<div class="floatright">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a6/a6/7c/a6a67c95440761d65cc6ac98f67a6ffd.jpg)</div>It's said that to catch a thief, you need a better thief. Gil's acquaintance with the king of glen Avon had started off... rocky. When a theft occurred in the royal household, suspicion naturally fell on the gormless outsiders who happened to be fresh in town.<em>Especially</em>when Gil was captured and the other three lit out of town. Cheap bastards. Gil had a choice; accept a<em>geasa</em>to find the queen's gems, or rot in the dungeon. Certain that it hadn't been her former allies (Really, Horg was a seven-foot goliath who used a galley oar in a fight. Jewel thief? PFFFT!) he instead vanished into Glen Avon; even the high elves have shady bars, back alleys, crawlspaces.<br/><br/>As it turned out, the crime had been orchestrated by the king's own seneschal, utilizing a series of summoned air elementals and unseen servants, with the gems themselves being shipped abroad to be fenced in, of all places, Gil's home city of Mearlwithe. Reclaiming them was a simple enough matter (Gil<em>was</em>the better thief, after all) and the Seneschal, compelled by the king, confessed. Now, of course, the royal family couldn't admit they had been burgled, much less by a trusted servant,<em>nor</em>could they admit to having recruited some scrubby little thief to solve for them what they couldn't trust their own house guard to do. But they had to reward Gil somehow, for services rendered, and to apologize for the suspicion.<br/><br/><strong>"Introducing <em>Master Gil Button</em>, High Piper of Mearlwithe, Lord Heir of Ambledown," </strong>called the Marshal of the Court.  Every time,<em>every time</em>Gil cringed. Play one tune in a jail cell, mention that the drunken mayor of a gnomish yak-herding village adopted you, and this is what you get. Still, an invitation to court is an invitation to court, and Gil was making the most of it; chest bound, makeup applied, wool-stuffed leathercod hidden in the trousers (just in case!) and all the nice tailored bits one might expect from the "Lord Heir" of Amberford or wherever. Cravat, jacket, all of that nonsense. And of course, Gil's tits itched under all that,<em>of course</em>. And it wouldn't do to be a "master piper" without a set of pipes (http://www.ambaile.org.uk//?service=asset&action=show_preview&asset=261), neatly worn on a sling over the back.<br/><br/>He approached the king's dias, and tucked his hands behind his back, giving a shallow bow at the waist. "Your majesty," his eyes flickered over to the prince then, "Your royal highness." Whatever disguise Gil wore didn't really matter when faced with the achingly beautiful elves; thoughts of the two of dressed in silks, feeding her grapes while she lounged naked on a velvet cushion... they seemed too pretty to<em>just fuck</em>, after all... Gil straightened then, brows lifting, a smile (well, smirk?) tugging the corner of his lips. "I hope whoever fell ill and freed an invitation for me is recovering well?" It's a joke, but really, Gil couldn't figure out why in the world the king would offer such an invitation. Oh well!