It's a celebration, bitches!

The renfair nerds knew how to act, and how to party. And by party, you mean holy shit they knew how to party. One minute you're covered in blood and shit and whatever else and before you know it you've commandeered the castle of the King of Tirel and celebration mode is in full swing. There is mead, ale, and beer flowing like rivers and wine being guzzled by the bottle while maids of all kinds bustle in and out of the hall. It seems that the people of Tirel aren't too picky about who leads them; you over hear King Big Red (as you'e come to call him) talking about how Tirel gets conquered and reconquered about every twenty years or so, which makes you feel substantially less impressive.

A lady brings you a tankard of stout, and you fumble in the back of your pants (or rather, breaches?) for your wallet. "Huh. Guess I forgot my wallet. I uh... Am I old enough to drink this?"

It was an odd question. You'e twenty, you remember, but more importantly you want to know the laws, rules, whatever of whatever renascaince fair you've arrived at. She looks at you like you're stupid.

"Aren't you a prince, mahlord?" She says. " I reckon you're old enough to do whatever you damn well please."

That sinks in while you unapologetically stare at her cleavage.

"Noted."

Another look like you're stupid. Huh. It's almost like these people barely even speak the same language... Except that they do. She traces a hand between her cleavage for a moment to see your reaction, smiles, and wanders off to deliver more stout to the conquering heroes. She even takes the King a tankard of stout.

You raise yours, sniff, it and take a sip. It tastes something like Guinness poured through a dirty sock, and then pissed in. You cough, barely staving off a ****, and catch the bewildered looks of some of the other revelers. Oh shit, you realize; you can't **** on ****. You're the fucking Prince. You have to be the example!

You muster the all the will you have in your body and stifle your **** reflex, turn the stout up, and guzzle it. Now the men cheer as your wipe your chin with the back of your shirt sleeve. You feel a beard, a thick one at that, rub against the fabric. Huh. How hard did you get hit in the head, anyway? Surely you'd have remembered growing a beard this manly?

The barmaid that brought you the stout wanders by again and you catch her by the arm.

"Bring me a mirror." You say.

Another puzzled look. Maybe you're an alien?

"A looking glass, mahlord?" She says inquisitively.

"Yes, yes, a looking glass. Now go on." You say. You give her arm a squeeze and, instead of shock, she bites her lip and smiles and saunters off.

You curse under your breath. These guys are way, way too into their roles when you can't even get mirrors and stitches without it sounding like an unreasonable request.

As you wait for the looking glass you are approached by a woman that, for the most part, seems to walk through the crowd undisturbed. Some of the waitresses speak to her and bow and step back, but your people ignore her for the most part save to gaze upon her beauty like hungry dogs. She's tall, for a lady at least, with long dark hair that hangs down over skin as smooth as silk. Her body is covered in a dark blue, almost black dress that is studded with gems all over. A hint of leg appears and disappears in a slit that goes up the side of the dress while a pair of large C's, maybe even D's peek out of the top of the ensemble to form cleavage that you'd like to do nothing better to than plant your face in. She smiles, her warm red lips more inviting than anything you've ever seen before.

"So you're the conquering Prince?" She says. A hand props on her hip. Your barmaid returns, a drink in one hand, a looking glass in the other. "I'm impressed. Usually we wind up conquered by these awful nemotoads that call themselves Princes just to gain my hand in marriage. But now here you are."

"I uhm, thanks." You say. You take the mirror from the other girl and use it to look at the top of your head. The gash is nasty and still crusty with blood. Then you realize something else...

That's not your face.

This is the face of a man older than twenty, not by much, and encased in a thick, though short, beard from ear to ear. Your skin is pristine sitting atop a jawline so manly that... Well fuck. You'd fuck you, and that's saying something because you'd never thought that way about another man, er, yourself... Whatever before.

"Holy shit..." You whisper. Your attendant looks confused again. You're certain she's probably tired of helping your crazy ass. The other lady just keeps smiling.

"Yes, impressive, like I said." She says. She reaches a hand out and rubs it across your chest. You feel the muscle rippling below your shirt. "Lydia, you may leave us for a moment. We'll see you again in my personal chambers."

The other girl says something that you don't catch and wanders off.

"Care to join me, for an explanation?" She says. Her hand continues over your chest and then down to your stomach. It feels like she's strumming a washboard through your clothes.

"I uhm... Yes. Sounds good."