<br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>W/ Ms. Ashley; HP 18 (Current 10)</em><br/></strong><hr/><br/>Mr. Slate would have preferred to have had his way with Ashley.  He would have preferred to place her against a tree and plow into her with all the abandon of a runaway carriage.  He had been annoyed that their momentary peace had been disturbed by an orgasm and now, by the sounds of hand cannons.<br/><br/>So with a cool, almost chilling, tone, Mr. Slate said in response to Ashley,  "Yes, lets."<br/><br/>Mr. Slate was not a foreigner to the woods, and as such, he did not behave like a tourist.  He found no beauty in the springing deer, no solace in the pacifying meadow.  To him, the deer was an animal like himself, the meadow a place to lie once one is dead.  Though he loathed it, he was preparing himself to maim, and that meant that he was beginning to move faster.  He wanted to satisfy his blood lust, but he couldn't find it within himself to use Ashley for that purpose.<br/><br/>"A hunting party sounds right," he said.   "That means that you ought to keep your head low.  We might be walking into their blind."