I walked out into the courtyard of Ravenhold Keep. It was supposed to be the seat of my power. Instead, it was essentially a glorified rock with a wooden fence. Today, it looked like a medieval garage sale run by crazy people.
Willem, my sixty-five-year-old steward, walked beside me. He clutched his ledger to his chest. He looked like he was about to have a stress-induced heart attack.
A line of starving peasants stood in the ankle-deep mud. They were holding absolute garbage. Word had spread fast. They knew I let Farmer Jeb pay his twenty percent Keep tax with his thick daughter. Now, everyone wanted the same deal. But they didn't have hot daughters. They just had trash.
I stopped in front of the first man in line. He was holding a rope. Tied to the rope was a pig. The pig only had three legs. It looked incredibly depressed.
"Lord Voss," the man said, bowing nervously. "I have no grain. The King takes seventy percent. If I pay the Keep's twenty percent, my family will eat weeds. But I offer you this fine beast to clear my debt!"
I stared at the pig. The pig stared at me.
This is a joke, I thought. The Kingdom of Aldoria has zero magic and zero dragons. But it definitely has a hundred ways to waste my time.
"That pig is missing a leg," I pointed out.
"He is a survivor, My Lord! Very brave!"
I looked at the next person in line. It was an old woman holding a cracked clay jar. The smell coming out of the jar was worse than the horse shit in the stables.
"What is that?" I asked, pointing at the jar.
"Fermented badger milk, My Lord," the old woman said proudly. "A family recipe. It cures the stomach worms."
I rubbed my temples. My head hurt. I wanted to be back in my room sniffing Elara's S-tier dirty laundry. Instead, I was dealing with this.
"This loot drop is total dogshit," I said loudly. "You guys are giving me NPC behavior. I cannot run a Keep on badger milk and an amputee pig. Where is the silver? Where are the S-tier assets?"
The peasants stared at me blankly. They had no idea what a loot drop or an NPC was. Willem groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"Allow me, My Lord."
I turned around. Marta stood behind me. She was thirty-two, busty, and built like a brick shithouse. She had just come from the washhouse. Her homespun dress was damp. A glistening layer of sweat covered her collarbones. She smelled like harsh lye soap, hot steam, and rich, unwashed female exertion. It was glorious.
Marta stepped in front of the confused peasants. Her face was completely flat and serious. She was secretly amused by my absolute bullshit.
"The Lord says your offerings are completely worthless," Marta announced loudly, translating my modern slang for the medieval crowd. "He suspects you are acting like simpletons on purpose. He demands actual value, or he will put you all back to work in the mud."
"Thank you, Marta," I said, grinning at her damp chest. "Your translation software is flawless."
"The Lord appreciates your time, but he thinks you are idiots," Marta added without missing a beat.
The peasants hung their heads. The man with the three-legged pig looked like he was going to cry.
"Wait," I said, holding up a hand. An idea popped into my perverted, sarcastic brain. "I won't take the pig for taxes. But we can use it."
Guard Captain Thorne marched over. He was forty years old and a gruff, loyal meathead. His rusted chainmail clinked as he stopped next to me.
"Use it for the kitchens, My Lord?" Thorne asked, glaring at the pig.
"No, Thorne," I said, crossing my arms. "I got a letter from Baron Grell yesterday. He is still crying about the forty silver stags for his spoiled mead. He thinks he is better than us because he has polished armor and real money."
"He is a pompous prick, My Lord," Thorne agreed with a heavy nod.
"Exactly. So, we are going to send him a message. A psychological attack," I said, waving my hand at the terrible tribute line. "Thorne, I want you to take this three-legged pig. And the fermented badger milk. Put them in a fancy wooden box. Draw a crude picture of male genitalia on the lid. And leave it at Baron Grell's front gate."
Thorne blinked. His thick brow furrowed as his brain tried to process the order. He was a simple man. He thought everything I said was a profound military strategy.
"A... a crude drawing, My Lord?" Thorne asked slowly.
"Yes. The cruder, the better. Make the balls uneven. It establishes dominance."
Thorne's eyes suddenly lit up. He slammed his fist against his chest in a crisp salute. "Brilliant, My Lord! We strike at his pride! We send him our broken beasts and sour milk to show we do not fear his wealth! A masterful insult to his lineage!"
"Sure," I said. "Let's go with that. Just make sure the badger milk is leaking a little."
"At once, Lord Voss!" Thorne shouted. He grabbed the pig's rope from the terrified peasant and marched away toward the armory, yelling for his guards to find a box.
Willem looked like he was going to cry. "You are starting a war with our wealthiest neighbor over a sick pig and a bad drawing, My Lord."
"It's called boundary setting, Willem," I corrected him. I turned my attention back to the line of peasants. They were all staring at me with a mix of awe and sheer terror. I had completely lost my mind, and they knew it.
"Alright, listen up!" I shouted at the crowd. "The Weird Tribute loophole is officially closed! I am not taking your garbage. If you cannot pay the twenty percent in grain or silver, you pay in labor. Period."
The peasants groaned.
"However," I added, a slow, degenerate smirk creeping onto my face. "If you have a daughter, sister, or wife between the ages of eighteen and thirty who doesn't mind hard work and sweating profusely... send them to the Great Hall tomorrow. I am starting a new tax relief program. It's called the Ravenhold Maid Initiative."
Marta let out a sharp, derisive snort next to me.
"The Lord says he is still a massive pervert and only wants young women to clean his castle," Marta translated loudly for the crowd.
"I am standing right here, Marta," I complained.
"I am making sure they understand the terms of the contract, My Lord," she replied deadpan. She crossed her thick arms, pushing up her impressive cleavage.
I couldn't even be mad. She was right. And the musky, humid smell rolling off her damp clothes was entirely too distracting.
"Fine," I said, turning away from the muddy courtyard. "Willem, deal with the rest of these people. Marta, come with me. I need to inspect the servant quarters. Elara and Sienna should be done with their chores soon, and I want to make sure their beds are properly... ventilated."
Marta rolled her eyes, but a faint smirk played on her lips. The Keep was falling apart, the neighbors were going to attack us, and the economy was a disaster. But as I walked back inside, following the sway of Marta's thick hips, I realized something important.
Being a vulgar medieval Lord was actually pretty fun.