At the Starmere Lake, a seduction most sensual takes place.
It was to be expected. Ryheric is a bard according to the people of Bree. Though, the title is modestly (or obnoxiously) denied by the man himself.
Bards, scalds, minstrels. Traveling musicians, these drifter types do have a certain social reputation. Farmers in Bree aimed to keep their daughters away from Ryheric.
The man had too easy a smile and was rather dark looking with a vicious sword almost always at his hip. In Bree he had met most of those he knew at the tavern.
No doubt, these implications were beginning to add up.
Ryheric was presented now with a choice to make. After an evening of wholesome music and lake lingering, the sweet nectar of his temptation enters his line of sight.
She is just that right mix of coy, sassy, plain and needy for attention. She is a quiet, stealthy sort. Preferring to linger at the edge of his vision. Yet, he always knows she is there. He always has to come to her, she never seeks him out. That would be unseemly and untrue to her dark purposes.
The beautiful copper streaks, bracing, metallic, circular and forming around the shape of her face.
Her face. Perfectly round, wooden and with a tap in the centre.
It was no use. He was driven ravenous by her presence.
Ryheric gave in to his vice. Fortune favoured the bold, and he would have her sweet honey now. Why waste life caring about the opinions of others?
He swaggered towards his target. Met her with a light touch to that curvaceous, wooden body.
Then he thrust open the keg's tap, to pour himself a tankard of mead.
At last, he gave in to the seduction. Ryheric was truly lost, and Cwennie upon her return would be none the wiser as to how the enormous keg they'd hauled out by the Starmere Lake had lured him into its deceptive web.
The man did not just stop at one tankard, oh no. He drank three. Then four. Then more. After he had exhausted his uncouth passions, he tucked himself close behind his precious keg, and whispered drunk nothings to her until the morning.
