After two days of travel we came to sprawling farmlands which are typically connected to cities. The planting of seed in the ground means taking root in a place. That is not the way of Hendrix or the way of my people. We are people of wagons and war. We survive by taking. That takes strength. Wariness. Sharpness of wit. City folk have none of these things. In their place grow walls. Walls become their strength and wariness. Their wit remains confined to things like, "How can we make better walls to defend us?" They also produce walls for their bodies. Shields and armor. Such things are an abomination to me. Such people know nothing of interest and are incapable of broad thought. Like the broad sword and cock of Hendrix. Or the broad hips of Imp beside me.
I turn to the free woman who steps slowly behind us. Imp looks as well and then to me with a smirk and a glint in her eye. It earns her a flogging and the title of bad girl. These bring tears to her eyes. The latter more than the former.
"You will learn that because another is inferior, it does not mean you may act the petty slutress over them. Nor may you look me in the eye with haughtiness."
"H-how will I learn, Master?"
"Because I will teach you, of course."
The free woman begins to outpace us now. There were walls ahead, and this excites her. She sneers in an ugly manner at my slut. Imp's cheeks redden.
"You did well to punish her," the woman says to me. "Well for a barbarian, at least."
I do not reply to such foul words. Instead I look back to the slut. "This woman can give such looks and say such things for now. But in her heart there is a deeper truth. She will learn of me as well." I wink to Imp and she smiles shyly.
I enter the walls and feel weaker just in doing so. But this is reconnaissance, I tell myself. And it is a test of my fortitude. For myself and the things that are mine.
We step out of a cold night into a hot tavern. The wind whistles around our locks until I shut it out. Inside, idle whispers and leering eyes replace the icy gusts.
But there is mead, which means this place is not wholly irredeemable. So I go to a corner table, sit, and order my drink. The free woman flits her eyes, but remains near me. These are evidently not her people and she is wary enough of them to sit beside me.
"Do you have honeyed wine?" she asks the tender. Her body is covered up to the neck in dark muslin. A contrast to her face which is devoid of color. Her clothes are frayed and torn. I can tell she is trying to hide the dirt. If this was a city of much riches, and she had the coin to spend, she would be in some steaming bath house somewhere, pampered. Ordering brand new garb.
Yet she is here and so she makes the most of it, sipping her wine.
"I allow you spend my coin on wine," I tell her, "In the hope it will make you a tolerable companion for the rest of the day."
"I have no hope that your mead will will do anything of the kind for you," she says.
"True," I say. Then I turn my attention to the slut. "To my boot, Imp."
Wrapped in a fur, she spreads thighs and lowers, my boot snug against her crotch.
"Nice slave," a man says from a near table.
"No. A good slut. But still in training. Still learning what it means to be mine."
"I'd have a go at her. She'd learn much from me."
I eye him carefully, up and down his fine clothes and well-kept locks. "I think you might, at that."
"What's your name, stranger?" the man asks. "You appear to be of the Alar people."
"My name carries a story you may not be man enough to hear. But take the slut. It will be a good lesson for her. And you can show me if you are worthy to hear my name by the way you fuck my girl."
