Week the Fifth. Bring it, biotch. :-P

Derrick sighed as he observed the tower in front of him. Typical grey stone, laced with ivy, the single window and no doors. He heaved a dramatic sigh and searched the base of the tower once more to try and find an entrance. It eluded him though, and he was about to give this whole getting-into-the-tower thing a rest when something whacked him on the head.

He looked at the not-so-subtle rope in his hand, its length, knotted for easy use, trailing up the side of the tower to the single window. He rolled his eyes, then started the climb up. It didn't take too long, or too much effort, though that damn ivy had made him slip more than once.

There was very little in the room – a single room, as not much else would fit in the tower, it really wasn't very big. It was of course, all stately outfitted, the large, canopied bed, draped with sheer curtains, the crackling fireplace, the ornately carved table and chair in the corner. It was really a dull room, despite the expensive strappings.

He sighed again, he really, really didn't want to do this. But his parents insisted and so here he was. There was the damnable girl, laid out all fairy tale like on the damn canopied bed. He glowered more. Honestly, he wasn't that stupid. Who else could've thrown the damn rope?

He crossed the room slowly, like a man approaching his execution. In a way, he supposed this damn marriage idea could be compared to an execution. He opened the curtains, and for the first time since he'd set out on this damnably clichéd quest, he was surprised.

For the 'fair maiden' was anything but. In fact, she could probably be called the antithesis of a 'fair maiden,' except that she was probably young, and therefore technically a maiden.

"Miss?" He cleared his throat. No way in hell was he going to kiss her. Not even if she had been a fair maiden. "Miss?" No response. So he reached out and shook her by the shoulders. That certainly made her open her eyes, though it did also cause her to slap him.

And start babbling in some foreign language that he had absolutely no clue of what the hell it was, and consequently no clue as to what she was saying. Though damn did she look pissed. Probably because he hadn't kissed her. Oh well.

Somehow he managed to calm her down. How he did that, he had no clue, seeing as how they couldn't understand each other. Maybe he had more diplomacy than he thought? Wouldn't his parents be surprised.

He let her go down the rope first, seeing as how she was wearing some cumbersome skirt thing. She was still scowling, though she was no longer shouting at him or beating him up.

He led her to the one horse, where she balked and started yelling at him again. Dammit, doesn't she get that he couldn't understand her? Ok, apparently she did, for she had stopped yelling at him and was now making hand gestures to the horse, and then her skirt. Think man, obviously she's trying to tell you something. But nothing sprang to mind and he stared blankly.

She scowled at him again, contorting her not-so-fair face a bit more and stalked over to him. He flinched, assuming he was about to be hit again, but instead she reached out and grabbed his dagger. He blinked. I'm dead, she's going to kill me.

Instead, she took the dagger to her skirts, slicing down the front and back, from about mid-thigh. Glowering still, she tucked the dagger into the belt around the top of her skirts. For as he could see now, there was definitely more than one of them. Then she clambered atop the horse and gave him an impatient look, hooking the reins about her hands.

He blinked, but quickly mounted behind her. After his only attempt to take the reins led to a sharp slap on the wrist – literally – he let her have control as she led them to the nearest town, one he'd passed through on the way.

She navigated the vicious war steed, or so he liked to imagine, to the tavern in the centre of town without any mishaps, leading Derrick to imagine she'd been there before. As had he, but he'd talked only with the barkeep, who'd spoken with a very strange accent.

Now, Derrick was obviously not the smartest person around. The fact that he came from another kingdom, where they all spoke the same language, didn't help him much. He hadn't given it much thought when he'd crossed the border to perform his 'rescue mission' on the neighboring kingdom's princess.

He dismounted, following said princess into the building, and slumping onto a barstool next to him. He watched, amazed, as she ordered a drink in her language. He was even more amazed when the barkeep quickly filled her order, obviously correctly.

"You speak what she speaks?" He asked incredulously. The barkeep gave him a what-do-you-have-for-brains-mush? look before nodding. "Of course I speak Polish boy, I do live in Poland after all."

The princess chattered something at him in that so odd language that made the barkeep grin, then laugh out loud at him. He glowered at the man.

"She says to tell you that you're a rude bastard son of a bitch-whore and that you can take your princess-rescuing and shove it up your ass." Derrick blinked, then laughed, much to the surprise of the princess and the barkeep.

"That's all the assurance I need. Bye then." Derrick stood, planted a quick kiss on the girl's cheek, then left, laughing all the while.

I suppose my parents won't be pleased, but I think I'm going to go on a vacation right now. I deserve it after that debacle.

And with that, Prince Derrick rode off into the sunset, cliché style.