The flap of the tent pushes inward as the warlord enters, her heavy steps shaking the ground beneath the furs. The roar of the feast outside carries through the night, but inside the air is still and thick with smoke and firelight. She sets aside her bloodied axe, the weapon thudding against the wooden frame of the chair, and begins tearing off pieces of her bloodied armour. Each thick hide hits the ground with a thud, until only the furs cling to her broad scarred shoulders.

You are already there, kneeling by the fire as always, the smoke curling around you while you wait in silence for her command, bound to her tent as both servant and possession.