the sound of the horn, and the streets were eerily empty, bar that one guy who had, as predicted, set up a pretzel cart and was now trying to wheel it out of the way.
Calarian rolled his eyes and was about to help the man push the cart off the path when he was joined in his efforts by Lars, who’d just arrived. Calarian did not go weak at the flex of Lars’s muscles as he effortlessly lifted the handles of the massive cart and wheeled it away. He did not. Now wasn’t the time. He’d think about Lars’s muscles later, when they weren't about to be crushed by a marauding troll.
Calarian turned to find said troll bearing down on them at speed, eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a loud roar. At least it had made it through the gap in the walls they’d built, and it was, indeed following the path of least resistance.
As it approached the pond, Calarian found himself muttering ‘please turn, please turn,’ under his breath, and for just a moment it looked like his prayers would be answered (not that Calarian actually prayed, because religion was a construct designed as an opiate for the masses based on the existence of mythical sky figures and the promise of future reward for conformity in the here and now), because the troll did try to swerve around the pond. In the end though, its forward momentum and body mass worked against it, and it tripped and fell with a deafening crash, face first into the pond, snapping the fountain off at its base and causing a wall of water to splash over the sides and onto the street.
Calarian was close enough to get thoroughly soaked and he sputtered through a mouthful of slightly green pond water, blinking it away as he surveyed the damage. He shook his head, his long hair sending water droplets flying everywhere, and cautiously approached the troll. At first he thought it was dead, but then it drew a great noisy breath and sat up, staring at its arm where great chunks of troll sludge were sliding off its skin, before throwing its head back and letting out an undulating cry of “Groooth blaaaarg!” and sounding absolutely heartbroken about it.
Calarian’s eyes widened, and he thanked the stars for that time he’d made an impulse purchase and bought the book of Houses and Humans Guide to Languages of Rare and Exotic Races, because for a wonder, he understood the troll perfectly.
Well, maybe perfectly was a stretch. But sort of. He definitely knew at least one of those two words, anyway.
He approached the creature slowly, and said in his most soothing tones, “You’re not melting, I promise. It’s called washing.” The troll stared at him blankly. Oh, right. Trollish. Calarian had only ever practiced speaking the language in his room at home, using the complicated pronunciation guide that was a bonus extra with the book purchase, and he had no idea if he was even close to the mark, but he cleared his throat and tried his best. “Nuuuu blaaaarg. Nesch looooooogh.” Calarian spat the words from the back of his throat like a wad of particularly stubborn phlegm, and hoped he’d got it at least partially right.
He must have been close, because the creature stopped wailing and tilted its head, studying him before lifting its dripping arm. “Nesch looooogh?” it said hopefully.
Calarian nodded, and taking a chance, tapped his hand on the creature’s decidedly solid leg to demonstrate that it was not, in fact, melting away to nothing. The creature shook its head as if to clear it, and leaning closer, started babbling at Calarian in trollish. It spoke far too fast for him to understand all of it, but he picked out a few words—monster, run, home, mother?—and it was enough for him to get the gist of it.
There was a small crowd forming behind him, all straining to see and hear, and Gunther was at the forefront. “My fountain!” he screeched. “My beautiful fountain! I told you it was an attack!”
“Shut up, stupid human,” Calarian snapped, and wow, maybe he’d been spending too much time with Benji. He took a deep breath and willed himself not to push Gunther into the pond. “It’s not an attack. He’s running from a monster of some sort.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Gunther demanded.
Calarian drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Because I’m a royal advisor, and as such