I stood in the drafty stone corridor of Ravenhold, the damp cold seeping into my bare feet. I was thirty years old, possessing an average build and a fresh spear-scar on my ribs. I was supposed to be Lord Elaric Voss, the master of this domain, but currently, I was just a barefoot degenerate wearing nothing but a relatively clean-looking apron tied around my waist.
Guard Captain Thorne, a forty-year-old gruff, loyal meathead, stared at my makeshift loincloth. He clearly didn't know whether to salute me or throw a blanket over me.
"Riders at the gate, My Lord," Thorne repeated, his chainmail clinking loudly. "It's Baron Grell's men. And they look heavily armed."
"Let them look," I grumbled, tightening the knot on the apron. "Ravenhold Keep is essentially a glorified rock with a wooden fence. If they want to siege us, they can just push really hard on the east wall. What do they want?"
"They demand an audience, My Lord. They speak of a debt."
My modern, basement-dwelling asshole pervert brain immediately connected the dots. The Keep's steward, Willem, had mentioned this earlier. Our treasury held a pathetic forty-two silver stags, a handful of copper pennies, and an I.O.U. from Baron Grell for three barrels of mead that he claimed were 'spoiled' upon delivery.
"Right. The spoiled mead," I sighed. "Alright, Thorne. Show them into the courtyard. But tell them to watch their step. The stable boy has the ague, and the horses have been unconstrained."
I marched toward the main doors with all the confidence a man in a stolen washhouse apron could muster. I was horny, rude, and coasting entirely on dumb luck and audacity. If these medieval repo men thought they could intimidate me before I'd even had my cold river-water bath, they were out of their minds.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped out into the glorious, complex symphony of odors that made up my kingdom: wet dog, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, acidic tang of manure.
Waiting in the mud were three men on horseback, wearing polished leather armor that made my own guards look like they were wearing tin foil. The leader, a man with a mustache that looked like a dead caterpillar, sneered down at me.
"Lord Voss," the man barked. "We come on behalf of Baron Grell. The Baron demands the forty silver stags owed for the spoiled mead. He expects payment immediately."
I crossed my arms, fully aware that the movement hitched my apron up an extra inch. "Forty silver? Are you out of your mind? My entire treasury holds exactly forty-two silver stags. If I give you forty, my peasants will be eating rocks and weeds —well, more than they already do. The King already takes seventy percent of the taxes. You tell Baron Grell he can take his debt out of the King's share."
The man's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Thorne instantly stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his rusted sword.
"This is not a negotiation, Voss. The Baron—"
"The Baron can suck my perfectly average medieval cock," I interrupted loudly, injecting 100% of my modern crude inner monologue into the medieval atmosphere. "The mead was fine when it left Ravenhold. If Grell couldn't store it properly, that's a skill issue. Now, get off my property before I have my men start throwing the steaming horse shit from the courtyard at you. It's the only abundant resource we have."
The riders exchanged bewildered glances. The old Lord Elaric drank himself into stupors; he didn't throw bizarre, aggressive insults while half-naked. The sheer confusion of my modern sarcasm broke their momentum.
"You are mad," the leader spat, tugging his horse's reins. "The Baron will hear of this disrespect."
"Tell him to leave a Yelp review!" I shouted as they turned their horses toward the gate. "And tell him to bring his own toilet paper next time, because we don't have any!"
As the riders galloped away, sputtering in indignation, Willem appeared at my side. The sixty-five-year-old was constantly on the verge of a stress-induced heart attack due to my antics. He let out a long, long-suffering sigh.
"You have just insulted our wealthiest neighbor while wearing a maid's apron, My Lord," Willem noted dryly.
"I established boundaries, Willem," I corrected him, turning back toward the keep. "Now, where is my bath? I need to wash off this peasant-level poverty."
"Marta has arranged the tub in your chambers, My Lord. Though as I warned you, the river water has not been heated."
"Cold is fine," I muttered, shivering as a gust of wind hit my bare legs. "Just tell me Pru delivered the laundry basket."
"She did, My Lord. Though why you require a basket of the maids' dirty smallclothes remains a mystery I pray the Gods never explain to me."
"It's an infrastructure inspection, Willem," I lied smoothly. "Vital lordly duties."
I hurried through the damp, gray rock corridors that permanently smelled of mildew and mouse droppings. When I pushed open the heavy wooden door to my chambers, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Sitting in the center of the room was a large wooden tub filled to the brim with freezing, murky river water. But that wasn't what stopped me.
Standing beside the tub were Elara and Sienna. Twenty-four and twenty-three years old, they were athletic maids and the Keep's resident lesbian power couple. Even better, they had just come from the washhouse. They were the sweatiest girls in the keep, and the humid, musky aroma of their exertion filled the room.
Their rough dresses were still hiked up to their knees to avoid the puddles, and their faces were flushed with heat.
"Marta sent us to assist with your bath, My Lord," Elara said, her eyes dropping to my apron with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Sienna stood slightly behind her, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Over by my miserable, rock-stuffed mattress , the wicker basket full of S-tier and A-tier panties sat waiting for me. And right in front of me were the two women who produced them, offering to scrub me down.
Escapism through degeneracy rather than overpowered abilities. That was the motto.
I reached down and untied the knot of my apron, letting the fabric fall to the cold stone floor.
"Well," I said, flashing them a thoroughly unrepentant grin as I stepped toward the freezing water. "Let's see how good you girls are at scrubbing."