Dress for the job you want, not the job you have

There's a sudden flash of blinding white light that fills the room, and even your pitiful flailing isn't enough to shield your eyes from the worst of it. What the fuck is that? What the fuck was that paper? What the fuck is this job, anyway?

All valid questions, but before you can ask them, you've got one more rattling around in your brain as your vision returns. Who the fuck put these pants on you?

And it's not just a pair of lovely dark green pants that's currently imprisoning your nudity. You've got some comfy green shoes, or more accurately, proper travelling boots, on your feet. You're wearing some kind of long sleeved stark white shirt too, although your torso is also covered up by a dark green leather vest covered in white painted tooling. The design is full of sweeps and curves, more a geometric pattern than anything resembling an image, although the part of the vest over your left pectoral also has the same runic eye you saw on the grimoire. Shit, this thing looks dope as hell. And, weirdly enough, the vest has coattails hanging off the back of it, going all the way down to your ankles, a like a fanciful white cape for your backside. A white wide brimmed pointed hat on your head completes the ensemble, and you'll be damned if this shit doesn't make you look like the suavest wizard you'd ever seen. You take a moment to appreciate your new look in the mirror, and even though you've still got rugged stubble instead of a giant beard, you're looking pretty fucking wizardly now. The only question is... how the fuck did these clothes appear out of thin air?!

That question is answered by your internal voice, which calmly tells you "Magic, duh." Right, of course it was magic. The magic you know how to use, what with all the spells you've researched. The research you've been doing while secluded for the last few years on the outer edge of the halfling village of Wayshire. The halflings who have come to call you "Crofton, the Great and Powerful", mostly because you told them to when you first arrived in the village. The village you chose because it was as far away from your father's castle as was possible while still being near enough to civilization to obtain your arcane reagents on the monthly wagon that rolled into town. The arcane reagents you used to complete that research, all of which you wrote down in the last few unfinished pages of the Grimoire. The Grimoire you were hesitant to permanently sign your name into, lest it lock your destiny into a course you had not yet been able to foresee. The destiny you were made aware of by said Grimoire when you first found it as a child, sequestered away in a hidden vault of the castle.

WHOA HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE WHAT THE FUCK

You stumble back from the mirror, slamming your shoulders against the door to the cottage, which of course you've lived in for FUCKING STOP THAT. You quickly grab at the knob, opening the door as you fall back out of the cottage and into the dirt path that goes by your house, your hat falling by your side in the process. You lie on the ground for a moment, catching your breath from your panic attack. As you pick yourself up, you can see that you're on top of a small hill, overlooking a town (which you knew was Wayshire) full of quaint little halfling burrows dug into the beautiful green hillsides. You can see now that a cute little halfling lass, barely over three feet tall, is walking by your house, a small basket full of bottles of milk in her arms.

"Good morning, Crofton!" says Keena (whose name you've of course known for years), as she approaches you with her daily delivery of milk. "That was quite the tumble you took there!"

You laugh, a little embarrassed, as you pick up your hat and dust the dirt off of it. "Yes, well, even the great and powerful among us can have a stumble every now and then," you say in a surprisingly handsome voice, the deep tones of it brimming with gravitas. Which wasn't really that surprising, actually, since it was exactly the voice you've had since you became a man.

She giggled at your good-natured humility, and handed you your morning glass of milk. "Sorry I can't stay and chat this morning, I'm a little behind on my rounds. Take care now, Crofton!" she called, same as she did every day, as she continued her morning stroll around the village.

"And you, Keena!" you responded, like you did every morning.

You stood there for a moment as she faded from sight, taking in what had just happened. You're a fucking wizard prince. You've got a fucking magic book. You've got crazy magic clothes. You've got memories you're not entirely aware of. You're even rocking a sexy bod, with a cock probably twice the size of your old one.

So now, all of that in mind, you're starting to think there was more to that job application than you originally thought.