You Are Cordially... To a Day-Long Krunk Fest

[Heimdalic_Dreams]

There's word spreading.

A gossip piece threading from the lips of non-magi sailors, to the ears of traders, poisoning the minds of just about everyone interested in spreading word, inevitably infiltrating deep into just about every major city. 

Its origin seemed to be from a message in a bottle, cast into the sea, and pushed to shore. Now it spreads. 

... Of course, the fact of the matter was, the letter was written exactly as such, and was thus the main talking point. It would appear whoever wrote it originally just wanted the word out, but imagined someone reading it out loud, instead of just talking about the letter. 

The V stenciled onto it was also a bit of a giveaway. 

It would appear the prince is taking his grounding rather personally. 

Regardless.

It would appear there was going to be a PARTY in the Kingdom of Fortune, the Island Nilhirra
(700, 270)

It will last the ENTIRE day, no matter how many or how few appear - Though the bigger it is, the bigger it can become! 

Alcohol will be served, but it's suggested to bring your own beer! 

Music! Dancing! Disguises?! HORROR!? 

Lasting for a long as possible, from now to the day after. 

(Starting from 3 AM eastern to 3 AM eastern!)

(It'll be as huge an event as we want!)

[Starting exactly 1 hour from now!]

[EugeneShev]

The wolken maid is awestruck.

Who's going to clean all this..?

[Heimdalic_Dreams]

The moon beats down on Nilhirra with all the intensity of its flaming counterpart, baking the fudgeton of glitter deep into the sand like a mermaids shimmering tears. Empty energy drinks reflected the light like tiny, triumphant eyes - A disco ball of disarray to match the general, chaotic mood of the party's aftermath.

The skeletal remains of the Energy Can Tower they once made cast a long, lopsided shadow, now; a fallen pylon corrupting Fortunes' once-pristine beach view, now a mosaic of discarded costumes, fractured glowsticks, and suspiciously sticky puddles smelling faintly of pineapple and, oh yes, spirits, so much regret.

The Prince of Fortune finally stirred from his personal shipwreck, feeling as if the island had somehow become untethered and pushed out to sea, the haloic crown of spent glowsticks around his crimson hair crackling softly as he shifted. He tasted... Sand, ale, and the faint, lingering echo of bass still pounding in his teeth. What was to be his kingdom, his responsibility, lay before him in a state of utter, glorious pandemonium.

Every night of this months-long festival had gifted him but 3 hours to sleep. The rest was dedicated to making sure no one did anything... Overly horrible. When he began this quest, he had thought it would run itself. And now, with the entire island stacked with countless half-sipped ales and spirits, 

Alas. The rapscallion was mistaken.

He sat up with the groan of a man thrice his age, joints protesting with the every eloquent agony of exhaustion, running a once-pale-now-sunbaked hand through his matted hair, pulling out a stray feather boa. He remembered... Snippets, now; the confused, bingo-lost grandma rocking out to hard techno with noise canceling headphones. The epic glowstick duel which very nearly ended in a legitimate duel with actual farkin' swords, and of course, the sheer audacity of the costume heist from the lost-and-found near the end, there.

He also likely lost face with many important people whom came to visit him specifically, and lost more than a little self respect along the way as well.

The debt would be astronomical. His mother’s face, when she saw the state of the royal gardens (now apparently a designated nap zone) would surely curdle milk. And the letter from that Duke of Azure Seas, whomever the complimentary FARK that was, complaining about the glitter-bombing incident (which the lad was PRETTY sure he hadn’t orchestrated, but couldn't swear to) would be…

Unpleasant.

He shuddered. He pictured the lectures, long and droning and from countless sources, delivered with the terrifyingly calm disappointment that always cut deeper than any yelling - From Kelson, his Taskmaster. From Sia, his favored maid; Herold, his butler. Perhaps his father, even - He wondered, lightly, if the army of royal cleaners he had saw in his heart surveying the mess with a mixture of horror and resignation was in his head, or not.

If they were, that'd be fine - A little extra debt from his own personal coffers. If not... It meant he'd be doing a LOT of cleaning by himself, now that the bulk of the ravers had fled to parts unknown, from parts even more unknown.

The one-shoed dancer, spinning with fierce abandon. One of the maids, about halfway through, ruthlessly hydrating even the most reluctant revelers. The impromptu dance-off competition, judged by two bewildered seagulls who waited patiently for their food-based reward. The sheer, untamed joy that had pulsed through the island for months, now, in a collective heartbeat of pure, unadulterated C h a o s.

He pushed himself to his feet, the sand clinging to his clothes like a second skin as he swayed slightly, still feeling the phantom rhythm of the music thrumming in his bones. The clean-up would be a Sisyphean task, sure, a monumental undertaking that would likely consume the next year of his life. He was in trouble, deep, deep, deepdeepdeep trouble.

But as he looked out at the shimmering, devastated paradise, a slow, familiar smile spread across his face. He brushed the sand from his lips, the taste both bitter and strangely sweet, as he allowed two words to slip past, like a ships flag of surrender.

"Worth it."