Kedrick still had the witch's misery in his ears. It was the last thing he could attribute to his lusts. He could remember her moans clearly, and the way the curse of mediocre warfare had been ripped from his body through his length with an unmatched pleasure to his spirit, as it was freed to incinerate in any direction. He had gone back to his beautiful whores, friends really, and cut down the men they pointed at with great precision - they lived, since they were not real enemies -but then not been very keen on their bodies, as they had expected.<br/><br/>It gave him some ferocity, this incredible lack of satisfaction. When he'd went back the Witch's tree had gone. No realm of roots to pay so they could eat this curse too. Made sense, the bitter kind, that she'd not want to eat her own spell. Little comfort for the knight who was starting his legend in blood spilled when he couldn't enjoy it in blood gathering. At first he was provided with tribute as always, maidens and their mothers and their cousins sent to his tent, some of them hoping for mercy with their dresses torn, and some other wishing to perhaps make it into his memory that he could fuel their own ambitions. Some whores become wives. But Esfelt was growing increasingly picky, it seemed.<br/><br/>He was left alone to enjoy his piling victories eventually, Nathaniel King did not need the son of his best knight Bredven to fuck. It was a bit sullen though, not to hear of the knight's escapades in the sheets anymore. Wining great battles and exciting the soldiers with unstoppable ruthlessness on the fields would be more than enough. It was said that no man could beat the Silverum son, and that his company was therefor never less than victorious. A good head of any campaign, that was perhaps a little less flamboyant than his rumor when you saw him, unless he was holding Namer.<br/><br/>The truth was that Esfelt still loved women. He still liked their smell and stayed with brown eyes on their shapes. When his heart was nostalgic and his beast hungry he would chase some girl's moans with his tongue high up inside her, so she could tell her friends about the starts she'd seen. But what was the point? The Witch hadn't liked that her vessel Selene had been taken so carelessly when his transaction with whatever craft possessed her had been concluded. She'd been a glorious sleeve for his passion, and then he'd not had any more for so long.<br/><br/>So he sent out scouts for more witches, but not all of them ate curses, and the ones that did found the flavor of his current magic unappealing. He suspected there was a trace there of the witch he'd had, and that it said to others like her he was not to be relieved. Of course it made him furious, and of course men died. Myriad mayhem on Namer's tongue. In the dirt, and now toward the snow. Success was a tourniquet.<br/><br/>His heart was always beating fast, because he was always angry. His pulse quickened the green silver in Namer and turned into effective, beautiful deaths. Today too. He was tasked with pointing out recruits. His armor had been fine once, but the way he did battle had grizzled the metal. He was a monster, walking the grounds of Staghorn. The scribes had told him to pick from the blue blood, but he'd already met most of those sons, and seen none of the instinct and all of that poisonous ambition. He'd rather sift through this sludge to pick out good sword-arms. Perhaps the talent sprouted from the dirt recognized something in him, because they stilled, and wore proper faces for once.<br/><br/>He had the reach to kill behemoth berserkers, lengthy limbs with death at their ends, so he was taller than he was large. A spear of a man walking among them. So far his legend didn't disappoint. He laughed. The gift the witch had uncovered in him gave him good eyes to pick out fighters with, too. Dashing face unshaven, and light hair an oily mess. He reached a thick leather glove to catch the back of a young head so he could knock his own against it and keep it there.<br/><br/>"I see your spirit, boy." he yelled and then threw the boy back. Not enough yet, but push him through a couple of murders and he'd be miserable and useful. "That one." he confirmed and then continued until he came upon a lithe person. It made him feel other excitements than for blitz and blaze. "What's your name?" he asked the green eyes and the assembled armor. "You're a little young for this game, aren't you?" he asked when her keeper said her name. "Shy? Oh, that's perfect. You can be the first to die so you won't have to blush." And even speaking of the boy's rosy skin made Esfelt's breath hotter in his mouth. "Seriously, what are you thinking, coming to the recruiting lines?" he bellowed, drawing Namer quickly, so that its guard flew up and collided with Shy's cheek, aiming to send her to the ground. "Useless." he spat.<br/><br/>She'd still find an invitation to the knight's tent the moment the line broke up, and the messenger could get in her private. He'd know her answer before she arrived at where he kept his bed, though, since he was already in his hood, watching.