Lord Blackbriar's arrival was heralded not by trumpets, but by the thundering of hooves and his booming voice carrying across the grounds: "BY THE GODS, TAKE THEM!"
The nobleman cut an imposing figure atop his massive black stallion, his personal guard fanning out behind him like a heavily armed tempest of steel and discipline. His perfectly waxed mustache twitched as he took in the scene before him. His pristine mansion grounds now resembled the aftermath of a tavern brawl – if said tavern specialized in gelatin dishes and regularly hosted cavalry charges through its gardens.
The slime's translucent bulk rippled in the sunlight, and bones and weapons floated within its mass like macabre decorations. The skull on its core rotated slowly, and empty eye sockets somehow conveyed an air of smug satisfaction.
He stopped, finally registering the full scope of the destruction. His prized garden was trampled, several unconscious bandits lay scattered across his manicured lawn, and most alarmingly, a massive gelatinous creature was currently attempting to digest what appeared to be his great-grandmother's prized bush of white roses.
"Seraphina?!"
"My lord" Seraphina emerged from the servants' stairwell door, managing to sound perfectly composed despite her bloodied sleeve and the knife clutched in her good hand. Her usually immaculate apron was now a study in gunpowder stains and what appeared to be slime residue. "I'm afraid we're experiencing a slight... security concern."
The slime chose that exact moment to belch wetly, depositing something unidentifiable at Lord Blackbriar's feet. The mass bore an unsettling resemblance to what might have once been part of his mahogany furniture. He stared at the soggy mass, then at the grey-haired stranger attempting to hide behind his injured maid. The stranger's green eyes darted between him and the nearest escape route.
"I see," Lord Blackbriar said, enunciating each word with the careful precision of a man desperately trying not to scream. "And I don't suppose anyone would care to explain why there appears to be a..." he squinted at the creature, which was now inexplicably juggling some weapons and bones in its transparent mass.
"My lord" Seraphina brightened, grabbing Thristle's shoulder and practically shoving the reluctant grey-haired figure forward. "May I present the grand mage who saved us all! Their magnificent creature single-handedly defeated the bandits and-"
"THRISTLE?!" Lord Blackbriar's voice blasted with enough force to make the windows rattle. "Of course! Of course you're involved." He threw his hands up in exasperation. "At least this time you didn't blow anything up, I assume"
Thristle glanced nervously over her shoulder at the main doors, where frame fragments still clung stubbornly to the stone.
"You didn't, did you?" Lord Blackbriar added, following her gaze. His face took on the particular shade of red usually reserved for sunsets and angry roosters.
"Um, noo?" Thristle's response carried all the conviction of a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "Technically not?"
Lord Blackbriar swayed slightly in his saddle, looking like a man who had just discovered his worst nightmare had invited friends over for tea. "I think," he announced to no one in particular, "I shall require a very large brandy. Or three." He dismounted with as much dignity as he could muster, which was quite a feat considering the entire courtyard was now coated in a thin film of slime that made it slipperier than a greased pig at a village fair.
"Joseph?!" he called out to his most trusted guard. "See to it that..." he waved vaguely at the chaos, encompassing everything from the partially digested rosebush to the slippery disaster his courtyard had become. "All of this is sorted out. And help Seraphina with her wound. Use the potion." His eyes narrowed as they fixed on Thristle, who was attempting to edge behind a partially demolished statue. "And you-" he pointed an accusatory finger, "you will explain exactly how this happened.”
Joseph, meanwhile, after tying up a few thugs, was eyeing the distance between himself and Seraphina, clearly calculating the safest route across the impromptu slime rink that his lord's courtyard had become. The fact that the massive gelatinous creature had begun to melt all the wooden parts of spears and multiple crossbow bolts with a hissing sound didn't help his strategic planning.
"Actually," Thristle began, raising a finger timidly, "funny story about that. The slime isn't exactly... mine? It's more like, well, it's been following me. Rather persistently, I might add." She offered her most winning smile, though the flash of sharp teeth, and given her current state – covered in dirt, leaves, and what appeared to be slime residue – wasn't particularly winning at all. "I was rather hoping you might help dispose of it?"
Lord Blackbriar's mustache twitched so violently it threatened to escape his face entirely. "Oh, how convenient!" His voice dripped with enough sarcasm to fill a small lake. "Thristle, known for causing chaos and catastrophes, just happened to lead a massive, man-eating slime to my doorstep by pure coincidence!"
The slime, apparently recognizing itself as the topic of conversation, performed what might have been interpreted as a cheerful wiggle. This unfortunately caused it to knock over another piece of garden statuary, which rolled to a stop at Thristle's feet.
"Sorry," Thristle mumbled, her voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to bring trouble to your door, but I didn't know where else to go. It's not my fault..." She glanced nervously at the creature, which was now attempting to sample one of the decorative vases.
"My dear Thristle," Lord Blackbriar's voice had taken on the dangerous smoothness of expensive silk hiding a steel blade, "if what you're saying is true – if you knowingly led an uncontrolled, obviously dangerous creature to my home, endangering my staff and my property?" He paused meaningfully, letting his hand rest on the ornate hilt of his sword. "Well, that would be an offense punishable by beheading."
Thristle's face went pale enough to match the remnants of the white rosebush. "I'm just messin' with ya!" The words tumbled out in a thick accent as panic seized her chest. "It's definitely me slime. Me trained, slightly enthusiastic slime that-" She saw Lord Blackbriar's eyebrow rise at her suddenly provincial tone, but terror had taken full control of her tongue. The creature punctuated her words by finally succeeding in absorbing the decorative vase, the pottery dissolving with an alarming sizzle.
"Now, since you've admitted responsibility, we can discuss proper compensation for the damages.” Lord Blackbriar's eyes tracked the progress of yet another piece of his property melting in the creature's mass.
Lord Blackbriar pinched the bridge of his nose. "Seraphina, once you're healed, please escort our 'grand mage' to my study. And for the love of all that's holy, Thristle, keep that slime from eating any more of my family heirlooms!"
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The creature, as if in direct defiance, began to edge toward a nearby sundial with the determined air of Rose's goose approaching unguarded bread.
"And someone," Lord Blackbriar added wearily, watching Thristle's undignified scramble, "fetch me that brandy. Make it the full decanter."
---
Thristle closed her distance with the slime, her heart hammering against her ribs. The creature's translucent mass rippled with an almost cheerful quality that did nothing to ease her terror. Her eyes darted between Lord Blackbriar's increasingly exasperated expression and the gelatinous menace that had somehow become her responsibility.
"Nice slime," she whispered, patting her pockets. Her fingers brushed against something wrapped in wax paper – treats she'd accidentally stuffed away during her earlier walk through the servant's corridors. "Would you like a sweet?" she offered, her voice squeaking.
The bones and metal fragments in the creature's mass rotated with sudden interest as she unwrapped a honey-glazed pastry with trembling fingers. The slime surged forward, its mass undulating with what could only be described as excitement.
"Here you go," Thristle squeaked, tossing the treat. The pastry disappeared into the creature's bulk with a satisfied schlorp.
Lord Blackbriar's mustache twitched. "Was that my honey pastry you are feeding to that thing?"
But Thristle had no time to respond. The slime rushed forward and enveloped her. She found herself wrapped in a gelatinous mass that squeezed her like an overenthusiastic embrace.
"Help!" she yelped, watching in horror as her already ragged robes began to dissolve. „Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—"
The world went wobbly and blue-tinted as she was fully absorbed into the creature's mass. She could hear muffled shouts, see distorted figures rushing about through the translucent walls of her prison, and feel her clothes disintegrating—
--
Thristle shot upright in bed, gasping. Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar windows, illuminating a luxuriously appointed guest room. She found herself in a luxuriously appointed guest room, her various scrapes and bruises tended to. Someone had changed her into a clean nightgown while she was unconscious—a thought that made her stomach twist.
The door opened with a precise click as Seraphina entered, her posture impeccably straight and her black-and-white uniform pressed to perfection. "Good morning," she announced with professional detachment, though a slight blush colored her cheeks. "The slime is safely contained in the garden pond, though I must say, though it appears to have developed an attachment to you."
Thristle groaned and collapsed back onto the pillows. "Wonderful. I don't suppose Lord Blackbriar would accept a slightly used slime as payment for damages?"
Seraphina's stern expression cracked slightly, betraying a hint of amusement before she caught herself. "This is not a joking matter," she replied crisply, focusing intently on folding linens.
Thristle's playful demeanor suddenly vanished. "Wait... somebody changed my clothes?"
Seraphina's movements became mechanical. "It was necessary for proper care," she replied matter-of-factly, though her movements became slightly more rigid. "You were filthy and injured. I had to ensure—"
"You saw—?" Thristle looked up at the maid, panic flashing across her face.
Seraphina paused her folding, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Your injuries required attention," she said quietly. Her eyes flickered briefly to Thristle's arm where an old bite mark stood out against her skin, then lower, to where strange green markings curved along her thigh and left forearm. "Though I'm more concerned about that wound down your back. Even with the healing potion, it may leave a mark."
Thristle frowned. "Wound? What wound?"
"The nasty one running down your back." Seraphina's voice hardened, though her eyes betrayed concern. "The healing potion alone couldn't have—"
Thristle twisted, trying to get a look at her back, bewildered. She winced as fragments of memory surfaced – the grinding sound, the sudden drop, the impact that should have shattered her spine. Yet here she sat, bruised but whole. Her hand instinctively traced the fresh scar, feeling its strange smoothness. Almost like...
She pushed the thought away. Some things were better left unexamined.
"A wound this size," Seraphina continued carefully, watching Thristle's face, "should have killed you. Though perhaps there's more than one way to heal." Her eyes flickered to the window where Vesper's bulk rippled in the garden pond.
Thristle deliberately avoided following her gaze. The implications were too vast, too unsettling. Better to focus on practical matters. "But you saw—" her voice cracked.
"That despite your quite manly chest you're a girl?" Seraphina raised an eyebrow, remembering her initial disappointment upon realizing her mistake. Irredeemable, she had thought, though whether she meant the situation or her own feelings remained unclear.
"W-what? What has that to do with anything?" Thristle retorted with characteristic defiance. "I don't need fat bags," she gestured dramatically at the maid's ample bosom. "I don't need those! Not planning on nursing any babes soon anyway." Her sharp grin wavered slightly. "And I haven't decided yet anyway."
"Decided what?"
"To become a man or not. It's normal for elves—oh right, forgot you humans can't choose," Thristle added with a cheeky grin. "We can change when we find ourselves. Some take a decade or two, some know right away..." She trailed off, catching Seraphina's gaze fixed on her skin.
Maid's eyes caught on the strange markings—not quite scars, not quite tattoos—beneath Thristle's skin. Too late, she realized that her attention had struck a wound far deeper than any physical mark, watching as Thristle's carefully maintained composure withered like flowers in winter.
Thristle whimpered, all traces of brattiness gone. "Who else saw them?"
„Only me," Seraphina replied, her stern demeanor unchanging despite the fierce protectiveness that surged through her.
"Could you just... not mention them? Please?" Thristle asked, vulnerability creeping into her voice. "I'll owe you a favor if you don't say anything."
"What are those?"
"Um, a curse, I... I'd rather not talk about it," Thristle whispered, eyes downcast. Unconsciously, she rubbed her forearm where the green marks lay hidden beneath her sleeve, a constant reminder of what drove her family from home.
Seraphina turned sharply away, hiding the softness that threatened to break through her professional mask. "Your secret is safe with me," Seraphina stated, her tone professional but with a subtle undercurrent of protectiveness that surprised even her. She focused on gathering her supplies with precise movements. "Now, shall we see about making you presentable? Lord Blackbriar expects his guests to maintain certain standards." At the door, she paused, her voice firm but gentle. "And Miss Thristle? Do try not to cause any more chaos today. The manor has had quite enough of it."