He spots you.

Donald's eyes alight on you. You inwardly sigh, as he sets the woman, an alluring, raven-haired elf in black leathers aside and bounds over to you.

The prince is tall, well-muscled, with a shock of ginger hair and a beard to match, thick enough that it conveys an impression of power and experience beyond his relative youth.

"You must be the new King we've all heard about!" he burrs, extending his hand.

You stare down at his offered handshake, unable to reciprocate. It's a few excruciating seconds before it dawns on him.

The much taller prince lowers his hand, instead pulling you in for a full body embrace. You gasp slightly, it seems he doesn't quite know his own strength, before patting him on the back with your good arm.

"I'm Donald. Prince Donald." Donald tells you, once he releases his grip on you.

"I'm Edward. It's pleasure." you respond, willing yourself not to stammer or slur in his presence.

"King Edward, ye should say." he reminds you. "Been a while since we've had a crowned head at one of these things. Hope it won't stop you from getting yer hands dirty, havin' a bit a' fun with the rest of us."

"Hasn't stopped me so far." You tell him with a smile. Donald roars with laughter, slapping your back.

"Good man, good man! You know, I remember your mother coming here one year. Happy to say I had the pleasure of her. Er... had the pleasure of speaking to her." the Crown Prince quickly restates.

You couldn't blame him. If he was even the one to instigate it. A demon in a sexual frenzy was a great and terrible thing.

"We're just passing a bottle around by the fire while the servants set our tents up. You're welcome to join, if you'd like."

Not having anything better to do, and wanting to develop good relations with Donald, you agree, sitting on a log on one side of him, the dark-haired elf you'd eyed before on the other.

You spend the next hour or so talking and drinking with Donald's men. When the conversation turns to martial feats, boasts of military prowess, you do your best to join in, despite it being obvious to all your presence on any battlefield would be tantamount to a suicide attempt.

When the talk turns ribald, however, filthy tales of debauchery, group encounters, you keep your mouth shut. You imagine these men would find some of your past bedroom exploits a little too unusual.

"And then... then I bent that filly down, rode her harder than I ever have a horse!" Donald sputters, taking a hearty swig of drink after finishing his anecdote.

"That's my brother for you." A new voice comes from behind, as a confident ginger-haired woman arrives between you and Donald, snatches the bottle from his hand and finishes it.

"Would much rather talk, instead of doing anything of value." the redhead finishes.

"This, Edward, is my delightful sister, Kara. She's been crashing these things ever since she was old enough to ride a horse."

"Not sure I'd call it crashing." Kara responds.

"Aye, what would you call it then?" Donald asks.

"Competing. An' winning." Kara says confidently, dropping the drained bottle for a servant to pick up.

"Kara's a wrestler, Edward." Donald chuckles. "I keep telling her, there must be easier ways to get men on top of her. They must have gigolos in Itheria, eh?"

You shrug.

"I've defeated every man Itheria's sent us the past two years, I plan to do it again."

The fit redhead's remarks draw cheers and small smatterings of applause from the other men of Beatha, if not her brother.

"I imagine my men are in for a treat, win or lose." you smirk towards Kara. She smiles wickedly.

"Not much of a treat." the princess scoffs. Unless they're into humiliation and bone-breaking pain."

"It's getting late. I need to get some rest." Kara decides. "I'd suggest you do the same, dear brother, but we both know you'll be carousing until dawn. King Edward, it was an honour."

You watch her walk off, the curve of her toned yet womanly body as she goes making you wish you could limp after her, and keep her from her rest.