A compromising scene.

As you hobble towards your tent, you hear the telltale signs of sordid relations. Moving quietly, you reach the tent and pull back the front flap ever so slightly, spying inside.

Vanessa is on her knees on your bed, in a state of complete undress, auburn hair spilling down her pale body, her sumptuous arse pointed towards you.

Standing at the side of your bed, currently enjoying the talented whore's oral ministrations, is Sir Malcolm. The same Sir Malcolm assigned to guard your body. The same supposedly devoted to his ravishing wife, Bethany and two children. You can't help but snicker. It seemed the Contests had driven even a man as upright as Malcolm to a flight of sexual fancy.

Still, you imagined there were plenty of Beathan tramps around to skewer. The idea he would plough your whore, in your tent, did rankle you somewhat.