Another, louder snort interrupts the big roan 'tauress, who lets go of you backs off. At the same time, the whole herd of naked centaur girls parts, revealing a regal lady in their midst: a centaur-woman who looks no older than any of these fillies, but wears shining mail armor and caries a shield painted with an image of a golden crown. Her strawberry-blonde hair (both on her head and her tail) and milk-white skin contrast sharply with the black of her fur. She has the body of an Arabian courser, small and svelte, though not quite as small as a pony and thus still well−suited to the warrior's life; but less bulky than a destrier or jousting-steed. You can see now why you didn't notice her at first, despite her glittering armaments: she stands less than six feet tall.
"Ahem," this lady-knight snorts again, and she trots forward and stops before you. She casts a disdainful glance over her shoulder at the topless herd, and the rest of the centauresses either back off a few steps or shuffle in place, nervous and intimidated. She returns her attention to you, staring hard with icy blue eyes, and says, "Prithee, good sir knight, art thou wizard or warrior?"
You just stare, gobsmacked for a moment, before you manage to answer, "I'm, uh, I'm an engineer."
She quirks an eyebrow. "Indeed? 'Tis passing strange, but here thou art upon thine two legs, and so the knight of prophecy thou must be."
"Knight? Prophecy? I don't—" You're at a loss for words, when suddenly you look down and see that the bluejeans and t-shirt that you'd been wearing only a moment ago are gone, replaced by leather breeks and a homespun tunic. Your shoes and socks have simply vanished, leaving you barefoot in the forest. All of your other possessions—keys, wallet, phone—are simply gone. "What the fu—? What happened to my stuff? What happened to Pleasure Island?"
"Pleasure Island?" muses the lady-knight. "I know of no such place. Thou art in the Wildherd Forest, within the centaur kingdom of Hippelot. Now, comest thou away with me, anon! We must attend to the council of war!"
Council of war? That's it; you've had just about enough. "Look, lady, I don't have any friggin' clue about who you are, or what you're talking about—"
The centauress's eyes go wide; she is aghast at her own behavior. " 'Sblood, how very rude of me! I am Dame Bradamante, a knight of His Majesty King Orfeo's court! And who beest thou, O knight who standeth upon two legs too few?" (At this, all of the other centaur-women titter and giggle. They're all watching you and waiting for your reply, seeming to hang on your every word and action now.)
"Uh, the name's Jack . . . did you just say something about war?"
"Ay, bold Sir Jack, 'tis a wretched business indeed. These mares," here, Bradamante gestures at all the centauresses in the clearing, "are all that remaineth of the Wild Herd, those that go unclad and dwell in the forest. Their stallions have gone to war and have not returned, taken prisoner by the Alliance. The same story may be heard everywhere in these lands, from every centaur tribe—including mine own folk, the Knights of Hippelot. All of our males, our lords, even our king—all gone."
By now, you're starting to clue in on what's happening here. The magic of Pleasure Island has somehow transported you right into a fairy-tale, and cast you in the role of dashing hero to all of these desperate centaur-girls. You mentally shrug and decide to play along, at least for now. "So . . . the reason there are only girls here . . . is because of all of your menfolk have been taken by this 'Alliance'?"
"Ay."
"And who are they?" you ask.
At this point, all of the wild and naked centauresses start booing and jeering, stamping their front hooves (which makes their boobs jiggle in spectacular fashion), and they begin shouting things like "filthy eight-legs!" and "down with the dirty no-legs!"
Bradamante takes a moment to calm them down before explaining, " 'Tis an alliance betwixt the lamiae and the arachne, the snake-women and the spider-women. Neither race hath any males of their own, and so . . ."
"So they take yours," you reason. "Got it. It's a rescue mission. All right, this sounds like fun, so let's get a move-on. Where to next, beautiful?"
Bradamante blushes at the compliment and murmurs to herself, "Bold Sir Knight, indeed." Then she speaks loudly enough for the whole crowd to hear: "My mission had been to travel the length and breadth of the realm, to gather mares from among all the tribes, even the wild herds and barbarians, if they be willing to fight for what is theirs!" (She is answered with a halfhearted cheer from the centauresses in the clearing.) "But now that the knight of prophecy hath appeared, I must make haste to bring him back to Castle Hippelot, for he might learn much there. However," here she does you a curtsy, a strange little bow where one of her forelegs crosses in front of the other as she bends forward at her human waist and inclines her head, "as the Chosen One, 'tis thy right to decide and to command. I will follow whichsoever path Sir Jack decideth upon."
You look down at your unshod feet again. "Wherever we go, I think I'm gonna have to be carried, at least until I can get some boots."
Bradamante looks confused. "I know not what 'boots' are, milord, but I will bear thee if thou desirest it."
"All right," you say. "Let's . . ."