Peake was not a man of parties. Dressing fancy and having long conversation about the types of fertilizers that best suited the Ashan crops was out of his interests, that was for sure. Instead, his partying methods were a bit more extreme. For attire he preferred nothing but his bare flesh, and his conversations mostly revolved about which woman he was to penetrate next. Instead of glasses of punch, he preferred something more classic, like tubs of wine or kegs of whiskey in which to bathe and relish like a parasite. Few were able to keep up with his methods, especially the women, and so he made sure he sent off the used up whores and simply hire new ones for the remainder of the night. People did not understand just how much stress he had to handle on his life, and his only relief was to smother that stress with a proper intoxication. Unfortunately, his periods of intoxication made him a menace to pretty much the Kingdom itself, which is what brought him to the Gala this refined and elitist evening.
“Excuse me, sir. This event is very exclusive, and not only requires proper clothing, but also an invita---“Peake did not like the tone of the guard, nor his face. In fact, he didn’t like being spoken when someone spoke to him at all, especially when Peake hadn’t granted his permission. Just for the giggles, Peake raised the visor of his ceremonial helmet and revealed his features – and the beard that the guard immediately recognized. Despite the beard, Peake was still unpresentable, which did nothing but confuse the guard, sending him into a spiral of thought in which he pondered as to how to react. Peake didn’t bother to think, and instead he pushed the halberd away from his face, stepped closer to the guard and locked his head in his armpit. The guard complained, but did not resist too much. Before the other guard came to his aid, Peake turned sideways and pointed towards the other male. “Don’t you dare!” His voice was thunder, angry and aggressive despite the somewhat disgusting expression of joy in Peake’s bearded features. “This is MY house, and you work for ME. Stay there or you’ll wake up in the dungeon.” The herd of giggles exploded behind Peake, so contagious it even affected Peake himself. With the guard head locked, mumbling something under Peake’s pit, Peake proceeded forward.
It was about time to make an appearance at the family estate. His father, that manipulative bastard, must be worried sick about Peake, his investment. He must wonder where his heir is, where all that gold he invested in shaping that man is instead of looking for marriage. Well, today his father would be happy to know where his son is. Their relationship had been broken ever since Peake was born, yet in the last four arcs it had become much more than that. Soon enough, Peake was exposed to some of the lonesome guests that had not joined the rest in the theatre, most of them either too shy to join, couples that were working their way into their partner’s pants, or just the dates that preferred to relish on all the free food. Simpletons were everywhere these days. Peake’s assistants quickly raided the food, afterwards swarming the bartender and basically borrowing by force every bottle they could carry. He had thought them well, thought Peake as he advanced. They followed him, and soon enough the light grew dim as he approached the location. Someone was speaking, and by the tone of the voice, Peake already recognized his drunkard younger brother Quincy. His voice was always trembling when he drank, which is always.
Standing at the back of it all, Peake was still hidden by the public, which was a direct offense to his ego. He was the heir to the barony, and he had fucked the Queen. He deserved the attention. “Please, let go of me, Lord Andaris!” The guard’s muffled voice reached Peake’s ears, snuffed by the armpit. Being a merciful lord as he was, he obliged, and so when one of the servants was to cross Peake’s path without notice, Peake undid the headlock, pushed the guard forward and helped him down the stairs with a harsh stomp to his armored ass. Just like that, the guard flew down the stairs, knocking over the servant and the tray full of glasses, all two of them rolling down the stairs like the sack of spoiled meat they were. Soon enough, Peake felt the gazes starting to fix on him, as it should be. Removing his decorative helmet and handing it out to one of his assistants, Peake grinned widely, the aggressive demeanor very much present.
So drunk he was that he didn’t realize that half of his armor was missing. His bare chest, hairy and somewhat muscular as it was, shined proudly in the dim lights of the scene. His breastplate, gauntlets and pauldrons had been surely forgotten in one of the many brothels he had visited on this trial, yet thankfully they had their name and address carved on the inside, his value as a client guaranteeing their return to their owner. Sad, but true. His beard and hairy chest, magnificent and fabulous beyond measure, had spawned many rumors due to the envy of those that lacked said handsome attributes. One of them spoke of how the young King’s pubic hair grew on Peake’s beard, a rumor that Peake had always tried to ignore. As for his +1, instead of a woman he had chosen to bring along a horde of the finest prostitutes in town, all of them wasted like him, some with their breasts hanging out of their white dresses Peake had made them wear. He didn’t even have to pay them, but instead he promised them an entrance to the city’s most exclusive event. Free sex was double the fun. They were excited, even if the brothel gals didn't consume all the drugs they did.
“Look at all these hypocrites, girls. That’s what happens when you don’t fuck a man the way he deserves!” Peake pointed towards one of the oldest men he could see, a businessman of 70 arcs of age whose stern and tense face looked as if he had just eaten a lemon or was holding a nasty flatulence. Walking down the stairs, the giggle wagon composed of prostitutes followed behind Peake, like sheep to the shepherd, yet sheep that had apparently been fed testosterone as they presented themselves quite aggressively. They poked the guests, provoking them, spitting on them or flashing them with their bodies depending on the individual. Fights and conflicts broke out here and there, the prostitutes finding their way into trouble as easily as Peake did, apparently. It was only then when Peake decided to finally address the one person he did not want to see – Quincy Andaris, professional drunkard, host of the event. Peake was obviously mad that an invitation reached him, and the box of ‘Not attending’ was already marked. If it wasn’t for that detail, he would’ve marked the box itself and forgotten about it. Quincy had made this into something personal however. “Is that him?” Asked one of the girls that wasn't busy picking on the multiple guests, and like hens they all started repeating the same question, over and over again, until Peake nodded. Once the whores knew, they immediately helped Peake out, one of them handing him a watermelon whose rind was peeled off perfectly, the watermelon being a simple red ball made entirely out of fruit.
“I fucking hate you, you FUCK!” Yelled out Peake with all his might, and with that same terrifying might he gathered all his strength into a violent toss, the watermelon flying through the air, Peake having aimed directly for Quincy’s pale face. Peake, being the loving brother that he was, wished only to return some of that red shade onto his brother’s face.
