II
Torundel was cold. His living room was too large, the woodpile in the shed too far away.
He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and watched while the orange light of the embers slowly burned away. He was too tired to think of revenge, too tired to think of his darling, young wife, who now probably lay naked on a large rygerskin in the large caverns of large Count B's manor house.
He would have to buy himself a new wife. His books sold well. History was the favourite topic of this degenerate, weak, retrospect epoch. But NO! He should do as the old heros: conquer a wife! Steal a wife! Buying wives was for wusses, wimps, sissies… aristocrats.
The dim light in the burner disappeared and the room suddenly felt even colder. There was no sound, no flickering light, just... emptiness. He would have welcomed one of those big hairy vermin (whose name he couldn't remember) that sometimes came into the houses of poor people and ate their babies. Welcomed it just to feel less alone.
I better get that firewood, he thought.
When he left the shed, his hands full of firewood, a strong wind mixed with rain and seawater blew off his hat and scarf.
Torundel was cold.
Torundel the Shitposter! A serial fiction that follow these rules:
211 words - Starting with the word Torundel - First and last sentence are identical.
As I am not a native English speaker, I will do like 
Earlier episodes:
Part I
