Torundel the Shitposter! part VIII

VIII

Torundel wept. He lay in bed in the soft night gown his wife had given him for blood day, and the loss of his love and the humiliation tore at his sanity in each its own direction.

His wife hadn't known what that tiny, old statue meant. She was a peddler's daughter and knew nothing of the world, nothing of the ways of the honorable houses. She would learn now – she had to learn. Count B, the fart smelling titbird had obviously decided to lawfully take away what he had already stolen.

When Torundel finally fell asleep, he dreamt of Sang Hortuscany, the warrior poet who had fallen in love with an arrogant, recalcitrant, brown-skinned prostitute, and who had written her 101 poems of ambiguous love declarations – of which no. 85 was Torundel's favourite.

I love her, and hate her. How is that possible? You ask me.
I know not, but it is happening, and it is like having a big, lumpy tree trunk up my arse!

In the dream, while standing bloodied and half-naked in front of the red-painted brothel, Sang Hortuscany said to Torundel:

»Fuck'em. Fuck'em all.«

And when he woke up in the middle of the night, the stormy winds reduced to a high flutelike singing…

Torundel wept.

This amazing story is written by me! and will be continued!

Written using the following rules:

211 words - Starting with the word Torundel - First and last sentence are identical.

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Previous episodes:

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII