One man's trash

He snorted, mildly amused both at the title she gave him, and her offer. She was a little taller now that she was aboard the Reindeer, but not by much. He studied her as they walked, noting the purple in her eyes that had been difficult to discern when she had been struggling to breath. He had already noted the pattern of scars across her coat, but now he would see the band of gold around one arm. Not too dissimilar from the wedding band tattooed across his foreleg.


“I'll not be slowed down.” He warned her, giving her no chance to dismount. They weren't far from Oleander's healing den now. “You can call me Master Basilisk, or Warlord. Don't mix the two.” It wasn't really a suggestion. “You were a slave?” Her body and how he had found her certainly indicated it.