Journals of a Psychopath.



Another peek into my novel.

The Lady Flarice in the dream

Forcing her to watch and the Lady Flarice was content to relax on the floor. Dancing in a circle around Lady Flarice and I chanted. The crackling firestorm warmed my body. Needing to sleep, my arms entwined around Lady Flarice, I encountered her bosom, it moved as she breathed. Touching her silvery-blonde hair, stroking her cheeks, I was proud to be alongside Lady Flarice.
      “Sir Richard,” Lady Flarice said.
The moment was spoiled and burying my head into the Lady Flarice’s hair, I burrowed into her bed of fur, which I hacked from the prey. Slipping in and out of a light sleep, I was so close, her breath exhaled into my face, and I sucked in the air she puffed out. Moving from the bed, I strode around the camp, my senses alert, I searched the region, Sir Richard would be holed up nearby, but I saw no tracks. The Lady Flarice was not ensconced in her skins when I returned I shouted and she answered in the affirmative.
The Lady Flarice had been bathing in the stream. Deliberating Sir Richard filched my jewel I heard the underbrush crackling and I investigated I saw a noble beast. Stalking him and he led me from the camp. Cutting the deer down at the knees with the sword and he stumbled dropped onto the snow battered terrain. Hoisting it on my shoulders and trudging to the camp the wood burned I could not see her. I hollered the reply I wanted to hear was absent. Lady Flarice’s furs were gone the water bottle was missing the hoof prints from his horse were in the crystal ice-flakes Sir Richard had found our trail. Striving to see the tracks the snow fell fast blotted the prints. Calculating they were three or four hours ahead, I voyaged to her. The winter sun was fragile and my nucleolus was bereft. Through the trees I visualized a Grizzly he lumbered through the woodland, his great brown-soft-marbles missed me and I calmed down.
      “All is okay lad,” I said.
Although he researched the bear with terror, Hightower stood and waited for the Grizzly to pass.

The Homestead

Rhea and I united alongside Smithson. Swinging the gates open we strode through and the wind whipped into our faces.
      “It is so cold,” Rhea said.
Rheanna’s cheeks were flushed. Smithson's grandfather beheld us and the lights from the farmstead shone on the ice-coated private road. Rhea waved to Caldwell he retreated into the depths of the homestead. Subsequently we enjoyed a brusque walk. After the trek and we tramped in the direction of the ranch, we were pleased to arrive. Toasting marshmallows at the log fire and Rheanna laughed, Caldwell glowered from the den.
Walking in and the retainer was shocked her aid was not asked for.
      “The scones are warm they have just come from the oven,” she said.
Disappearing and Elspeth returned the tray was laden with scones, butter, jam and cream. Steam from the coffee pot wafted in the air, the cups rattled. Caldwell swished into the room, he observed Rheanna, and he appraised me unpleasantly.

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