Not at all in the mood to deal with visitors

Jeebus Crust, this Grimoire is absolutely stuffed full of magic shit. You've been reading this thing for hours now, having made the decision to at least educate yourself as much as possible about your strange situation, but good goddamn, you're not even a quarter of the way through the darn thing. It doesn't help that the text is all handwritten, and most of it isn't your handwriting. All the stuff up front is old-school wizard shit; creating light, starting little fires, stuff like that. It's not that it's not cool; the fact that you could apparently do magic is rad as hell, and you spent a good amount of your reading time absentmindedly screwing around with these smaller spells, making puffs of smoke and bursts of dazzling light in your off hand. It's just... at this point, the basic shit is boring to you. These are all the building blocks of magic, the stuff you "learned" years ago. You know for a fact, because you "remember" it, that you've got some personal notes and touches on your favorite spells hidden in this tome somewhere.

And that said, remembering things in and of itself is a fucking exercise. Whenever something reminds you of something you "remember", it all comes rushing to the forefront of your mind clear as day. But as soon as you actively try to recall something, like who else in town you know, or where the fuck you hid those rad custom spells, you draw a big fat blank. It's bullshit. But what are you gonna do? As you already know, magic can be full of annoying bullshit sometimes.

Ah, damnit, there it goes again.

This is starting to give you another headache. Maybe it was time to give the book a rest. Shit, you're stuck in fairytale town, you might as well have some fun with it with the spells you have remembered. You pull yourself up from your seat and begin to head for the front door. Might as well go into Wayshire proper and see what else can jog your memory.

But before you even get there, there's a knock at the door. You pause for a moment, expecting more memories to jump up. Maybe you got an afternoon milk delivery too? But no, nothing rings a bell. This is out of the ordinary, your instincts tell you.

When you open the door, you're surprised, and you're kind of surprised you're surprised, to see two normal sized people standing there. Behind them is a simple brown carriage, with two horses yoked to it, looking a little more at place in a wild west setting than a fantasy one. The thing was only one step away from being a stagecoach. There was a small but obviously human sized man sitting on top of it, reins in hand, wearing a tricorne hat, which you don't think is period appropriate either. More pressingly, though, are the people directly in front of you. The one who did the knocking is an older, balding, chubby gentleman, wearing an absolutely foppish chevalier (which you know for a fact is a fancy renaissance vest, thank you very much crazy brain) with some sort of heraldry stamped over his breast (which you recognize as your family's coat of arms, thanks again now shut up). Standing behind him, and looking at you quizzically, is an absolute babe. She's taller than you'd normally go for, probably the same height as you, but damn does every inch of her look good in her tight fitting leather ensemble. She's got that sexy svelte look going on, and you might even call her a little bit lanky, but the way her waist cinches in and her hips flare out is more than enough to make you forgive that. And good lord, those legs. You're pretty sure she's got a tasty little thigh gap going on, not that her current pose shows it off. But as much as you'd love to focus more on her legs, something else draws your attention back upwards. Her face, which despite her expression is breathtakingly beautiful, is almost reason enough, but poking out of her waist length free-flowing blonde hair are two long pointed ears. Oh shit, that's an elf. A straight up sexy fantasy elf lady, in the flesh.

Before you can ask her if she comes here often, though, the fop clears his throat and takes a deep bow. "Apologies for lack of pomp and circumstance m'lord, but it is quite wonderful to see you again, Prince Crofton." His tone says he's an old friend of yours, but his eyes are staring daggers into you.

You scoff, letting your instinctive reaction to this dude take over. Might as well play the part you're being **** into, at least for now. "Well Archibald," you said, knowing that was this dude's name, apparently, "I'm glad to see you can remove your mouth from my father's backside for long enough to vomit pleasantries." Fuuuuck, that was ice cold. Wizard you is harsh.

"Oh, charming," he replied sarcastically, "I was rather hoping your years would have matured your mind a bit, but I can see you're still the same childish whelp who abandoned his birthright years ago. You could at least attempt to be civil, considering what an inconvenience it was to even find you in the first place."

"I simply wished to free myself from the controlling grasp of my father, Archie. Inconveniencing you is simply a bonus." Oh, yeah, there's some more memories of Ol' Archie, your dad's seneschal. And they all told you the same thing; Fuck This Guy.

"Mhm-hm, yes, M'lord, of course," he said, tactfully sidestepping your tone. "But the King is exactly the reason I must speak with you. You see, something rather unfortunate has occurred."

"What is it now? Did he run out of chamber maids to harass?" Oh now you remember, your dad was also a misogynistic asshole. Good to know.

"No," he said, his expression turning dark, a sneer on his face. "While you were away, playing at magery, you father's condition took a turn for the worse. I'm afraid... the King has passed away."

...Fuck. Now you felt like a dick. Thanks, memories.

"And," he continued, "as the only living heir to the throne, I'm afraid it's imperative that you leave this simple village and return to the castle proper, as you need to prepare for your proper birthright."

"Archie, there's no way that's happening. You know that. I know that." You gestured over at the elf woman, her expression still curious, listening to your conversation intently. "She knows that by now, and I've never even met her."

"Well, alright then, I suppose. If I truly cannot convince you to honor your birthright, then that's the end of that." He's smiling, and he looks like the smuggest little motherfucker you've ever seen. You cock your head, wondering why in the world he was so... oh. OH. Now you remember. If the King dies, and there's no Heir willing to take the throne, it passes to a successor of the King's choosing. But of course your father would have chosen another successor by now, surely? It's been nearly ten years since you've spoken with him (thank you brain). There was no way he'd let the throne's succession be in crisis; he was always so uptight about having all that royal crap sorted out (thanks again). But... if, for whatever reason, the King never named another successor, then it would have to pass to...

"There's only one final bit of business for us to conduct." During your momentary mental jaunt, he produced a small parchment from somewhere, and was held it out for you to check out. "Miss Trannelis, if you would be so kind to fetch an inkwell and quill from the carriage? I believe our business here is nearly concluded."

The elf, Trannelis apparently, nodds and goes back to the carriage. You take the parchment, and give it a quick once over. It's all very legal and boringly plain, and simply states that you're formally giving up your line in the succession to pursue a life outside the rigors of royalty. Even without your memories, the hassle of running an entire kingdom sounds like way more than you signed up for when you answered that job posting. Forget carnie bullshit, this was regal bullshit, and that was definitely above your paygrade.

"All you must do, then, is sign on that dotted line, and I will be out of your hair, and you can continue to fool around with the... creatures in this town to your leisure." His smugness is overpowering as Trannelis returns, and steps forward to offer you the ink and quill. His shit-eating grin is a mile wide. "This really is the best thing you could do, for all involved, good prince."