The Valkyrie's Warhorn, a popular inn on the outskirts of the port town of Nautisk within the Kingdom of Noregr, was holding host to a troop of Snjórlandic soldiers, fresh from a recent conflict in the continent's southern climates. Battalions were a regular sight at the inn as they would often spend the night there to rest their fight-weary selves before shoving off in the morning to take part in their next bloody campaign across the sea or, on a slimmer chance, merely returning to Snjórland, should that be where they had originated. This particular group who was occupying the pub that night belonged to the latter category. They were, however, possibly the rowdiest gang of warriors the establishment had not seen since the days of barbarian war-chiefs pillaging villages centuries prior. The squad consisted of several orcs, a lone minotaur and a smattering of humans, one of whom being the heir-apparent to Snjórland's throne: Princess Jern.
Jern was the big sister to all the other successors, not just in age but also in size, personality and reputation. The first thing anybody would notice was her height; standing a clear few heads worth above most people. Combine that with her cropped, fiery, orange hair and pretty, if rather unwashed and bruised, face and she would be difficult to miss amongst a crowd, assuming her rumbustious vernacular did not already give her presence away. Currently, she was wearing a heavy set of battered steel armour, filled with many nicks and dents as reminders of her numerous past clashes, with her helmet removed to allow her mouth easier access to her pint. At the moment, she was standing up with two feet on a bench, exaggerating her already impressive stature, and merrily belting out a medley of off-key folk ballads as she haphazardly swung her umpteenth tankard of the evening around in the air, taking the occasional sloppy swig between verses.
"Everything's on me, lads! Go nuts!" Jern slurred, and was responded by a roar of cheers from her companions-in-arms as they joined in with her horribly out-of-tune singing. The staff had all huddled into the back end of the kitchens, praying to their gods that the unruly soldiers would eventually change their minds about partying the entire night away and all retire off to bed soon, as every single one of them was far too afraid to try and usher out a bunch of intoxicated, fully-armed orcs and the famous Iron Princess, even as a group. The outfit's merrymaking had scared, and was continually scaring, away any and all other customers, but at least their money was helping to soften the blow, as they had rented out every available rooms and were able to pay for their drinks without qualm. The benefits of being friends with somebody who has access to the royal treasury, I suppose.
The only sober one amongst the lot was Leif: Jern's young personal manservant-turned-squire whom she dragged away from his chores at Malmhule Castle to aid her on her quests (mostly in the form of carrying her equipment for her), following her around everywhere she ventured like an obedient pup, though refusing to partake in any direct combat nor, more relevantly, getting absolutely plastered. Rather, he just sat awkwardly by his lonesome as he observed the ensuing mania safely from afar.
"Oi, Larry! Is she always like this?" One of the orcs asked his fellow fighter. "I thought princesses were suppose to be...y'know, sweeter."
"You're new to the unit, right?" Larry replied. "Don't let 'er social standin' fool ya, kid. She's a wild child, that one."
"No foolin'! Did ya see 'er out on the field? I'm jus' glad I'm on her side. She's a demon with a zweihander! Never seen a fiercer fighter!"
"I dunno 'bout that...If we're talkin' about our best fighter, then I'd stake me salary on Pasiphaë any day o' the week."
"That's the cow-lady, innit? I s'pose ya hafta be strong if ya gotta carry tits that big every day."
Pasiphaë was sitting at a table opposite to Jern, sipping on her stein. She was a little more composed in her insobriety compared to her contemporaries; just quietly humming along to the war carols with a wide smile across her face. She stood out from the others, being the only minotaur in the contingent, with ivory horns poking up from each side of her skull that added an extra couple of inches to her decently tall height and made her seem roughly as large as the princess. The rest of her was also prototypical for her race: curled, fluffy deep brown hair that grew long past her shoulders, a bronze shade of skin, hooves replacing where a human would have their feet and a thin tail tipped with fur jutting from her lower back. Ironically, her most defining feature was bovine-like only in function rather than form, and that being the pair of massive humanoid mammaries bulging from her chest, each easily topping the size of her own head by at least one-and-a-half times the volume and only emphasised further by her choice in costume, wearing what was little more than an over-glorified bikini.
Her wardrobe unashamedly showed off all the endowments and curves on her finely toned body. It consisted only of two iron plates fastened to her chest with a cord of leather to keep her udders at bay and somewhat protected, though the circles did little to hide the vast majority of her boob-flesh from the world as they only covered roughly a third of the surface area on each globe, and a chainmail loin cloth fastened around her shapely hips, hanging and jangling from both the back and the front of her waist to just above her knees, shielding her otherwise naked genitals and plump buttocks. With no underwear to speak of, she had to keep mindful not to cross her legs lest she was actively seeking a mate for the evening; a diversion her loving househusband certainly would never approve of, and yet it was a diversion that happened far,
far
more frequently than he was wiser when his wife was on tour.
"Oh, it's not like I don't love him anymore or anything. Far from it! It's just that a girl still has her needs, and her sweet, widdle hubby-bumpkin isn't always going to be there to attend them, right? Besides, I
always
make sure to make up for the lost sessions whenever I'm home, plus a little interest just for him~ It's only fair, after all." Is how she would explain her skewed logic when confronted about her overt adultery. Perhaps there was some correlation between that and the six calves (and counting!) she had already mothered up till the present.
"Princess, haven't you had enough already...?" Leif advised his superior, with a prominent quaver of worry within the tone of his voice, while he watched her act even more rambunctiously than was normal.
"Yeah, right!" Jern guffawed, hopping back down onto her seat to give her sidekick a chummy, and unintentionally rough, slap on the back, the bridge of her nose glowing bright red. "It's not even midnight yet! This party's just getting started! Oh, wait, hang onto this, will you? I gotta go take a leak real quick..." Jern shoved her mug into Leif's hands quicker than he could consent before standing up and blindly stumbling backwards into a corner of the room, her foot kicking into a bucket and mop on the way which she instantly mistook for the privy in her sloshed state. Without a second thought, the princess unfastened the straps that kept her faulds in place, letting them fall to the wooden floorboards with a rude thud. Jern then pulled her simple, hemp-woven slacks down and moved her equally basic briefs aside to uncover her muff. She stationed herself above assumed latrine, spreading her sturdy legs and began to relieve herself for all the platoon to see with precisely zero concern.
Urine sprayed messily around the general area beneath her; some sprinkled onto the walls, most splashed on the ground around the bucket, and a little was actually able to land into the container she was aiming for. Naturally, there were many hoots of laughter and one naff wolf-whistle coming from the men while she was indecently exposing herself. Leif, feeling the humiliation on his master's behalf, averted his eyes as he darted towards the princess and ineffectively pulled on her burly arm while desperately trying to convince her that the corner was, in fact, not the little girl's room, yet Jern remained ignorant to his pleading, as if on purpose, while she continued to blissfully release the rest of her pent-up piss, some of which was starting to trickle down her robust inner thighs.
Eventually, Jern did listen to Leif, though not before she had already concluded her weeing. She reattached her armour and was guided back to her seat where she resumed her boozing as if she never even gotten up from her table at all. "Are ya sure yer a princess?" A single anonymous soldier could be heard shouting, to which Jern's only answer was the flash of her extended index and middle finger's backsides in the general direction from which she heard the shout come from without removing her lips from the rim of her cup.
"So...Jern or Pasiphaë?" One of the men asked his drinking buddy in a low voice from out of left field.
"Whaddaya mean?"
