Okay Okay, Have a Farmgirl

You decide that it's around noon as the forest begins to give way to lush farmland, though admittedly you only come to that conclusion through glancing up at the sky and indulging in a bit of guessing. Roan's spirits have not just rebounded but in fact surged since your heart to heart (slash dick to pussy), the girl breaking up the monotony by breaking into a bawdy song about a knight's attempts to fuck a dragon. She seems unoffended when you decline to join in, apparently expecting it; you're starting to get a feel for the established character you've been thrust into. Apparently Prince Horsedick tends towards the taciturn, which is pretty damn convenient. You still don't know shit about ass in this place.

Roan's verse about the knight's struggles to figure out how cloaca work is thankfully interrupted by the sound of some truly passionate swearing wafting from a small cottage up ahead. You squint a bit and are able to make out a cozy farmhouse plopped in the middle of a modest, partially plowed field, as well as what appears to be a young woman reading an ox the riot act. She pulls into focus as you draw nearer: she's a bit older than you or Roan, possibly nearing thirty, with the sort of figure any proper farmgirl should have, pleasantly plump in all the right places and tightly fit everywhere else. She has long, dirty blonde hair that's been tied back, her ponytail whipping around as she tries her damnedest to convince the ox attached to her stuck plow to stop napping and get back to work. She alternates between begging, threatening to make the beast into stew and insulting its ox-mother, all to no avail as the implacable animal simply lays down its head and begins to snore.

She lets out a scream of impotent rage, throwing herself onto her back as she glares up into the sky and pants in exhaustion. Such is her outrage that she doesn't even respond for a moment when you, Roan and your shaggy horse appear above her, peering down at the thoroughly defeated farmgirl with interest. After a moment, though, her nicely tanned skin goes pale and squeaks before scrambling to her feet and trying to stammer out a greeting. You and Roan share a baffled look as she tries to introduce herself, welcome you to her farm, remember if she's meant to bow or curtsy then opt to try both, and blame everything on the ox all at the same time. Eventually, Roan takes pity on the poor woman and hops down from the horse.

"So!", Roan declares as she inspects the farmgirl's plow, "Having some problems, then?" The girl nods silently as she tries to catch her breath, then suddenly gives a start as she for the first time notices how very pregnant Roan is. She glances over to you in surprise only to start again as she takes in your towering height. Your valet cuts through her shock as she puts a hand to her chin, concluding her investigation with a sage nod. "Hmm...well, I think I've figured out your problem. It appears your ox is asleep."

The girl has apparently has no idea how to respond to that, her mouth working noiselessly as she stares at the clearly pleased with herself Roan. She's quite pretty, actually, when she isn't berating farm animals. Roan claps her hands together, giving a resolved nod. "So, we'll help you out then, hey?"

The girl is struck out of her spell by that, quickly throwing up her hands and waving them frantically. "Oh no, I could never! That'd, it'd, I mean, it be, you're guests! And royalty! I should, I...um..."

She trails off as you slip off your cloak, quietly moving over to the plow. Can't say you've ever done this before, but it looks pretty simple? You unstrap the snoozing ox, the girl's light blue eyes widening a touch as you speak for the first time. "What's your name?"

"Um, Lottie. Er, Charlotte. Ah, my lord!"

Her eyes go even wider as you take hold of the jammed plow and pull it free with a single mighty heave, your shirt audibly groaning as your muscles bulge. Roan gives you a cheer and the farmgirl swallows unsteadily as you lead your stout little horse over, setting about fitting him in. "You don't have to call me that, Lottie."

Lottie swallows again. "Okay."

With that, you and your horse set to work tilling the rest of the field as Roan hooks an arm through Lottie's, turning to lead her back to her cottage. "Let's leave them to it, Lottie. Besides, I've always found princes do the best plowing." If the farmgirl picked up on Roan's rather unsubtle double entendre or the wink she wafted back towards you, she gives no sign of it as your valet leads her away. So we're doing farmwork now? This has got to be the least adventurous fairy tale of all time, if that is what this is.

Not that you're complaining. A problem with a clear, reachable solution? That's a welcome reprieve amidst all this magical fuckery. And, you know, actual fuckery.