He hears the bells toll -- the day has truly begun. Outside, the stall holders will be beginning their day, another day where they will hope for better days, and as they hope they will ply their trade.
The cold will be a constant presence. Here, in these marshy banks of the Pruft, the cold is relentless. But his people have survived in ways that most of the surrounding tribes have not been able to. The trick, he thinks, is taking captive the women of enemy tribes, and turning them into bed warmers.
He smiles to himself at the thought, and at the thought of the young woman he has used for his pleasure. Last night, she had bled, he noticed, and he will get one of the housemaids to see to it that the stain is removed and new covers brought to his bedding while he is out today. But this morning's activities has filled him with some lightness.
His loins still feel the tender ache of gratification, and the sensation of forcing his way into Bethesda's tender flesh still lingers, even her scent, her female musk, hovers like a friendly companion. Even the thought of her white hands, soft, and small, as she held on to the base of his engorged shaft pulled at his heart-strings. Their fragility, their natural movement as the fingers struggled to encircle his girth, seemed to strike him as some kind of transcendent force of equilibrium, the way the world ought to be. How greedily she had eyes his phallic lust, how eagerly has she consumed his godhead, stretching the lips of her mouth, and when he had pushed the point, further and further down her throat, how obediently, pliantly, she took it, the tears streaming down like rivers of pain, for undoubtedly, it would have caused some kind of pain, or discomfort, as he pinned her nostrils together, forcing her to gasp, and breathe through her mouth, with him still encased in her oral cavern.
Dressed now, and cleaned -- the girls had come and wiped him down, caressed his phallus, that still remained tense from his love making with Bethesda, cleaned it with soft wet towels, lovingly, and as he watched them, kneeling between his legs, and worshipping his member with the care of good servant girls, trained to worship his very being, he smiled. He had used them all several times, thrusting into the faces, interrupting their assigned duties to care for his morning ablutions, so that they had to start again after being used -- now that he was cleaned and ready for the world and the day's work, the worries that never leave him returned to his thoughts.
Shaking his head at the thought of Gergiuze, that Pruczian whore, he opens the door to his chambers. Hasmet is dutifully waiting for him, speaking with one of his men. Pyotr is thankful for Hasmet's presence. He is a loyal soldier, a steadfast warrior, and man who knows no fear, except the fear of losing Pyotr's respect.
Hasmet was not a native to Galat. His origins have always been shady, mysterious. Very few know of his lands, but in private conversations, Pyotr has discerned a painful pat in Hasmet's life. He does not seek to know more. This is the respect you give other men. Their pain is their own.
But Hasmet has proven himself. Once, in the midst of ferocious battle, when Pyotr had fallen to Hrothian arrows, bleeding helplessly in the mud plains, it was Hasmet who carved a passage through the Hrothian army, slaying each man he passed, his scimitar smoking with bloody execution, till he reached Pyotr's frame, unconscious, and dragged him to safety. If not for Hasmet, Pyotr would not be standing here, under the dim lights of the upper level of his house.
My friend, he says to Hasmet.
My Liege, the loyal Hasmet returns. You have visitors, they insist on a few minutes of your time.
It has already begun, Pyotr thinks, and he has not even left his house.
What is the issue?
Not an issue. Merely, a tribute in thanks. Marek and his wife.
Pyotr nods knowingly. Marek has come with his wife, he forgets her name for the moment, a pretty woman, to give thanks for the time he has spent with their daughter, Bethesda. Pyotr finds these kinds of meetings awkward. A father comes to thank him for bedding his daughter, or even worse, when a husband comes to thank him for bedding his wife. What does one say to such men? How does one deal with this awkwardness between men. These men give their properties for his free use. Then they thank him for it. The absurdity of the situation does not escape Pyotr. But he also knows this is an ancient practice. And the Galati men know that without tradition, Galat would not be the power house that it is.
He nods. Come, let them do what is required. Hasmet steps aside, and Pyotr passes him and his man, descends the stairs. His servants scatter when he appears, and both Marek and his wife kneel, supplicant.
