Always moving on. Early on in his life he had learnt that others expected to him to act in a certain way, to have emotions that he did not have, to be...like them. So he had managed to become what they wanted, feigning those emotions, and pretending to be what they wanted. He had become a manipulative and cunning actor, getting by conning others with a superficial charm. At thirty eight he was now at his peak, dangerous, practiced and empty. And he was the person that the newspapers had dubbed. The men’s ribald stories and unlikely conquests filled his ears with ideas, images unbidden creeping forth under a warm eiderdown quilt of mead. One of the men told a story of a maid willing to suckle his, this kneeling, this willing mouth, and then her drinking him in, must have been a witch and needed his essence…all around laughter echoed as the jibes about her not needing too much essence since she chose him. The Lord sat and let the stories swirl around him, no meaning yes, maidens giving. More

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