“Come, my friend!” Dagan tugged at the ragged sleeve. “I know where they are camped. It is time for you to satisfy that raging hunger between your legs.” He trotted onto the road and beckoned the thing to follow.
A low, rumbling voice of expectancy exhaled from the shuffling form.
A mile down Fleetfoot Road they came to a trail branching off to the south. “This way,” Dagan said, his teeth visible in the sallow starlight.
They hurried on faster now, their hearts pounding with anticipation, the brute’s ponderous c**k straining upward against the fabric of his tattered breech-clout. A mile and a half further down the road Dagan pointed and glanced back at his friend. “There!” he hissed, his voice grating with exultation. “The gypsy wagons by the stream.”
With a gesture, Dagan slowed the h
