Bony stretched fingers and sharp cracked nails; twisted limbs, they reached to snatch and tear at his silky scarlet fabric. It was a forest of withering black hands poised to grab at anything that was within its radar. Beneath his polished boots, the soft crunch of leaves. The Collector tilted his head back.

Past the web of dried branches, the tip of a tower with shattered tiles and opaque windows began to take form. Taking the path a hunched geezer with meager yellowing teeth had offered him was a risk, but a risk worth taking if the old man had spoken truth about the treasure beholding.

Soft molding stairs groaned under his weight, protesting every step. The mansion looked decently older than the swindler who had directed him here. The glass of the windows had been rubbed dull to the point where anything beyond them was obscure. On the last step of the porch stairs, the Collector's boot slipped on the mossy planks. He grabbed the rail for support, it crumbled under his touch.

The sky was no more hazed than any other day in Prashc, the bitter wind was usual, no one ever parted without several layers of cloth. The smoked sky was part of Prashc, staunch, just as its common city folk: heavy lidded and bored to the bones. The ribbons of smog that people exhaled with every sucking of a pipe was the ever humdrum tale the citizens believed the sky was so gray.

With a nice ram of a shoulder, the decaying doors of the mansion gave way, or rather, snapped in half. Something cool trickled into the socks of the Collector's shoes, only to realize water was pouring out from every direction, entirely soaking up to the last dry spot under his trousers with the dark water the house had belched. Branches and plants and fish streamed away, and the Collector had to grab onto the frames of the doors to keep from doing the same.

The horrible stench of the water trapped inside for years had framed the walls with a gruesome malodor. The house no longer looked like a home to humans, but a swamp to amphibians and bugs.

The only noise came from a group of dragonflies chasing each other around in loops. Earthworms creeped around his boot, and he attempted to squash them before they got any closer. His boot missed the worm, and sank into a deep spot in the mud slush. He knew from experience it was inutile to struggle. His gorgeous ebony leather boot was gone, just as his ruined coat. But that wasn't the worst; he had fallen into the enemy's trap. Just how careless had he been? The Collector bent down to unstrap his boot. He was much too distrait to notice the big thing behind him. It watched him mum-ly with its sapient eyes. They were unblinking and awaiting hunting hungry eyes. It anticipated with precaution every movement.

Cattails rattled with the soft breeze that seeped through the doors. The humming of the dragonflies died and so did the chorus of chirping grasshoppers. One moment, the Collector was slowly straightening his back, aware of his situation, aware of the thing behind him. The next, he was flying across the room at an alarming speed until everything in the room blacked out, solely lit by a dim orange light that seemed to come from nowhere yet everywhere.

He had been swallowed; he knew that much. It wasn't the first time it happened. He was inside a toad's stomach a the air was warm. Soon, droplets of sweat and other substances began to dribble down his neck and back. It was small and cramped and reeked of the most putrid acid. The stomach bag contracted and then expanded, and the Collector knew he would soon be no more than bones swimming in acerbic hot liquid if he didn't act quickly.

Slipping out the knife strapped to his belt, he sucked in a breath and drove it in the toad's belly, always careful not to harm it to a major extent. The amphibian let out a horrific cry, and the Collector lost no time, jumping through the only exit, and no, it was not the behind. He landed in the swamp water; he spit out some murky substances and gathered himself. He had not been able to examine the toad earlier, but now he could see the ravishing shape she had. Bigger than any other he had found. Her head almost brushed the end of the roof's enormous glass chandelier. Eyes glossy and bright yellow, wide and in pain from the blade he'd drove into her stomach. The sticky skin on the creature had a turmeric color with splotches of amber, like layers of dried leaves. Two horns stuck out from just above her eyes, mimicking a devil.

She was just too precious, and he had to have her.

As if the toad knew what the Collector was thinking, she croaked, languishing. In one second, he had sprung onto the back of the toad, the slime on her back was slippery, but he managed to crawl onto her head and grab her horns for support. The toad went unhinged, smashing its body against the walls. The house shook, dust poured from the ceiling. The remaining water scattered like waves, splashing everywhere. A piano smashed down the stairs of the storey. He had to control her before the whole mansion collapsed, so he smoothed the mucus skin of her head with his hand, and pressed his lips onto the bumpy surface, planting a soft kiss.

No one really knew why he did this, or why he even knew he could do this (it turned out awkward to ask), but the Collector's kisses were said to have possessing charms.

The toad went to a halt. Her body became still as rock, as if frozen in time. The Collector waited until the water calmed, and then he slipped from her back, boot bespattering (he had lost his other one). The Collector adjusted his coat, which was heavy and dripping.

There was a legend, yes very old, yet the Collector liked to retail the story to himself now and then. He didn't remember the details quite well, for the story wasn't what fascinated him. It was the frogs. Big toads, bigger than normal ones. Toads who had once been men and women alike. Traitors of their beloved. Cheaters who at night hung out with other men or women when the one with the ring slept alone. And for that, a terrible curse had been placed upon those who played with the bonds of love.

Pity, thought the Collector, looking at the frog, but look at what a beauty you have turned into.

He had a thing for outrageously gigantic toads.

∞

As the man who had formerly been referred to as the Collector traversed through the doors of the heart of Prashc, he became a man of a higher rank. Of course, seeing him in his current condition, wet and caked in mud, gave off the wrong impression of his class, yet the folk did not seem to be concerned with his attire.

At first, his own people did not recognize him, then later one shouted his name, and chorus of applause rang in the narrow streets. The King of Prashc cracked his best public simper. The people cheered even harder.

"Your Grace, you've returned!" Cried one.

"Quite a magnificent toad you've brought this time, Sire, if I must say so." Said another.

The King liked to switch titles, and there was no one to blame him, because being king was exhausting, and he needed a break now and then. When he was not ruling, he went by the Collector.

The King rode the toad through the streets, thanking his people for the lovely compliments. He ducked under a low bridge. The toad leaped and crashed, shaking the ground when landing. He pilfered a daisy from a balcony with rusting bars and offered it to a damsel; her cheeks flushed the colour of her flowy red dress.

The streets opened up to reveal the landscape he had watched so many times, a sparkling inky sea with a tall, tall pearl white castle standing in the middle like a candle. There were no stars shining above, nor street lights illuminating, yet the river sparkled like the universe the dark sky lacked.

The cobblestone streets became white marble, the miasma of perspiration, coal and dirt faded with the stronger aroma of moisture air and petrichor. The King hopped off the toad. The guards lining the doors ushered to his side, bowing deeply before him.

"Take care of her, don't harm her." Ordered the King as he hopped off the toad, "And someone fetch me some boots." The guards scrambled to please his demands. The King shoved someone his coat and grabbed a dry warm new one from another, who was already waiting with it as if he knew he'd have a messy journey. The King placed his now ungloved smooth palm on the latter guard's shoulder, as in a devoted gratitude. The guard showed neither emotion nor reaction, just as he'd been trained. It's what made a good guard.

Reaching the palace doors, a figure hastened to his side, forgetting to bow. The King decided to dismiss it, mercy. It's what many said he had. Any other royal would have had this inferior's head chopped in a heartbeat. This is what made him, so great, and he told himself that smiling haughtily.

"Your Majesty, welcome back! I have brought you only but good news, Milord." Said his most loyal servant. He was a thin man, taller than most, but he seemed to shrink with his nerves, which was, to say, always.

The King tipped his chin up, "And what are the good news you speak of, Millard?" He spoke with a tone he only used with Millard, soft but strong and expectant.

"Well only those which will bring you the most joy, of course, Your Majesty..." He faltered, waiting for the King to say anything before continuing, "A man. Claims to have... you know what." Millard said, lowering his voice. At that, a strange glim seemed to shine in the King's eyes, and then it was gone.

"You sure?" Asked the King.

"He came by while you were away, said he knew about your... condition," Millard paused, "Your Majesty, he says he's got the solution!"

Rubbed dull from the same old story, the King furrowed his eyebrows. "Says, says, says... Where's the thing, Millard. I want to see it. I want to see me." His voice grew hard.

Millard's lip twitched. "He's in the tearoom."

∞

Warm-bodied from a tea bath, the King felt scrubbed clean. Black clothes hugged his body from neck to toe, his opal skin standing out like a sheep in a pack of wolves, purple veins ran like branches, reaching out on his bare arms and face. Crimson eyes darted over to where a man was sitting at the tip of a burgundy love seat. Rich fabric was draped over the walls and the dim light of candles blended softly. The merchant who appeared odd in a room where everything costed innumerable more times than a garment of his own stood and bowed as deeply as his rounded belly allowed him.

"Your Majesty-" The merchant began, but the King held up a hand.

"You assert to have a way to fix my concerns?" He inquired.

"Not a way, Milord, a thing." And his hand went to his back, returning with a round object in hand. The King took it from the merchant's extended hand, but did not look at it.

"Can you assure me that this will work?" There was a nervous tint in his voice.

"It belonged to a vampire." The King brought it to his eyes. He rubbed the smooth back surface of the mirror, and then turned it around.

When he brought it up to his face, he saw the oak doors behind him, and a guard with a stiff back wearing his usual scarlet uniform. He did not see himself.

The object smashed against the wall of his left, shards of glass ricocheting and scattering. The merchant squealed, but it died when a grip lifted him off the ground by the collar.

"Your M-Majesty, I-I swear I thought it would work!" He promised.

"Are you making a fool of me? Do you think I am a bloody vampire?" The King bellowed.

"No, Milord, not at all!"

"Where did you find that mirror?" He demanded.

"Off a man. He was dead, a ghost." The King clenched his teeth.

"Did he hover?" The King asked.

The merchant looked confused, but then answered, "No, he walked! I swear he walked!" The man hit the carpet ground. The Kings fists tightened at his sides. A billow of his cloak, and he was gone.

∞

The King ate alone. He did so, every day. Not completely alone, a few guards watched over him from afar, but apart from that, alone.

But today he was not. On the other side of the table, twenty-five seats away, sat a figure. The figure watched him eat, a coy smile hanging about his lips. Heavy lidded and fingers laced together under his chin. Its red eyes stared.

The King ignored him, mostly because he was half asleep.

And so, bored, the figure crawled on top of the table.

The King disregarded him, until his own chin was being lifted by tender long fingers. The figure was almost transparent, the King wondered the next day if it had ever been there the day before.