Their father, a long-reigning king, was quite beside himself by the time he called for the old soldier, and the crowned patriarch sat hunched on his majestic throne, head in bony, bejeweled hands, when the bounty hunter finally arrived. The king did not know where to begin, ashamed to tell anyone, let alone another man, that his daughters were beyond his control. How could they continuously disobey him, dishonoring his name and casting their royal bloodline into the murky shadows of sin, debauchery, and lawlessness? Where had their blessed purity gone? The hunter stood before the weeping ruler, holding the red cloak gifted him by the wire-haired Witch in his hands and pondering his pending mission. He heard their high-heeled, designer shoes were found muddy and ruined every morning from long nights of erotic dancing, and the royal seamstress was busy constantly sewing new undergarments to replace the torn and defiled ones.