A Bronco at the Banquet

Eventually you and Roan, once you two had pulled yourself out of her long enough to throw on, you know, clothes, make your way out of your room and the main tower of Princess Matilda's castle. You don't see any particular reason to rush as you stroll along linked by an arm, following a trail of merry torches and smiling servants towards what must be the Birthday Feast. Speaking of which.

"Birthday Feast, huh? How old is she? "

Roan, who to your eternal despair opted for a lovely satin gown rather than her impregnation dress, shrugs . "Nineteen, I guess? "

"It doesn't really seem like she's particularly in charge."

Roan blows a raspberry. "As far as I can tell, when Matilda's parents died everyone started treating her like she was made of porcelain. I guess they don't figure they have to stop, just because she's an adult."

You consider that as the two of you follow the path to a vast garden, the rows of colorful flowers and pleasant trees filled with tables and cheerfully carousing nobility. You know, you were expecting more of a "big oak table with a bunch of pigs on it" sort of thing; this is a lot more like a very fancy dinner party being thrown by a bunch of cosplayers. You're slowly wrapping your mind around the odd anachronisms of this world, and so far your prevailing theory is "Whatever's Cool, Goes". Roan grins and tightens her arm around yours, leading you towards the rose-strewn archway that's been erected as the entrance to the party.

The herald standing at attention announces you to the party as you approach, though with everything in full swing not much mind is paid. To your surprise, however, he continues on to announce your valet. "The Lady Roan, of Morgan!" 'Lady', huh? You glance down at Roan, an eyebrow cocked.

She quirks her nose at you, misinterpreting your look. "What? You know I don't like them using the rest of it; courtesy titles are so stupid. Besides 'Marchioness Roan'? Ugh, the wooorst. Way to go on thinking of lady versions of titles, dicks."

So she's a...what? You don't have a clue, but Horsedick does. Apparently though he also thinks it's all pretty stupid, as when you think "Marchioness" you just get a big flash that says "IMPORTANT" followed by a second that reads "MEH". Still, you'd assumed Roan was a peasant or something. Just like, the sassiest one in existence.

Roan lifts up on her tiptoes to give you a rather chaste peck on the cheek. "You go and tend to that princess. I'm going to go find the biggest pair of tits at this party and see what happens."

"Sounds tough. We could swap?"

Roan chuckles, giving you a pat on the cheek as she starts off. "Not a chance." God but is she putting some extra sashay into her exit. You watch her strut away for a moment, then notice the herald was watching too. You share a brief glance, and then he gives you a big thumbs up. What can you say? It's good to be the prince.

Though you do feel a bit under-dressed as you work your way through the party, waving off the near constant proffers of bubbling **** from the throngs of servants (guess Horsedick doesn't drink very much?). Everyone else has gone full out in attire that practically screams "I Wipe My Ass With Rare Gems", while you're wearing what's essentially a slightly nicer version of the clothes you've been wearing since you arrived here. Still, you do cut a rather dashing figure in your big fur-lined cloak. And your sheer size does give you a sort of natural gravitas. Besides, there is no way Roan would have let you leave the room looking like you didn't belong. Unless she really doesn't want you to link up with Matilda. Or she, you know, thought it would be funny.

There is only like a 45% chance Roan would have let you leave the room looking like you didn't belong. Unless she was too loopy from the marathon of fucking to notice slash care.

You mentally continue to revise your confidence in this whole situation when your thought is interrupted by a gaudily bejeweled hand waving you to come over. Aw shit, it's the other princes; you recognize this guy. Yeah. Ring Fingers, as you've named him, has clearly outdone himself, a fact that is evident as you reluctantly move towards the group and the light from a torch reflects off his truly absurd array of jewelry directly into your eyes. God, this guy could weaponize his accoutrements. If he had added just one more brooch, or god forbid another bangle, instead of temporarily blinding you he could have pointed his intensely accessorized body towards a torch and instantly incinerated anything he wanted with the glare. You have to admit, though, he seems to be one of the better suitors.

This says less about Ring Fingers and more about the rest of this dick squad.

The suitors seem to babbling excitedly about something as you trudge up, Beardy looking slighter smugger than usual as he laps up being the center of attention. He raises his eyebrows as you approach, delivering the line he'd clearly been working on since it became clear you were going to be late. "Finally found a way to sneak in, did you? You know if you eat anything you'll probably have to wash dishes to pay them back." A smattering of the princes chuckle, but even they have to admit that was pretty flimsy.

"Mm. What's going on, then?"

As always, Beardy is momentarily infuriated by your lack of hurt feelings. But he seems to get over it more quickly then usual as he gives you what you suppose is technically a smile. "Well if you must know, I received word just before the feast that I am permitted to bring out the big guns to woo Princess Matilda. And no, I don't mean my aggressively average-sized dick."

You stare at him for a moment, Beardy content to stare right back with that same gloating smile. "....okay then, what is it?"

The obnoxious prince adopts an indulgent look as he pulls something wrapped in a bolt of silk from his pocket, holding it out dramatically to the group. "Gentlemen, plus one, I present to you: The Eye of Alman-Tar!"

He whips away the cloth, revealing an emerald the size of small fist. Immediately the other princes let out a collective "Ooooo", crowding around the deeply pleased Beardy.

"Oh man that is so nice!"

"You know bitches love gems!"

"Maaan Mummy won't let me offer Matilda anything with a name."

"Yeah, bitches LOVE shit with names!"

"I bet this Alman-Guy is awesome! Or is it a place?! SO MYSTERIOUS!"

"You know bitches love mystery, guys!"

You lean in a little, squinting at the sparkling gem. You know you should be pretty impressed; you probably would have been in your real life. But.....ehhhhhh. "It's a rock."

The other princes instantly fall silent. Beardy's eye twitches for a moment before his face sets into a very cold look. "It's the Eye of Alman-Tar."

You shrug. "Who's that?"

Beardy's eye twitches again "It is a mystical realm far beyond ours where-"

"So it's a rock from some place."

Beardy's whole face is twitching now, and you're relatively sure he would shoot his whole brain out his nose at you if he thought it might kill you. He grits his teeth, hissing out at you. "So where's your present for Princess Matilda then."

You shrug again. Should you have brought one? Too late now. "Didn't bring one."

The suitors gasp and chatter at that as Beardy lets out a far-too-rapid bark of a laugh. Though you're only half paying attention now; you've spied Matilda's table not far from where you're all gathered. "Do you really imagine the princess will still want you without-"

You cut him off with another expressive shrug as you simply push through the gaggle of princes, making your way over towards where the princess sits. Beardy sputters, but as the other suitors stumble in around him a wayward elbow knocks his emerald out of his palm and down into the dirt. He shrieks in fury, laying about with slaps and insults as the other princes try to scrabble the apparently priceless rock back up to him in a mixture of confusion and fear. Those fucking guys.

Still, on to less stupid things. You imagine when the feast began, Matilda's personal table was thronged by guests lining up to wish her happy birthday. Now that the party is in full swing, however, she seems to be essentially left alone besides the pair of butlers flanking her sides. She sits in an expensive-looking but overly conservative gown, idly running a gloved finger around the rim of her glass of wine. She lets out a little sigh, raising her glass to take a little sip. No sooner has she put it back down, however, than one of the butler whisks away the almost totally full glance and replaces it with what looks like a small cup of milk. Matilda leans back in her chair, sighing again. Talk about a tight leash.

Well, maybe it's time to loose it up a bit. As you continue forward you snag a new glass of bubbling wine from the tray of a passing servant, only pausing again to take hold of an empty chair. Matilda straightens as she sees you approaching, as do her butlers, the two dour old men looking quite put off while the princess simply stares wide-eyed at you. Soon you find yourself looking down at Matilda, who while meek can't be used to many people towering quite so far over her. You give what you hope is a disarming smile, putting the fresh glass of wine down in front of her.

"You didn't seem like you were done with that."

She seems taken aback for a moment, her first instinct to be give you a shy smile but apparently all of her other instincts being to curl up into such a tiny ball that she utterly vanishes from existence. You put the chair down, indicating to it with manners and grace that would put a chancellor to shame. Let them try to call you a backwater.

"May I?"

The butlers start to sputter in outrage, but quickly turn aghast at Matilda instead when she waves them off in a flash of annoyance. They stare down at her for a moment, the princess looking utterly stunned at herself and ready to take it all back at any moment. They somehow break before she does, however, storming off in a sulk as Matilda covers her mouth to hide a nervous giggle. Grinning yourself, you balance down into a chair that considering your size might as well have been made for a toddler, pick up her cup of milk, and raise it to her.

"Happy Birthday, Matilda."

She gives you that shy smile again before raising her glass of wine and giving your cup a little tap.

Well hell. Maybe you can pull this "Prince" thing off after all.