As I wander the ravaged lands, the scent of battle still lingers on me, and the ache in me sword arm is a reminder of the many goblins I’ve slaughtered. Yet, I can’t help but think of a fiery wench I once knew, whose flames of passion would warm the coldest of Dwarven hearts. She’d join me in a pint of ale, and I’d tell her of me battles, of the grandeur of Everblast, and of me Grand Duke Harloff. She’d laugh, her eyes sparkling like the gemstones of the undercity, and I’d be hers, if only for a night.
My thoughts are a jumble of steel, sweat, and smoke, but it’s her face that haunts me, a constant reminder of the fleeting joys of life. I recall the way she’d part her legs, and I’d take me place, the sound of her gasps, the scent of her arousal. The goblins may have taken Everblast, but they’ll never take away the memories of that fiery wench.
Perhaps, in the depths of this cursed wilderness, I’ll find another to share me tale with, to share a bed with, to share a battle cry with. But till then, I’ll keep fighting, fueled by the fire that once burned within me, and the memory of that fiery wench who left her mark on me, a mark that only battle and blood can wash away.
>Soulkyn