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Lo!, 'tis true I prized a hunt above all else when I'dst should'a been a'church and 'twas rather in the fields and forests with aught but the wind and the bay of dogs to flap me beard. And though 'tis true, I be trothed to a soothfast woman of good birth who'd bore me two stout lads and a pretty wee lass, I have laid many a maid on Hallows Day.
The maids all howl and cry at their ravishment and I see the murdrous raving tearful fathers bound for their own safety by my men. All eyes dry forthwith when they spy my coppers. Unlike masters who only feign nobility I do not slaughter parents to plunder the sweet morsels of their daughters. I pay all their due. I am fair and beloved of my people. My ready maids preen; take airs, an outsized vanity in their lord's cock in their pink withers and they strut their blossoms most tiresomely for my attentions. Don't go to her Lord Eadric, instead take me again, Lord Eadric, they cry out, for is not mine sweeter than any other quim you have tasted?
I pat their arses and tell each and every maid she is my best. Now they only wail when I quit their straw chambers for the other more glorious rut; that of horse and dog, of spear and quarry.
Now I lay me 'pon the heath, breastplate cleaved, and all is a senseless red haze, but for the far off bay of the hounds. The boar's right tusk has split my chest like a maidenhead and his blood spills with mine. My last spearthrust spit him clean, snarling throat to quivering entrails. His life gurgles forth, dark-spilled, mixed with mine, his panting head and glazing eyes pressed to me as hot and fast as any lover's final embrace.
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