Night in the city. Laughter from furloughed soldiers painting gratitude in gold and booze. Blood dripping down Jasson's head.
Urgency.
Why? Because he was hurt? Because his friends would be worried about him? Because there was something happening in the city?
Wrong.
Because he was being eaten.
Jasson struggled, floating and drowning in the middle of the city. He could feel his skin burn. Dissolve. Where was his phone?
A garbled voice said something unintelligible, and then the water exploded.
Like a fish coming onto land, Jasson flopped onto the ground, gaping for air. He turned over and vomited burning fluid, the world blurred and pain. Like a severe allergy.
"I am glad you are okay," a voice warbled into Jasson's ears, "Now, can you give me an accurate verbal account of what happened here? I need to keep a record."
Suddenly, the puddle didn't burn anymore. If felt soft, like an unset gelatin. Almost calming.
The voice said, "I will await your recovery."
Jasson could barely see, but his hearing cleared just fine as he dislodged the final lump. The voice led him to one conclusion for who was speaking, as well as a passive irritation.
"Dockson?" Jasson rasped, voice low and torn from the slime. "What happened?"
"A large gelatinous monster was in the process of digesting you," the guard, Dockson, stepped closer, "Commonly known as a slime."
"Where did it come from?" Jasson rasped.
"Down there," Dockson pointed to the sewer with his pencil, "It probably washed there from deeper in the sewers during the storm this week. Now, your statement?"
"Oh," Jasson said, "I…uh…fell. Got knocked out."
"That makes sense," Dockson said, scribbling, "So you were attempting second-story work in the homes here?"
"What?" Jasson said, "No. I got assaulted."
A few seconds of fervent writing later, Dockson said, "So who assaulted you?"
"Ah," Jasson said, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Some kind of monster?" Dockson said.
Jasson shifted and said, "Something like that. Why do you ask if it's a monster?"
"Oh," Dockson said, pocketing his notebook, "Because the city is being invaded by monsters at the moment. Have a good day, citiz-"
"What?!" Jasson said, struggling to his feet, "We're under attack?"
An explosion sounded in the distance.
"Hmm," Dockson opened his notebook, "You must have been one of the first victims. What time were you assaulted?"
"Who cares?!" Jasson said, rushing to the end of the alley, "What's invading us?!"
"Let me see," Dockson followed while flipping through his notebook, "I have Lizard Men to the Southwest, giant spiders along the walls, kobolds and slimes oozing from most sewer openings. There were some flying monsters that were swarming around the Adventurer's guild, but they're dead. To the East is a rather large number of goblins. Someone left the door open for them, so it's been difficult keeping those in check. Otherwise…it's not that bad. Residents have taken refuge, and the adventurer's guild has already been deployed. The city is stretched thin, especially since we're trying to not cause collateral damage. Got to have somewhere to live after this."
"No living statues?" Jasson said, remembering the picture from that room. That view.
This had to be those men. Those statues had nearly killed him. Who knew what they would do if they were set loose on the population? But he knew how to beat them.
Jasson also had to admit that the two hundred gold he'd gotten from selling the monster's Crystal Hearts was a rather tempting bonus. And that had been on a discount!
"My investigations have not yielded such rare monsters," Dockson flipped through his pages, "Although I haven't investigated the Northern quarter yet. I've been hearing that there are bigger monsters up there with the wider streets and businesses."
"Tell me," Jasson said, "Do you know where…um…"
How to describe the picture? Jasson fished in his pocket and brought out his phone, then sighed in relief. The screen hadn't cracked from his fall.
Dockson said, "What?"
Jasson pulled up the picture from the Wet Rat Inn and showed it to Dockson, then said, "Do you know where this is?"
"Hmm," Dockson said, "It'll be an overflow area that drains into the river. Why do you have that image?"
"Because," Jasson said, mind racing, "Now, which way?"
Dockson pointed down the street and said, "You'll need to go to a main branch of the sewers, then out from there. Or you could find the river, but that's all the way across town. But why-"
"Thanks," Jasson said, and jogged off.
And immediately ran into an army of Lizard Men.
"Ooooh," Jasson said as they stared him down, blinking sideways, "I'm in the Southwest part of the city. Right."
****
The Peckishires, or most likely the Duchess, had taste. Clara was worried about that. So many nobles thought that good taste was made up of as many expensive things as possible, crammed in every line of sight. It gives you the impression that they're a budget-less hoarder who refuses to not be proud of everything they'd shopped for.
Mind you, that was good for the artisan economy. But still…
The event took place in a large open space that certainly could be used for war, but was a transformed space of quiet awe. Battlements and towers surrounded the bailey in a crown of defense. From every tower a tree clung, roots running along the cracks. Someone, most likely the Duchess, had woven the trees into a living canopy covering the entire ballroom.
The bailey was split in two by a small creek running through it. Clara was on the side that was a gentle garden space with refreshments on one end. Across the bridge, on the other side of the creek, was a ballroom of polished oak floors and comfortable seating. Lights glittered at the edge of the party, while raised seats held an empty throne and the Duchess presiding in her husband's stead. Couples twirled across the dance floor as equally elegantly attired guests mingled to the side.
But, after such a long carriage ride, Clara found herself mesmerized by primarily the snack table. She waltzed her way there with Petra in tow, eyes locked on the array of cheeses.
Clara said, "Man, I'm sta-"
Petra elbowed Clara.
Clara coughed and glanced at the nobles beside them. Right. High society. Clara closed her eyes and found the switch. Back straight, head balanced so you could stack a library on it. Poise.
"What an evening to dance," Clara said, "I could go for some horderves, excuse my Mench. What of you, my sister? That carriage was abysmally slow, and that wait out front? I wonder what they have to be so worried about that they need to keep us that long."
"I could fancy myself a refreshment," Petra said, cool face a stone in the river, "But I see that the event of the evening is to mingle. Enjoy yourself, dear sister, and find a gentleman or two to dance with."
Clara breezed to the refreshments and selected some cheeses and fruits. There were meats at this table as well, but they looked spiced as to make one's breath foul. Upon perusal, Clara discovered a platter of salted hams, and gladly took them upon her plate. Then she deftly snatched a glass from a passing waiter and placed herself to watch.
My, my, my. Clara thought. So many men in uniform. I suppose the Duke would see fit to invite his officers. I might find myself dancing the night away.
There were some nobles as well, and something caught Clara's eye.
There was a type of…lingering around Petra as she made her way into the crowds. Not surprising, since she looked absolutely out of place with a streamlined dress amongst the puffed brigade that was nearly out of fashion at the capital. But the lingering was not just women and whispers behind fans, there were many men as well.
"Excuse me," A noble lady approached, "But that is your sister, isn't she?"
"She is my dearest kin," Clara smiled, "What would you have of her?"
"Well," the noble lady said, "It's just that… I wasn't aware that fashion in the capital had progressed so…far. I feel that I am out of touch. I knew that style was slimming to a more sleek look, as favored by the Tast'er house. But I hardly expected to see one so forward here. I'd have shipped in a dress of my own if I knew that a Lady from the capital was in attendance. Tell me, did she bring that dress from the capital or have it made here?"
"We commissioned it here," Clara said, taking the woman's hand in hers, "It is a beauty, isn't it? The tailor put their passion into the piece, and my sister wears it well. I will tell you of the seamstress who wrought it…"
And here I was thinking she'd be ostracized, Clara thought. Now, what man shall approach me?
Clara gave out dazzling smiles, the type that had always worked before, and a strapping man approached soon. He was built like Scott, but brown haired rather than blonde.
"Madam," The man bowed, "Would you care to give me your first dance of the evening?"
"Oh," Clara held out her hand which he took gently, "I thank you for the honor. I would gladly dance with you."
The world twirled gently as he led her onto the dance floor and into an old waltz. Clara smiled and giggled lightly at his jokes, asking for introductions of the bright-eyed visitor. The man was a Colonel, serving below the Duke himself, and had to be repeatedly redirected from recounting his recent triumphs.
Not too bad, but Clara was grateful to step away. Still, the man had done her a favor. Now that her first dance was claimed, she'd get to dance with whomever-
"Excuse me?" A man said.
Already? Clara thought, It's going to be a long night.
"Yes, good sir?" Clara said, curtsying.
"Umm," The man shuffled his feet. He was cute enough, but being one of the nobles, he had a certain softness about him.
Clara said, "Did you want to ask me something?"
Clara took a sip of her drink. This boy was nice, and probably could give her some information. She hated to think of him like that but…
"Oh," The man, really a boy, coughed, "Is…er…your sister betrothed?"
Clara spewed her drink, barely turning in time to spit into the bush. She coughed as the boy hovered near.
"No," Clara wheezed and straightened, "Might I *cough* ask why you inquire?"
"Um…" The boy fidgeted, "Well, when I first noticed you two, she was saying something about mingling and wishing you well with your dancing. I was wondering if she couldn't dance because she was betrothed or…something."
Clara wiped her face with a napkin, then placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, giving him a thumbs up.
"She is most assuredly not betrothed," Clara said, "Go for it."
Clara went to the lavatory to clean up. Thankfully, nothing got on her dress. When she emerged, she found a strange sight. Petra was holding court, surrounded by a dozen men and women.
As Clara watched, one of the lingering men broke ranks and asked Petra to dance. Petra looked him up and down, cold eyes distant and aloof, and refused him. His friends slapped him on his dejected back, and Petra went back to lecturing people on the trends of the royal capital.
This repeated and, every so often, a man passed muster and Petra allowed herself to be whisked onto the dance floor.
"Well, well, well," Clara said to herself, "I guess Petra is popular after all."
Then a voice, a familiar voice, spoke from behind her, saying, "She is a cool beauty on this night after a storm, a rose in the garden of twilight spectacle."