Ho men, women, sluts, and base creatures who dwell in cities. I am Hendrix, outrider of the Alar. I must not be confused with Hendix, who had no R in his name and who was boiled alive while gloriously singing his own praises.
My end will no doubt be equally stunning. But for now I live in open fields and sing the song of the sword. I ride headlong into danger. I fuck headlong into ripe women. And I slaughter fools who raise my ire.
This is my story. These are my fists. Below, my cock. Strapped to my back, the sword I simply call Song. Each part with its role in the grand adventure which is my destiny.
I could easily begin with my birth, but as gorgeous a babe as I was, there was little fighting or fucking done at that time. The best I can say is that I developed my war cry during that period. It is a cry I have cultivated to perfection and recently used to such extent that my voice is hoarse with ragged glory.
My lips parched, leathers bloodied, I trudge alone from the field of battle and find myself amongst the chattel and provisions of my dead enemies. I snatch vittles, but no mead is to be found. I now know there was good reason to slaughter these fools. Anyone who does not drink mead is a fucking waste of breath. There are few liquids worthy of my gullet. I taste from skins of water and wine, spewing them each in turn from my mouth. As I do, something catches my eye. Gleaming golden locks, blowing in the wind.
They are attached to a little slut sitting forlorn and cross legged upon a wooden chest. She is a naughty, distracted thing for she does not see that a man approaches and so she does not open her thighs in respect to me. She is lost in thought, perhaps wondering what will happen if her master does not return from battle.
I am what will happen. Before she has noticed my approach, I take her by the collar and drag her from wooden chest to my own chest of muscle and bone.
