The Baron's Mansion

"Y-you're Majesty, I am so very blessed to behold your presence here at my humble abode!"

Baron Van Hoff was as you remembered him. That is to say, he was still a simpering peon and corpulent beyond belief. You'd rather hoped time would have thinned him, so at least he was not so unpleasant to look upon. And the smell. Good Gods.

You skipped the formalities, laying the out the charges and opening the floor to argument. The dispute went about as you expected: Harrows spitting vitriol and Van Hoff's cowering denials. Gods you missed the days of your forefathers when dueling was an acceptable resolution to conflicts among the nobility.

Ultimately you had **** but to strip Harrows of his title in the face of no evidence to support his claims. Harrows spirit seemed to collapse in on itself as he heard your verdict, all the anger draining out and leaving him deflated and empty. It was a sorry affair really, made all the worse by Van Hoff's insistence that they stay for dinner. As the king you suppose you could have refused but it would have set a bad precedent.

Naturally, you found yourself sitting next to the smelly fat baron himself, facing an equally displeased Lady Vessa. At least the Baron seemed to have a disproportionate number of highly attractive female servants. Though you had to admit they were surprisingly... forward. You're pretty sure this is the most cleavage you've ever seen in one place. Lady Vessa eyed them, and you, reproachfully. You didn't much care, anything to distract you from your hosts company.

At least he had an abundance of drink, which Lady Vessa had used as a means to escape some time ago to relieve herself. She was taking a suspiciously long time to return. Smart woman.

You were trying and failing to feign interest in the Baron's stained glass window when Vessa returned, taking your baleful glare in stride and settling down with a **** smile. You blink, squinting hard at her bright teeth. If you didn't know better it looked almost... genuine. You dismiss it out of hand but as the night goes on you start to notice her lack of disgust and suffering more and more. She almost seems like she's enjoying herself.

"-to which the maid responded, 'only if you do mine first'!" Baron Van Hoff and Lady Vessa roared with laughter, the many servants standing about tittered gleefully, the fire roared merrily, and you stared at all of them like they were talking animals. What in the gods-forsaken hells was going on?

An altogether too long time later, you manage to escape to your quarters. So lost and confused were you that you failed to take advantage of the myriad servants demurely attempting to capture your attention. You sat next to the fire in your guest room, staring into it and letting the buzz clear. You'd had rather a lot to drink to make it through the beginning of the night, maybe the second half would make sense when you sobered up. Doubtful.

You just couldn't get over the sight of Lady Vessa, the proper and distant court mage, laughing uproariously at the fat barons bawdy jokes. It flew in the face of every memory you'd ever had of her and you'd known her since before you could remember. Being half elf, as far as you know she hadn't aged a single day since you'd been born. You'd had a huge crush on her growing up, you and every red blooded man in court, and she'd gently turned you down in your teenage years when you finally got the courage up to talk to her about it. It had hit you pretty hard but you'd moved on. Or you thought you had.

This was a double whammy:

1. She was capable of unwinding, just not with you.
2. She was unwinding with him.

You stared into the fire so intensely that you didn't notice the knocking until a pretty face peeked inside at you.

"Your Majesty? May I come in?"

You grunt noncommittally, suddenly wishing you had another drink on hand. The servant girl takes it as a yes and stepped up to your chair, waiting for you to look up at her. She was a pretty young thing, nicely curved but not in an overt way. Her body spoke of innocence rather than desire, promised comfort instead of passion. You knew all this because she wasn't wearing a shred of clothing. She gave you a nervous smile as you sized her up.