I stood outside the washhouse, my back plastered with a thick, steaming layer of equine misery. In 2024, this would be a crisis demanding a hazmat suit, a two-hour scalding shower, and burning my clothes in a trash can. Here in the glorious Kingdom of Aldoria? It was just Tuesday.
I pushed the heavy wooden door open a fraction more, slipping through the crack to avoid announcing my majestic, shit-covered arrival. The heat inside hit me like a physical wall. Plumes of scented steam rolled through the chilly air, thick enough to obscure the far end of the stone room. It was basically a medieval sauna, but instead of overpriced spa music, the air was filled with the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of wet fabric hitting stone.
Through the haze, I could make out the silhouettes of my household staff hard at work. My pervy sixth sense was already in overdrive. There was Elara, and right next to her, Sienna. Their rough dresses were hiked up to their knees to avoid the puddles, giving me a fantastic view of their strong, toned calves. And then there was Prudence. "Pru," as the memories vaguely supplied. She was a newer addition to the keep, a twenty-five-year-old maid who carried herself with a surprisingly formal medieval grace—and possessed a pair of breasts so heavy and an ass so thick they practically deserved their own zip codes.
My inner monologue immediately started assigning them RPG titles. Prudence Wetley. Marta Strongarm. Willem Gruntfucker. It was the only way my brain could cope with the sheer absurdity of my new reality.
I needed to get out of my ruined clothes before the peasant-level poverty permanently absorbed into my pores, but my eyes were locked onto the real prize. Sitting near the door, practically glowing in the dim light, was the large woven wicker basket. It was overflowing with the morning's laundry—tunics, aprons, and a glorious pile of rough-spun, damp, sweat-soaked undergarments. Marta's, Elara's, Sienna's.
Jackpot.
I shimmied out of my shit-stained trousers and tunic, kicking them into a dark corner. Standing completely naked in the drafty antechamber of the washhouse, I approached the wicker basket like Indiana Jones approaching the Holy Grail.
It was time to inaugurate the official Ravenhold Sweat Sommelier Tier List.
I reached out with trembling hands and pulled the top prize from the pile. It was a sturdy, thoroughly worn pair of linen smallclothes. They were damp, heavy, and radiated a residual body heat that sent a jolt straight south of my equator. I brought them up to my face, closing my eyes, and took a deep, greedy lungful of air.
Incredible.
It wasn't a delicate, floral scent. This was the raw, unpasteurized essence of a medieval woman who had spent the last eight hours hauling water and scrubbing floors. The initial bouquet was earthy, rich with the distinct tang of honest, hard labor. Beneath that, there was a sharp, salty note of pure exertion, finishing with a deep, musky, almost feral aroma that clung to the crotch fabric. I dragged my tongue lightly across the coarse linen, tasting the faint, intoxicating salt of dried sweat. It was a solid A-tier. Probably Elara's.
I dove back in, pulling out a slightly larger, thicker pair. I buried my face in them, practically snorting the aroma. Heavy woodsmoke, coarse lye, and the overpowering, mature musk of a woman who carried the stress of an entire keep on her shoulders. "Marta," I whispered reverently, taking another massive huff. This was S-tier material. It smelled like authority and unwashed thighs.
"My Lord?"
The voice cut through the steam like a battleaxe.
I froze, my face still firmly buried in Marta's damp, unwashed undergarments. Slowly, agonizingly, I lowered the linens.
Marta stood ten feet away, a wooden paddle in one hand and a terrifyingly flat expression on her face. She was drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to her neck, and the harsh lye soap had turned her forearms pink. Her eyes dropped to my completely naked, aggressively aroused state, then back up to the garments clutched in my fist.
"What," Marta asked, her voice dropping an octave, "in the name of the Seven Divines, are you doing?"
"Marta!" I barked, puffing out my chest and trying to project maximum lordly authority while completely nude. "Good. You're here."
"I am in the washhouse, My Lord. Where I work," she replied slowly, not breaking eye contact. "You are naked. In the washhouse. Holding my smallclothes."
"I am conducting a spot inspection!" I lied smoothly, waving the panties like a piece of crucial evidence. "Willem—Willem Gruntfucker, that is—informed me of our dire economic straits. As your Lord, I realized I must take a hands-on approach to our supply chain."
Marta blinked. "Supply chain?"
"Exactly! The fabric quality! It's abysmal. Feel this!" I thrust the damp linen toward her. "The threading is atrocious. How are my hardworking staff supposed to maintain morale when their... foundational garments are so chafing?"
"They chafe, My Lord, because we cannot afford to render proper tallow for fine soap," Marta said, her tone dangerously even. She crossed her arms, pushing up her impressive cleavage. "We use ash and rendered mutton fat. It burns the skin and ruins the linen. We requested a single silver stag for better lye three moons ago. You told us to wash in the river."
"Well, the old me was an idiot," I countered, frantically grabbing a relatively clean-looking apron from the basket to tie around my waist. "The new me is all about infrastructure. And hygiene. In fact, this basket? This entire basket is a hazard."
"A hazard."
"Yes. A structural hazard. I need to examine these garments thoroughly to assess the damage the mutton-fat lye is doing to our textiles." I pointed a commanding finger at her. "Have this entire laundry basket brought to my chambers immediately. Do not wash them. I need to inspect the... raw degradation."
Marta stared at me. She looked at the basket, then at my apron, then back at my face. The faint, amused smirk I had seen earlier threatened to break through her scowl. She knew I was full of shit. She knew I just wanted a private sniff shrine in my bedroom. But I was the Lord, and technically, I was giving a direct order about keep maintenance.
"As you wish, My Lord," she finally sighed, shaking her head. "I will have Pru bring the basket to your chambers. Shall I also have someone fetch the garments you left in the corner?"
"Yes, and burn them," I said, shuddering at the memory of the courtyard incident. "I slipped in the courtyard. The horses are a menace."
"Noted. Now, if you are quite finished 'inspecting' the textiles, we have actual work to do. And you, My Lord, still need a bath."
"Bring the water to my room. Cold is fine. Just make sure Pru delivers the basket first."
I turned on my heel, clutching the apron closed in the back to avoid flashing the rest of the washhouse, and marched out the door with as much dignity as a barefoot, half-naked pervert could muster. I had secured the payload. The Ravenhold Sniff Shrine was officially in business.
As I navigated the drafty stone corridors back toward my quarters, a loud, panicked shout echoed from the great hall ahead.
"My Lord! Lord Elaric!"
It was Thorne, the Guard Captain. He came jogging around the corner, his chainmail clinking loudly, his hand resting on the pommel of his rusted sword. He looked at my apron, paused for a split second of profound confusion, and then remembered his panic.
"My Lord," Thorne gasped, catching his breath. "Riders at the gate. It's Baron Grell's men. And they look heavily armed."
I groaned, leaning my head against the damp stone wall. Heavily armed neighbors at the gate, an empty treasury, and I didn't even have any pants.
"Tell them to wait," I muttered, tightening my apron. "I have a very important inspection to finish first."