Lust flows through his veins like blood through yours. Svjorn's whole adult life consisted of battle, bloodshed, and plundering... material loot and Saxon women. When between raids, he is thinking about it, when he sleeps he is thinking about it... Living on a non-stop adrenaline rush. Thirsting for carnage, the old gods, all that kept him from going totally feral.
Now the ranking raid member and designated warlord, his job was to lead the band on raids from Denmark into Saxony. Growing up, he helped his family tend crops... Potatoes and cabbage mostly and he learned the English tongue from one of the village elders. He always felt it lacked the strength of the Donsk tunga, the Old Nordic, their native tongue; but came in handy when having to give commands.
Svjorn stood almost 19 hands tall (6'3") and had very broad shoulders and chest. His primary diet was wild game, cured reindeer, occasional fresh fish and root vegetables, this leant well to his solid physique. His hulking hands grasped the waraxe he carried with a might and strength that were undeniable. A horn of mead was the only thing that fit his hand better.
It was early morn, and the scout had found a village two hours walk to the west. Roughly 15 cottages, no noticeable defenses. Sounded perfect. They walked west and when they arrived... Livestock, billowing smoke from chimneys and thatched roofs... A small prayer was made to Odin and the horn blown to denote the start of the raid. The air was crisp and a light mist fell.
Svjorn's blood always started pumping harder at the sound. Within minutes a scene of chaos had erupted. Upon their arrival one of the townsfolk took off in terror to the forest. (In the rare event that anyone fought back, as custom armed males were fell, women spared (even if armed) and children never harmed. The old gods said wage war and take what was for the takin' but he did not tolerate violence against the innocent and the men knew better than to trifle with Svjorn.) The village had no defenses of any sort and the party had looted most of the coffers by mid-day with little resistance. Personal wealth was very scarce for common folk and were usually kept in centralized coffers for tax collectors. It seems as though this particular village had almost all of the adult males at war's door in another land.
Svjorn was going from cottage to cottage looking for any remaining loot. Upon entering the second abode he encountered a maiden with fair skin and dark hair... some heft to her bones, she wore a simple skirt and blouse, braided hair in a ponytail. When he entered she darted to the corner of the room and grabbed a broomstick with which to defend herself. He could not make out all of her features due to poor lighting but could sense she was not the typical downtrodden villager.
He smirked a smug grin and chuckles; "We can do this the easy way... or the hard way, you make the choice Saxon."
She sized him up and looked at his hulking shoulders and broad chest... his intimidating axe and overall size. Her instincts were screaming; "NOT THE HARD WAY, NO DAMN WAY."
Slightly studdering; "So long as thou art gentle good sir, I swear not to fight, y y you have my promise. My husband was killed many moons ago in war and I have not felt a man's touch since. So I implore you to have mercy and be gentle."
"Unfortunately for you, I am not known for my gentle side." Growing impatient with the repartee.
He slowly approaches and she starts to shiver from fear and anticipation... a numb resignation sweeps over her with his impending arrival... Thinking to herself; "The easy way... the easy way..."
"Do you have a name Saxon?" He asked in his low and gravely voice, becoming aroused, he feels in his element.
"Sara..." She said looking down.
He looked down at her and felt her shivering, teeth chattering. He grabbed her ponytail and pulled back slowly until her neck was fully exposed. Drawing in her scent and breathing in heavily. She smelled of lavender and this calmed him... some. But primarily he smelled fear and it made his heart pump nearly from his chest. He took his other hand and moved slowly to her neck. Watching her reaction. He thought she might faint for a moment but alas no.
Looking in her eye he saw something beautiful, he could not put his finger on it. It reminded him of good things; mead, the fjords of home, hearthfires. She had started to loosen the drawstrings on her blouse to expose her breasts but he was locked into her eyes. In one of the tucked away corners he could see the willingness to submit to his will, which is what he sought. The old gods taught the eyes tell truths beguiled by the tongue. Seeing an eagerness to fight would not have been good for her.
He then heard a murmur from under the bed... "Not in the mood for games Saxon!!" He reaches under the bed and grabs a man by his arm and drags him out with one fell swoop.
Sara tugs at Svjorn's massive tree-like arm and exclaims; "That is my husband, m'lord, he feared for his life. Please!!"
"Ahhh, a well founded fear. I would ask your name but could care less, you shall be called Saxon Bitch and your wife... Honeytits. I am glad we can all agree."
"Your beloved is most alluring, Bitch. I was just about to taste her as my own, but since you are here, you can assist me."
"Fate has shined on you this day, most fortunate I am letting you live... " With that, he rips open Sara's blouse and pulls down her skivvies and pushes her down over the kitchen table. "Make love to your wife."
Very skeptical, Bitch lowers his trousers and starts playing with his penis to get it hard. "Her pussy needs you, now!" No time to think or respond.
