Dear Diary,

I get that in a perfect world, every interaction with our loved ones, especially our significant others, would be a totally non-transactional, mutually mind-blowing, enthusiastically negotiated and consented to joysplosion, and also get that in the real world, sometimes you ring your partner's joy buzzer doorbell to scare off the Black Dog, but even with all that my current situation seems pretty fuckin' weird.

I gotta keep reminding myself that weird is not bad. I mean, intellectually? I knew that. Hell, my whole aesthetic back at Eastside was 'Freak Flags Forward, Fuckers!' when I wasn't, y'know, wallflowering to get away with shady shit. But even, maybe especially back then I knew, somewhere deep down inside, that there was something deeply wrong with me. If there wasn't, why couldn't I find anybody who really got me? Not even like, one person to say, 'I see you, and I am here for you, just as you are'? I think somewhere deep inside I'm still that girl who just wanted to be wanted, y'know?

Unpleasant truth time, that part of me still feels a little unwanted. Not from doubting Saffron or Marie. Not that I don't have moments of doubt there, where some part of me thinks that Saffron will finally get bored of her Himbo, or trade me in for a new, less damaged model, or just realize that she never loved me because I am, after all, fundamentally unlovable. Or the parts that think that when Marie finally drags me home to present me to D and her sisters, I won't wake up in the morning, because I've been forcing her to stay this whole time. Okay, did I say 'moments of doubt'? Because I sure as shit can't think fast enough to fall into those deep trenches of despair in moments. That shit takes some dedicated devotion to depression, and while I might come with a thick, gooey coating of overconfidence, it is, in fact, just a rich, creamy façade; ignore the slightly sour taste, that's just natural flavoring.

As you can no doubt tell from that last sentence, horny girl being horny may not actually be overcompensating or repressed trauma or any of that shit. Or at least not just that shit. I like sex. If you don't like sex, good on you, have fun being Ace and shit, if you're not repulsed I'll even swap fuck stories for... um... what the fuck kind of stories would Ace people have? Is this some kind of Ace joke I'm just too oversexed to understand? Maybe. But I'm cool with people being Ace. On the other hand, if you have an issue with me liking sex, you can get entirely fucked, in as many positions as you can imagine, because I am a kind and benevolent Goddess who responds to such offenses with the offer of enough carnal bliss to totally forget the neo-Puritan bullshit you were planning to spout.

But anyway, the Tabitha who landed her ass here via isekai still has doubts. I read a book about a dude who gets his brain transplanted into a chick, and by the end of the book goes full on 'I'm a woman now', and while I'm completely supportive of dudes born with a vajayjay or chicks who shipped from the factory with dicks, I'm in a position where I realize that the chassis can indeed affect the wetware and the software. Like, were I to ignore my whole 'love the cock too' bi nature and sort myself into one of the Four Canon Lesbian Houses, back at Eastside I think I'd be a Lipstick Lesbian of the big-naturals and dump-truck variety. Here, I'm clearly a Lumberjack Lesbian. For clarity, the other two houses are Livestock Lesbians and Leadership Lesbians. If you're wondering something like, 'but there are more than four types of Lesbians!', there ought to be more than four types of Wizards in the world, but try telling a TERF that. If you're wondering, 'don't those overlap a little sometimes...'

Seriously, I'm the one who's supposed to be dropping the innuendo here. In a perfect world, they overlap as often as refractory periods allow.

So yeah, the part of me that still expects to see a curvy brown girl when I look in the mirror, who wouldn't be shocked to see a powerlifting badass brown girl in the mirror? Has some real serious doubts about whether Saffron and Marie like 'me' or the chassis, if you see the difference. Which might not even be a real difference, but my trauma tells me it is, and it wouldn't lie to me, would it?

So yeah, letting Marie play with Saffron and I like a twelve year old exploring her sexuality by proxy with Barbie and Yasmin with the stated goal of quenching my thirst enough to not accidentally pop off while torturing some poor slob to death might not have been the healthiest of responses, nor the Ultimate Pinnacle of Morality, but it was unexpectedly fun and hot at the same time.

Still more than a little sweat drenched, I did my insta-clean trick on The Dress, who'd sunbathed her own self hung over the ersatz doorframe Conrad had used to deliver the fam to the stage, then put her on normally, since at that moment I definitely understood Saffron's whole 'putting armor on' aspect of getting dressed in a really nice outfit. I mean, The Dress was half-naked gladiator chic to Glowing Midnight's plate-and-chain battle armor, but still, armor is armor, and you don't put on armor to get your fuck on.

GODDAMMIT. Saffron's supposed to be the one giving me new kinks. I do not need me doing it too.

With the largest dose of 'fuck this shit' I have ever done anything, I simultaneously Translocated to Gregor's throne room and Co-Located to our Library Love shack. When I popped on a set of Dragonslayer Armor sans the shield Saffron popped up with the same look she had when I caught her eating secret sweets, for similar reasons. "Don't let me interrupt you. Just scooch over a bit." A quick Co-Location later I provided myself with an excellent distraction for dealing with Shitdick.

I'd intended to land on the floor facing Shitdick, but somebody'd shoved some tables together to make a big conference table looking thing, and I landed on the center as a super short, super wide dude with the fanciest braided beard I'd ever seen shouted, "fuck you, Gregor! I'll face her myself if I have to, but my boys can't 'burrow in under the stage', because she's on a goddamned fucking boat!"

I winced in sympathy, but before I could announce myself, a dude on the far side of the table from shorty said, "Here's the Jarl herself." He turned to Gregor and, with the tones you'd use to explain something painfully obvious to a little kid who couldn't seem to grasp gravity well enough to pour piss out of a slipper with shiny objects on the sole, said, "so any surprise from your 'sapper' idea is lost in any case." He turned back to me closed his eyes, and took a deep breath while mouthing the words, "thank Odin." The guy reminded me a lot of Lancaster. Cheaper dress, or maybe just more primitive, but still a dress. Same basic color scheme, although a little lighter. I think he also might have been taller and thinner, but with him sitting, me standing on the table, and the completely mismatched sizes of the people seated around the table, I couldn't really tell.

"GRAB HER!" screamed Gregor.

"FUCK YOU!" screamed shorty. Gregor went to stand, and I took a half step toward him, glaring. His ass remained dedicated to its close personal relationship with his throne.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I amplified my voice and said, "look, I'm just here to tell Shitdick the Gross that he's down to four attempts."

An oddly loud reedy voice came from behind me. "Not to kill him again?"

I looked over my shoulder to see a Jotnar, one who wouldn't have to duck to walk around under the sixty foot ceilings, but would need to stay near the center or risk smacking his head on the rafters. He sat tailor fashion, which impressed me given how fuckin' old he looked. Like, well past 'elderly' and into 'ancient'. I'd ballpark him as 'octogenarian' at youngest, 'old as shit' at oldest. His eyes still danced with humor, though, so I smiled up at him and shook my head. "Nah. I dunno if he told you the fuckin' rules, or if you were here for the concert, but I only kill him to death painfully when he sends someone after somebody else, or sends more than one person at a time at me."

"Your illusions do not frighten me, whore!" Gregor hissed at me. I spun to face him, jumping an inch toward him as I did. His ass once again declared its undying love for his throne.

Right about then not-Lancaster, his tone almost formally polite, asked, "so why are we 'down' to four attempts, if he did not manage to finagle yet another mass attack on your person?"

I dropped my gaze to the table, let out a breath, and focused on what I was doing in the Love Shack for a ten count. Then, before I completely lost track of Shitdick's Sidekicks, I took another deep breath, let it out, and turned to face not-Lancaster. "I told him this, but every twenty four hours he loses another attempt."

"Shit." He didn't sound angry. Well, maybe a little, but not at me. "Pardon, Jarl. We haven't been introduced. I am Jarl Weyson, current... well I suppose you'd call it 'adjutant' for King Gregor's forces. The fellow across from me with the magnificent beard is Jarl Svart, his 'quartermaster'. The expired jerky sitting on the floor is Champion Skasn; in your parlance he'd be the head of the 'Duelist's Guild'."

"Good to meet you all. But I'd call him," I nodded toward the old dude. "the most dangerous motherfucker in the room. Politely." When Weyson tilted his head, I explained. "His age, and a Duelist, and not, y'know, dead? I certainly wouldn't want the job of killing him after so many other people obviously failed."

"See, Gregor?" said Skasn. "She knows my worth. Pay my fee and she'll surrender."

I laughed at that. "Not what I said, but still proves my point. I said I wouldn't want to. Both because you seem like the nicest dude here along with being the most dangerous. But I'll still kill the fuck out of you if I have to."

He shot me a wry smile before he said, "I'd say I'd like to see you try, but..." he sighed. "I saw what you left of my son Olaf."

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, man. I didn't know."

He shook his head, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. "He knew the risks of the job when he took it. More fool him for not surrendering. He didn't surrender, did he?"

I shook my head. "Sorry. No, he didn't."

He sighed. "May I collect his remains?"

I shook my head, frowning. "Sorry. I had them burned. I didn't want him rotting or anything."

He closed his eyes and nodded. "It could be worse. If his ashes were not scattered, may I collect those, and any bones which remain?"

"Sure. All but the femurs."

His head tipped sideways, somehow moving into 'WTF Diaz' positioning despite only knowing me for like five minutes. "Dare I ask why?"

"I promised them to my wife. As... um... chew toys."

He blinked. "You married Fenris? No, you said wife. A Jotnar? Or a Titan?"

I chuckled. "Nah. She's like," I held out a hand right about tit height. "This big. She's got a lot of repressed rage to work out though, I think."

He straightened his head, turned to Gregor, and pronounced. "The price to send a Champion Duelist against her just doubled. Full payment due in advance."

Svart snorted. "Doubled? That's more than what's in the Royal Treasury. You expect him to fork over his fleet, his longhouse, his Thralls?"

I chimed in with "I'm just curious why you need it in advance, honestly."

Skasn smiled at me and said, "because I doubt you'll honor his debt when you've defeated him."

I shook my head and sighed again. "Fuck. Look, guys, apparently Shitdick here," he lunged upward, and I met his chest with the sole of my boot, once again engendering a passionate embrace between his ass and his throne. "Didn't tell you the why of shit. I don't want to kill more people than I have to, but I came here to win some ships, and rapidly realized that I can't in good conscience leave any living thing having to deal with Shitdick here as head of state." I turned to Skasn. "But while I don't want to kill every fucking person here to save them, and the Alliance has already lost three of our five Armies before we even became an Alliance, so I don't even really want to kill off your Heroes or troops, I also don't want anybody saying I cheated, or that Shitdick could have stopped me if he'd sent better Heroes or some shit."

Skasn nodded. "Fair logic. And?"

"And so I'll cover his payment to you, up to but not including people, ships, or weapons. People aren't property, and I need those latter two to get the fucking Undead out of Calverton"

"You'd give me the King's longhouse?"

I shrugged. "Would that make you King or some shit?"

He waggled one decrepit hand at me. "It'd give me a strong argument."

"Strong enough you'd meet me on the Green to discuss it vigorously?"

He laughed, wheezy but still loud enough to shake dust from the rafters, "oh, fuck no."

At that point Weyson spoke up. "Jarl Diaz. May I make a request?"

I was feeling more than a little pleasantly worked up by this point, not least of all because of the fun convo with Skasn. "Sure. Can't guarantee I'll say yes, but I'm pretty laid back, so long as you don't threaten people I'm protecting."

"Could we have one day to prepare, and one of the attempts Gregor has wasted back?"

"Why?"

He nodded. "Svart and I are obligated to face you. Beside that, we own two of the Battleships you came down for."

I smiled, "I thought I recognized your names."

"Indeed. I think should you not face Skasn or his successor on the field, you may indeed be suspected of not fighting all of our best."

"Okay, that's three." I turned to Skasn. "I really hope you pick somebody else. You're cool, I'd hate to kill you."

"I thought you didn't want to fight me because I'm dangerous."

"Oh, look, I'm all tricksy and do shit for multiple reasons. I'm pretty sure Loki's all proud of me for that now."

Paper rustled, popcorn crunched. Oh, I am, Daughter. I am.

Weyson sighed. "Jarl Ericson owns yet another Battleship you sought to claim, and I'm certain he will not surrender unless he fights you personally."

I raised an eyebrow. "He's not here for your little war council why?"

"None of us had any desire to deal with someone quite that hotheaded or stupid."

Without my conscious volition, I turned to face Gregor, who sat glaring at me, then back to Weyson. "Really?"

He sighed again, the sigh of a man who'd had every blessing of Murphy rammed up his ass unwillingly. "I'm afraid so."

"Ouch. That's... y'know what? I'm gonna give you your fifth, just because you asked nice and I feel so fuckin' bad for you."

Weyson nodded. "Thank you."

"Who's the fifth?" Weyson sighed, dropped his gaze, and somehow without moving one iota managed to indicate the King. I turned to Gregor. "Holy shit. You really wanna fight me?"

He clutched at the arms of his throne and ground out, "I will expect you on Johnson's Green at sunrise on Freyday. Whore."

I closed my eyes and focused on the my surprisingly boring antics back in the Love Shack while I tried to think up a snappy comeback. After a ten count I shook my head and just said, "I'll see you there, Shitdick," before turning to the others and saying, "please keep him from doing anything I have to do shit about between now and then?" They all nodded with varying degrees of resignation. Then I remembered what I'd talked about with Saffron. "Oh, shit, I forgot. I may on occasion literally get off on killing the living shit out of poor bastards, so, uh, if you're not down with being a one use sex toy, you might want to surrender." Blushing for no reason I could discern, I interrupted any responses with, "kay, thanks, bai!"

I wound up collapsing in laughter when I hit the stage. Both of me in the Love Shack did as well. For like ten minutes the only explanation I could make to Saffron and Marie?

A wheezed out, "Tripled!"