The Davrosine Fountain was a beautiful piece of marble imported from deep within Faleria. It depicted a muscular man draped in flowing robes, round shield and spear in hand, piercing a four-armed monster through its ribs. The stonework looked soft on the eyes. Even the robes seemed to reflect the momentum of the strike. Marble blood spouted from the monster’s wound.

Beneath one of the monster’s arms, the officer sat, taking shallow draws from his pipe. Lisŗa approached through the moving lines of pedestrians and carts, curled fist tucked in the small of her back. Her chin was lowered. She hated how sheepish she looked. The officer stood when she was in range of conversation.

“Our little thief,” he said, “Have anything to say for yourself?”

“What do you want? My mother not enough for you?”

“I’m not into infants.” He let out a puff of smoke. “I am here to do my job.”

“Accepting bribes?”

“Following the spirit of the law. Look. Sit down.” The officer took a seat and patiently waited for Lisŗa to do the same. She did so, but left plenty of room between them. They listened to the gentle patter of water behind them for a few heartbeats.

“You stole from an herb merchant,” the officer broke the silence. “A bit under four silver vancs worth of money and goods. The discount given to me was about five vancs. I’m going to return the money you stole. You keep the coin you took.”

“I… don’t understand.”

“Lawmen do not attend five years at the Gendarmia to read the law like gospel. Your crime’s damage was about four vancs. It can be repaired quietly. You don’t have to ruin your future with this stain on your record you made as an infantile delinquent. And I don’t need to break your poor mother’s heart by dragging you into youth detention.”

Was that sarcastic? Either way, Lisŗa fumed. A stranger speaking like this to her, after what he had done.

“Is that what you’d call a virtuous solution?” Lisŗa snapped.

“As close to one as you deserve.”

“Can’t help but notice you come out with a net gain. That the reward for virtue?”

“This was your first real offense, delinquent. Would you like to know what happens if your record is tainted? Being what you are?” The officer produced a clipboard and a steelfeather quill from his coat. He set it between him and Lisŗa. The quill jumped to work, drawing lines back and forth on the page. The depth of the lines varied, coalescing into features, changing color when needed. In seconds, the ink depicted messy russet hair, furrowed brows, narrowed green eyes, and lips pinched in a scowl.

“I’ll know if you do this again. Don’t waste this.” The officer collected the finished portrait.

“Hmph. You people own our fates and call it a kindness when you soften your blows.”

“Excuse me?” The officer stood and took a step closer to Lisŗa. She wasn’t intimidated, and glared straight into his eyes.

“You took our land, subverted our ways with yours, and expect us to fall in line like good little conquered.”

“Girl, you were still shitting your blanket when ‘your ways’ were still alive. And they have brought your people to ruin and defeat. What do you know of Aldren? Hm? What about it did you remember that was so much better than Faleria’s rule?”

“…I know that your people killed mine in droves.”

“Who started the war?”

“…I…”

“You don’t know.”

Lisŗa sprung to her feet and shouted, “I know yours fired the first shot!” But no one paid attention to her outburst; it was drowned out in the busyness of the square.

“Did nothing before that happen?” The officer replied. “To use a youngling’s vernacular, if one of your schoolmates harassed you relentlessly short of hitting you, is your fist the only thing that matters if it flew first?”

“I…”

“Look kid. You remember nothing about Aldren. You’re acting out for all the reasons related to being a premature brat and you’re taking out your frustrations on the world around you. I’d know, I used to be young too. Even if you cared about Aldren, is robbing a medicine man going to change anything?

“Stop skipping your classes. Go home.”

With that, the officer roughly adjusted his uniform and marched away, disappearing into the crowds of people returning home from a long day. Lisŗa was left alone by the fountain. Her fists were white with fury. Her jaws creaked under pressure.

The officer was wrong. He knew nothing about her. She needed the money to leave Cadeau. She wasn’t just another frustrated kid without a plan. She’d show him. Somehow.

Still reeling and with her head lowered, Lisŗa returned to the bright lights, tobacco smoke, and exotic performances of the Lily Vine Chalet. Home. She holed herself up in her attic and stuffed her ears with cotton to block out the music, then fell into restless sleep.

--

Jorge left the flower before more of the creatures came. There was a river nearby; he heard the flowing waters. He barreled towards it and frantically splashed the water onto himself. The massive flower’s scent washed away. Jorge took deep breaths. It wasn’t good for him to be this excited. He could feel something ready to burst in his chest.

When he had calmed he saw his own reflection in the water. The image could only be described as a generous pear shape warbling in the stream. His mother’s words rang through his head.

“One day you’re going to have to leave the basement and get a life. Are you going to spend the rest of your years getting stuck in doorways?”

Jorge looked down and met stomach. His ‘big-boned’ rotundness ticked well over three hundred pounds. Round and clumsy, he shambled through his life. He had one saving grace: his height at least stretched out his mass. Now his generous stores may be the reason he won’t starve so easily.

He spent the dwindling daylight searching along the river, gathering information about the land. All the while he asked questions. What had brought them here? What about the others in the party? He vaguely recalled seeing no one else follow him out the hole in the house. Where were they now?

Dark fell quickly once the sun neared the horizon, the rays waylaid by the dense branches and leaves of the forest. He needed shelter. Somewhere near the river would be a good idea. Jorge began to gather branches. Long ones without too many protrusions seemed to make sense. After what felt like an eternity of grueling work, Jorge stopped to breathe. Hot streaks of sweat lined his face. His clothes were covered in dark spots, particularly around the armpits and neckline. His work laid before him. There was enough branches to make a teepee for someone a quarter his size.

“God damn it.”

Why did this have to happen? The irony sickened him. The wave of new age ennui had rolled through his generation. In a fit of trendy soul searching people his age had decided alternative ways of living were the cure. But Jorge was different. Unchanged. He was fine with his life the way it was. Sure he didn’t get any love from his parents, but being happy meant being who you were. Right?

Jorge hated camping. He knew several people off the top of his head who’d have loved to be in his position. Living off the land and the like. The longer he worked, the worse he felt. He was wearing cargo shorts and his exposed calves were beginning to redden from rashes. Every breath brought fire into his lungs.

Maybe he ought to have at least tried to lose weight over the years. When he entered middle school he vowed to not be the largest child in the class. When he entered high school he made a solemn promise to at least be able to finish one lap around the track without slowing to a walk. When he entered college he had all but stopped caring.

Inexorably, the sun set, and his camp was finished. It was a wall of twigs tied together with a bunch of old vines that smelled like lilies. Suspended at an angle against a tree, it could fit him if he curled in a fetal position. He couldn’t work any longer. Not just because of his fatigue.

Leaves rustled. Twigs snapped. The wind whistled. The language of the forest had been deafening since he arrived, and it was only growing louder in the night. Jorge didn’t dare make any more noise. He crawled under the flimsy shelter he had copied poorly off of Discovery channel. Small cuts and bumps covered his hands. All of his joints hurt. At twenty-six years old, Jorge wanted to cry.