They remained entwined for a long moment, kissing deeply, until Alistair felt Abby's breath growing ragged and pulled away, reluctant to let her go.
"Master…" she murmured, lying back in the crook of his arm. Her hair was a silken cascade across his chest, her slender hands still looped around his neck. A lovely blush colored her cheeks, and her hazy, unfocused eyes were full of a misty light. She bit gently on her pink lower lip, her fluffy tail wrapped tightly around Alistair's waist in a picture of submissive shyness.
Alistair was about to lean down and kiss her again when her soft fingers gently pressed against his lips, stopping him.
"M-Master… we can't," she whispered, her voice husky. "The monsters… We have to run first. When we're safe… then we can make love."
Abby struggled to sit up, but her body was pliant and weak, her strength stolen by his kisses. She collapsed back into his arms with a soft sigh.
"There are no monsters," Alistair chuckled, lightly flicking her nose. He sat up, pulling her into his lap on the edge of the bed. "What you saw was a minotaur warrior. He's one of my new retainers."
"No monsters…? He's one of your retainers?" Abby nestled obediently against him, her soft cheek pressed to his chest, her voice full of confusion.
Alistair held her waist with one hand and took her small hand with his other, stroking it gently. "That's right," he said softly. "The one you saw when you opened the door. The one you only came up to the knee of."
Abby stared at him, her eyes wide. Then, as the memory returned in full, she let out a small squeak and buried her face in his chest in embarrassment.
Just as the atmosphere in the room was growing increasingly intimate, Goodwin's figure suddenly appeared in the open doorway, his cheerful voice booming into the room.
"My Lord! There's an urgent letter for you, you should… uh…"
Goodwin, his hand on the doorframe, looked up and saw the scene. He instantly wished he could claw his own eyes out. He snapped his head up to stare at the ceiling. "Right, well, my Lord, you just carry on," he said with a strained laugh. "I'll just leave the letter on the floor here. I saw nothing. I heard nothing…" He quickly placed the letter on the ground and turned to bolt.
"Get back here!"
The low voice, laced with fury, froze Goodwin in his tracks. My luck's gone sour, he wailed internally. He turned around, his head bowed, and shuffled slowly back to the doorway.
Alistair looked at him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I was thinking," he said slowly, "that one month of washing underwear and socks was perhaps too light a sentence. We're extending it to three months. You. Have. No. Objections. Do you?"
"None, my Lord…"
"Good. You may go." Alistair waved a dismissive hand, wanting the man out of his sight.
"Yes, my Lord…"
Not long after Goodwin had fled, Abby disentangled herself from Alistair's embrace. Blushing furiously, she climbed off the bed, smoothed the wrinkles in her dress, and performed a quick curtsy.
"Master, you-you have business to attend to," she stammered. "Abby… Abby will take her leave now. I still have lessons with Mrs. Agnes…"
Without waiting for a reply, the young woman turned and fled from the room as if escaping a fire.
"Hey—"
Alistair raised a hand, intending to ask her to stay, but she was already gone. He could only shake his head with a helpless sigh and retrieve the letter from the floor.
The urgent dispatch was from a certain Baron Hawthorn. Alistair skimmed it. After roughly several pages of fawning praise and useless drivel, the final hundred words or so contained the letter's actual purpose: a plea for aid.
Baron Hawthorn was requesting his neighbor Alistair's assistance because his domain, Sablewood Creek, was under attack by orcs.
Sablewood Creek was situated just south of Frostfell, adjacent to Silversky Town, and was named for the creek that flowed through it, which was rich in black-spotted fish. As for whether to aid them, the answer was obvious. Sablewood Creek served as a natural barrier between Frostfell and the Orc Empire. If the orcs wanted to attack Frostfell directly, they would have to cross the treacherous Frostfang Range, a far more difficult proposition. They were the first domino; if they fell, Frostfell would be next.
But wars cost money. Frostfell was not a wealthy domain. If Hawthorn thought ten thousand words of flattery was enough to make Alistair dispatch his own troops and spend his own resources to clean up Sablewood's mess, he was living in a dream world.
Still, for the sake of his own safety, Alistair certainly wouldn't sit back and do nothing — but he was going to use this opportunity to extort a heavy price from the pathetic baron.
Just then, the electronic chime of the system sounded in his mind.
[Ding! Daily Villain Quests have been refreshed.]
[Villain Quest 1: Steal the stockings of any maid in the castle.]
[Villain Quest 2: Extort resources worth more than 10,000 gold coins from a neighboring territory.]
[Villain Quest 3: Tease the beastkin saintess.]
Well, well, Alistair thought. This shameless system. Does it know I'm about to fleece Hawthorn and meet the players again? It was practically ordering him to go and flirt with the beastkin saintess. As for stealing stockings? Abby was the only maid in the castle; the system might as well have used her name. Besides, given their relationship, did he even need to steal them? He could probably just ask, and she wouldn't refuse.
His decision made, Alistair immediately penned a short reply to Hawthorn, clearly stating his conditions for sending aid. He was confident Hawthorn would agree. After all, nobles were, by and large, a cowardly lot who feared death above all else.
*****
"Extortion! This is highway robbery!"
In Sablewood Keep, a balding, pot-bellied middle-aged man was roaring, his face beet-red. He had been screaming like this all afternoon, ever since Alistair's reply had arrived.
The shattered remains of several plates lay on the floor around him, a silent testament to his fury. This impotently raging man was the lord of Sablewood Creek, Baron Hawthorn.
In the hall, his butler and guards stood to the side, not daring to make a sound.
"Look at this! Just look at what he wrote! Ten thousand gold coins! Five hundred sets of armor! And grain?!" Hawthorn shrieked. "If I had all that, what would I be doing holed up in Sablewood Keep? I'd be counter-attacking the Orc Empire's royal court!"
"And the worst part! The absolute worst part! That bastard actually said I could write him a promissory note if I couldn't pay right away!"
"Doesn't that bastard know that if Sablewood Creek falls, Frostfell is next?!"
Hawthorn stomped around the hall in a rage. He looked up and saw his subordinates all pretending to be statues, which only enraged him further. "A pack of useless fools! What good are any of you?!"
He kicked his butler, Lazlo, hard in the side, then drew the longsword from his belt. "Lazlo," he snarled, "you're supposed to be the clever one, aren't you? Don't think I don't know about you skimming my tax money! If you don't come up with a solution for me today, I'll chop off your damned head and feed it to the dogs!"
Threatened with the sword, the butler Lazlo nearly wet himself. "My Lord, mercy!" he begged, his voice cracking with fear. "Let me think!"
Sweat poured down Lazlo's face. He didn't know why his usually sharp mind was failing him at such a critical moment. He could see his lord's eyes growing colder, the sword inching ever closer to his neck.
"I've got it!"
In a flash of inspiration, a rough idea took shape in his mind. His body relaxed so suddenly that a wet fart escaped him.