It's not a bad gig, most days, even if the original shock was a bit much. A sleepy little goblin village at the foot of the Peaky Mountains had seen minding your own business, tinkering with a pile of scraps in an idle attempt to come with something that flushed the chamber pot on its own. There's still a market for that, damn it. But, as the phrase "minding your own business" might imply, life happened, and soon enough, you were scooped up by a marauding horde of marauders and deposited firmly in a whorehouse in Queen Helge's Bay.

Which turned out, on the whole, to be a good thing. Surrounded by willowy elven lasses and doe-eyed human girls with less cloth on their skin a dwarven baby, all you really had to do was show up. A sleepy stumble to the wash basin every morning, a half-awake trip to the chamber pot, some ghastly fashionable dress clearly cut for a taller woman with a smaller bust, and then milling about in Madamé Garibond's parlor as swordsmen and merchants sidled in for a shag. One by one, they all plucked the hands of some ethereal beauty up and toddled away to said lass's room for a bit of plunge-and-thump, and then back out again.

After about an hour, most days, no one would say anything when you retreated back to your chambers, opening the armoire for your tools and sitting back down to tinker. It was nary a month before Madamé Garibond's, known for such marvels as Thrusty Thursday specials and the Almost-Unstained Couches, was also known for the magical Self-Emptying Chamber Pots, and the queer lightning-in-a-bottle lighting that had taken much patient explaining of what wiring is to the skeptical madam.

Another day, today, then, watching the bright-eyed sailors and bards stroll in, eagerly casting their eyes on some buxom beauty twice your height. If only you had a little clock, on your wrist - there's an idea - to see how much more of this silly charade is left... No one ever has seemed to pick you, what with the -

"You!"

Somewhere in your reverie of recollection, things have developed. A bright-eyed man in suspiciously fine clothing has found his way in, squatting down before you and offering his hand.

"Are you, um, available? I'm sorry, but - gods, you're the one who did the plumbing, aren't you? And the lighting? I've heard rumors about you, miss, and the reality," he offers gallantly, "is that you're quite stunning besides."

Casting his eyes from side to side, the man leans in close with a conspiratorial whisper. Is he - is he being charming? This has got to be some sort of joke.

"Don't tell anyone, but every time I ride by here, I see you through the window, and I've only just screwed up the courage to ask if you'd like to spend some time. We can go back to my place, if that's allowed.

Following his outstretched arm brings your gaze beyond the window, up to the fluttering pennants of the Mad Queen's castle.

Shit. It all clicks into place, now.

This fucker's the Prince.

A rollicking story starter to a tale we can spin together! Don't be afraid; you don't need to write nearly as much as this; I myself tend to ramble on most setting a scene, anyway. Palace intrigues and charmingly rough fucks laced through with a story, is my intent here.

Kinks: Smart goblin lasses, stuffing their asses, licking them sweetly, mixing in story quite neatly.

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