There is little spoken by the free woman as we journey. She does not want to travel with us but she wants it more than traveling alone. She would surely die. In this way she needs me, the killer of her man. That must drive her mad. It humors me to no end.
"You are a fool if you expect me to keep pace with your bosk-footed strides," she says.
She is always carefully calling me names like this. She does not call me a fool outright. Only if I were to do the things she does not like.
"You will fall behind and be eaten by larls if you do not build muscle in those urt legs," I say.
I play her game of ifs but it is not my way. I am heedless in all things. Not careful. Not caring for the petty complaints of free women. But it is possible my pace slows a little. We say no more but when I look her in the eye I see the desire to kill me. It is arousing. My cock lifts my leathers. I will spend the night fucking the slut heartily.
At evening in the furs my fire's heat cannot compete with the cold North Wind. It drives a chill to my bones. The crackling fire and tent canvas are little more than a tease of warmth. There is no vanquishing these north winds. Not even the great Hendrix, himself a maelstrom, has such ability within himself alone.
I want the girl. Make her heart pump blood hot and fast to kindle a different kind of flame. My stare in her direction causes a tremble to her frail frame. Not a shiver of cold but one of need which my eyes awaken. I watch her breath quicken in visible puffs. Her naked breasts heave up and down, rosy and freckled. I know she aches for my fists around them.
The fire sizzles. Or else it is the lust between us. A heated look from blue eyes to green and back again. I do not move or speak. Yet she exhales a whimper from the furs where she is curled.
