Go get the bone, Eingar!
Beautiful Mare: tropical island paradise with a Gallic
flavour. Vast expanse of white sandy beach fringed with coral resplendent, warm, clear waters. Arse bucket.
Brynhildr preened and pouted on the sand. She combed
her lustrous blonde hair with long, sensuous strokes. Her large, but perfectly
formed breasts, rose with every stroke of the brush. Eingar, my trusty wolf did
caper in the sea chasing sun fish. Brynhildr complained that the sand did find its
way into all her delicate nooks and crevices.
For jest, we buried
Theobald, ‘The Thegn’ unto his neck in the sand. Eingar delighted us by cocking
his leg and anointing the poor thegn, according to his wont. Good boy, Eingar! Afterward
we quaffed mead, mightily. Much later, I woke to the gentle lapping of the
waves; tides wax and wain according to lunar pull. Note to self: sun and sea
compound the effects of alcohol; must drink less in future. Wise word indeed,
oh Flaxen.
The thegn was nowhere to be found. Mayhap he decided to stay
on this tropical paradise and consort/cavort with the local women. Mayhap he drowned
in the delightful turquoise waters- we will never know. In truth, I was too hungover to put the island to the torch. So, we left the good people of Mare relatively
unmolested and unsinged.
Life is full of arbitrary imponderables. Often the margin
for success or failure; mayhem and death is slim. The good people of Mare owe
their continued happiness, and good fortune, to a quart of mead.
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