Awash with beauties, perfume, and the scent of delicious food, the ballroom overwhelmed Mouse. He paused at the doorway to steady himself. Lurking in the doorframe’s shadow, he peered out at the hubbub, taking it in from afar. Have parties always been this rowdy? In the north, couples quietly paired off and danced to the tune of violins under the cool light of the moon. Instead, here, loud music overlapped conversation. Afternoon sunlight streamed through colored glass, the sun not yet fully set. Heavy-laden tables strained under the weight of food piled high atop them.

Ahead of him, Sabelyn ran to a bunch of girls. She leaned in and whispered something, and they all glanced back at him and giggled.

Mouse took a deep breath and stepped forward, into the ballroom.

Compared to the other girls, his dark gray dress blended into the background. Perfect. The less I stand out, the better. He wandered over to the buffet, shooting a glance at the raised dias at the far end of the room.

The young Mage-Emperor sat beside the human’s king, an older man in a bejeweled crown. Laden with gems and precious stones, the king glittered brighter than the stained glass. Although the Mage-Emperor wore fine clothes, few jewels adorned him. He sat on a section of the dias raised above the king, but if not for that, Mouse might have mistaken him for a mere lord. A simple circlet sat atop his head, gold pounded flat, a diamond the size of a pigeon egg set in the center. He watched the crowd with wide-eyed wonder that reminded Mouse of debutantes attending their first ball. Occasionally, he sat forward, fingers gripping the armrest of his throne, but he always sat back in the end. The king leaned over and whispered something to the Emperor, who nodded distractedly. Uninterested, Mouse glanced away.

Metal jangled. The sun elf jostled him gently. “I didn’t expect you to actually pass out in front of His Majesty. You drow are delicate folk.” She paused, then offered a hand. “Eleda.”

“Call me Mouse. Moon elves, please.” He took her hand, then, searching for a topic, nodded at the buffet. A whole pig, several different chicken dishes, grains and vegetables, pastries and sweets. “Did the king gather all this himself? That’s impressive, for an old man.”

“Eh? The king doesn’t gather the food,” Eleda replied, confused.

“Huh? Then… who does?”

“The cooks?” Eleda tipped her head, then smiled. “Oh, right. I forgot how self-sufficient you d… moon elves are. In most countries, the royal family doesn’t gather their own food or hunt their own meat.”

“Oh,” Mouse mumbled. His ears drooped in embarrassment, tips heating up to pink under the gray.

“It’s a good thing, it is. Besides, plenty of races have strange habits.”

Mouse flinched. Strange habits, huh.

Eleda bit her lip but pressed on, trying to make it better. “You should talk to Bessemer, her society is fascinating, truly.”

“Thanks,” Mouse said sarcastically, lips pressed tight. The freaks should stick together, is that what you mean?

Eleda grimaced. She turned to the buffet and widened her eyes. “Is that pineapple? Wow, I haven’t seen that in ages. They’re supposed to be all but impossible to grow. Excuse me, I, er, have to go…”

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Mouse leaned against the table, already tired. Maybe Moussaesa wasn’t the only one who needed to get out and see the world. He opened his mouth and managed to label himself a country bumpkin in ten seconds. Without thinking, he reached to fiddle with his braid, only to find himself with a handful of loose hair instead. Mouse sighed.

“Left. Left. No, that’s right! No, I’m right, you’re wrong, left! Left, I will fart on you—”

He looked up. A strangely tall goblin staggered his way, muttering to herself as she jolted left and right across the ballroom. Green skin clashed with a monstrous orange satin ball gown and matching long gloves that flopped well past her hands and only served to accentuate how short her arms were in comparison to her height. Outsize ears trembled as she bobbled along, big eyes narrowed in concentration. Slowly, she wobbled to the buffet and bumped to a halt against the table with a low grunt. Immediately forgetting the long gloves, she bent almost in half and snatched at the pork with her real hands. The gloves flopped into the grease collecting in the base of the dish and soaked it up, ruined.

“Hey, hey!” a voice from her midriff muttered.

She glanced left and right, then started shoving handfuls of pork down her dress. Grease stained the neckline and streaked down her stomach, but she didn’t seem to notice. From somewhere around her hips came the sound of chewing, then a satisfied sigh.

Mouse stared.

The goblin caught him looking and turned away. In a loud whisper, she turned to her midriff and growled, “Keep it down!”

A burp emanated from her skirts. “Got it, boss. Lips sealed. Unless you’ve got some more pig up there?”

She turned back to Mouse and beamed. Straightening her back, she delicately offered her hand. The greasy glove dangled down, once again forgotten. “Gawain. Pleased, I’m sure.”

“Mouse.” He reached out, then hesitated. Hand? Glove? Pork grease and other unsavory colors stained both. Mouse licked his lips, then dropped his hand and bowed instead.

Gawain’s smile grew wider, a feat he hadn’t thought possible. Bits of pork stuck out of the gaps in pointy yellow teeth, and a fetid stench rolled over him. “Oh my, someone who knows etiquette, at long last.”

I don’t want to hear that from you. Mouse smiled, struggling to hold his breath.

“What a nice party. I go to parties like this all the time, back home, of course. Parties better than this, even. Back in my country, we have a saying: if it isn’t a two-pig party, it isn’t a party at all.”

“Two pigs? There’s another pig?” her midriff asked.

Her skirts twitched in a way that suggested she kicked the someone upon whose shoulders she sat. She laughed loudly.

“Stop that! My shoulders already ache. You’re stupid heavy,” her midriff demanded.

“Shut up! Legs don’t talk.”

“You shut up! Who’s carrying you, huh, Princess? I can drop you whenever I want!”

Mouse licked his lips. He glanced out at the dance floor. “Is that, er, wow, I haven’t greeted so many people yet! I really must go.”

Gawain glared at her stomach one last time, then looked up at him. “We only just got started talking! We haven’t even… what do ladies do?”

“Drink tea?” her midriff suggested.

“Tea! Let me get you some tea.” Gawain nodded to herself, smiling. She moved her arms as if she was bustling off, but her lower half didn’t move.

“There’s no need, really,” Mouse protested weakly.

“No, no, I insist.” Gawain pumped her arms harder, then frowned. Her skirts twitched again.

“Ow! What, are we going? We’re walking?”

“Are you stupid or what? Yes!”

She lunged forward, or, at least, her legs did. Her upper body swung backward, hinging around her midriff, then flew forward again as she desperately balanced her weight. Her greasy arms swung wildly. She slammed into Mouse. One hand caught his shoulder. He rolled his other shoulder back, trying to dodge, but couldn’t get away fast enough. Her second hand slammed into his chest, directly on top of the padding. The fabric deformed in her hand, squishing flat.

Mouse froze. Gawain’s upper half froze. Her lower half continued blithely, unaware of the problem. Noticing the trajectory of her lower half’s head, Mouse hurriedly pivoted to the side to let her by.

She turned back as her lower half carried her away and called, “Don’t worry, I do it too!”

As the nearby princesses turned, curious, Gawain shoved her hand down her greasy dress and yanked out a crumpled sticky bun. Bits of pork stuck to the edges, one side shiny with grease. She winked, then gave the sticky bun a thoughtful look and took a big bite.

Giggling rang out from all around, broad smiles barely hidden behind fans. Mouse put his head in his hands. Can the floor swallow me up now, please?