So beautiful, so elegant in its simplicity. This will take cunning and not a little amount of skill but she knows it will work. It has to.

Her carving tools sit beside her on the workshop floor and an apron covers her lap. Under her rear is a very large, fluffy pillow. The humiliation burns almost as much as the injury itself.

She keeps her head low and bent over her work. Her experience in forming bows has made this possible. Cool and calm hands remain steady as they draw the instrument back and forth. Her weapon must be perfect in every way. There is no room for mistakes.

The idea had come from her mother, strangely enough. Years before she’d shared a very disturbing secret in an attempt to be “motherly.” It was traumatizing and nauseating and it led to her first experience with trying to drink away memories. At the tender age of twelve.

She makes a mental note to thank Nalle some day. Likely not before the woman was on her death bed. No need to encourage her, after all. Not that Nalle required much in the way of encouragement.

The material is soft. Each time she shaves it with her blade, she must be careful not to snap it with her fingers. Every so often she takes a rest to wipe her hands and relax. This needs to be done right and rushing it will only cause it to fail. She drinks from a large mug of water. Alcohol cannot taint her blood while she works. It’s too important for her to focus.

All in all, it takes two hours for the carving to produce the perfect weapon. It looks so innocuous; a white twig roughly the size and shape of her middle finger. Around the base has been carved an indent so as to keep it in place. A delicate but dangerous twig made of ginger.

She smiles wickled and sits back. She knows he’ll be intrigued. All she has to do is tempt him and tease him. He’ll want to expand his sexual horizons and have the ultimate experience. He’ll get it.

And soon it will be Ragnarson’s arsehole that burns.