Cedar Sweep there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too

Private for @Hemlock, tagging for reference.

NOTE: Each of the traveling threads is a day apart. ♥ This is day ten, March 30, 2017.

This post is lame because my eyes are about to fall out.

Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal was many things, and unreasonably stubborn was chief among them. The last four times @Arturo had attempted to get her to stop and rest — first mildly suggesting, then seducing, then cajoling, and finally demanding — she had defied him. It seemed, however, her black-masked love possessed an even greater level of obstinacy than she did. This was the last stop, he promised. After this, it was a straight shoot across the river and into the territory he planned to claim. A day’s travel. No more.

Tomorrow, she thought intently, feeling thick and muzzy and miserable as her legs buckled weakly in the muddy shallows at the river’s edge. Emitting an agonized groan, she shimmied down the bank, allowing her swollen sides to dip below surface and submerge. So violent were the cramps that the thin-stretched satin of her convex side rippled visibly. With little care to her appearance — roughly that of a beached whale or a bloated harp seal carcass — she rested her cheek in the mud and tried to remember what it was like to breathe normally.