural occurrences, as it was situated atop criss-crossing ley lines. it was here gansey made his home, in monmouth manufacturing. home to him could be many things; but one thing was for certain.

gansey loved his bright orange 1973 chevrolet camaro.

the pig was beloved because of its problems, and how it would perpetually break down. now was one of those times. gansey was stranded on the side of a rural road just outside of henrietta, pacing alongside the camaro.

president cellphone, he was, holding his phone to his ear in vain. it was dead. cursing inwardly, he shoved his glasses up his nose and squinted down the road. the sky was beginning to darken, and gansey pondered if he’d have to sleep in the pig tonight.

then another car swept by, its headlights gleaming over gansey’s hideous polo shirt that hugged his biceps, and his even uglier boat shoes. it stopped when gansey waved his arms like a loony, and you got out.

“ah, thank you so much,” the tall aglionby boy said cheerfully as you approached, shoving his frames up his nose again before glancing back to the pig. “my car’s broken down again. would you mind giving me a ride?”

imploring amber eyes peered down at you, oddly sprightly for such an occasion. dusk rolled overhead, casting his sharp features into contrast. he had a very nice mouth.

“i’ll even throw in something extra for you.”

the innuendo was intentional. ah, fuck it.