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_From a recent surge of trying to write again, I am going to random - or not so random - bits here. Lewd or others. Welcome to write my first piece in a long time on Sofurry. _

The Lord's Punishment

The coming summer air was hitting the tent's hide harshly, the heat was slithering through even at the break of the moon's climax in the star-painted sky in its vivid violets, blue and black like a Imperial painter's elaborate canvas. Such a sweetbitter memory. Roland recalled it like a yesterday's thought; his wife humming one of her favoured theater songs from the coordinator Matthius de Lames from the Borderlands. Her elegant hands were magnificent. Life giving...while his. The fallen man unconsciously clenched his rough-lined fingers into their palms as he slept. No. Not sleep, he have lost that pleasure among a number of others. More accurately, the Warrior of the Chaotic Powers rested his body in his eternal second skin. How strange it must looked, a being the size of two men laying across his nest of pelts and stolen blankets from the beds of past villages just laying there. He must have looked like a rich blighted sarcophagus to a damned prince.

Thank by whatever mercy that the Powers allowed to show him, the dragon laid without his horned helm. It rested beside him, as did his halberd and rapier. Oddly, the champion slept with his ruinous starred shield over his cuirass. The quilled cape of a fallen Manticore covering him otherwise. He looked like this when he slept and if he managed to die intact, this would probably be his funeral appearance as well.

Such a fate, Roland was almost eager for behind his desires.

However, such a dream will have wait. There was a clap of wind. His tent flap was moving. Roland knows he sealed it. The dragon was motionless still, the quiet breathes rolling through his scarred snout. Someone moving over him. He risked not opening his eyes to alarm his sneak. Where were his guards? The shadow stared down at him, coming closer. Another breath. _A odd musk. Smelled male...lush smells similar to a city noble prepping for impressing or wooing. __Something else. It made his blood churn a certain way. A heat. Sorcerous almost. _

Roland's lips curled and the wrinkles of his scarred face made him look even more terrible as he snarled but this visitor was brave. Moving away from his lidded eyes' view, southward. Something moving in his bed. Slithering little snake of Slaanesh.

Sniffs.

Covertly, fingers slowly coiling around his hanging shortsword of a knife's hilt. The visitor sliding between his lips. A kiss hitting a strong thigh...