Edda walked naked.
The morning was still gray, the sun not yet over the ridge, the dew heavy on the grass. Her feet were bare on the wet ground. Her white hair was loose, falling across her muscular shoulders in thick, damp ropes. Her body was marked — the bruises of a week, the finger-shaped impressions on her hips, the bite marks on her shoulders and her tits, the faint, persistent redness of her anal ring that had become a permanent feature of her lower body.
She walked with the stiff dignity of a warrior who had been used thoroughly and had decided that dignity was still available to her regardless.
She found him at the edge of the clearing.
He was seated on a fallen log, his elbows on his knees, looking at the tree line. The other women were sleeping behind her in the grass and the roots. The fire had gone to coals.
She arrived in front of him.
