Wayland Smith moved quietly throuh the woods.  The silver man was not so stealthy as the average elf, not by a mile, but at least the grind of gears didn't broadcast his pressence as it did with some of his kind, and a few spells of invisibilty and divinations could go a long way to make up for his lack of stealth.<br/><br/>The war forged was hunting, not for food, bounty, or booty, or even truly for slaves.  He was hunting for the meaning of humanity.  Since his time in the lady Azerath's harem he'd learned how much more there was to life than simply war.  He'd dsicovered sensation, magic, and power.  He'd come to apreciate beauty, to yearn to both possess and nurture it.  Slowy the war forged was coming to apreciate that there were ethical rights and wrongs in the world, but he couldn't yet tell which was which.<br/><br/>He knew, though, since winning his freedom, that he wanted to experience more.  Having been submisive, it was time for the living machiene to come into his own and become the master.  That required, of course, that he find a proper slave, a beauty to posses, a girl to nurture, a defiant to teach obedience too, an artist of pleasure, a convenient recepticle for his seed...<br/><br/>A companion.<br/><br/>He needed a woman to be all these things and more, and could only seek one with the patience of an imortal machiene tried and tested by budding mortal--almost organic--passions.