The Ill-Advised Practice of Feeding a Gremlin
Let us be unambiguous from the outset, in case the boldfaced title has somehow failed to sufficiently penetrate the part of your brain responsible for self-preservation:
NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, FEED A GREMLIN.
Do not offer them crumbs. Do not offer them cheese. Do not offer them a bit of sandwich because “they looked hungry.” They are always hungry. That is the problem with Gremlins. That, and the teeth.
You see, once you feed a Gremlin, she will remember you. Not fondly, like a dog remembers the person who took it in from the cold, but obsessively, in the “walking, talking, ambulatory buffet” sense. She will come back for more. And then more. And then even more, until you start to suspect that the universe has quietly reclassified you as a food group.
Give one so much as a biscuit and within a week your home will resemble a war zone, your pantry will be a myth, and your sanity will be held together only with string, willpower, and the increasingly implausible hope that maybe they’ll get full eventually. (Spoiler: they won't.)
So, for the love of all that is rational, don’t.
Also, please:
Send help.
Preferably armed. And wearing bite-proof gloves.
***
Lionel rubbed his left hand with the sort of grimace usually reserved for people realizing that the “mild” curry wasn’t. Every bite mark was a stinging reminder that hubris wasn’t just pride before the fall; sometimes it was pride before the teeth.
He’d been in control. There had been nothing to fear.
Which was a terrible miscalculation.
Now he stood with one foot planted firmly on a broken crate—the last, splintered remnant of his dignity—because it seemed important to draw a line somewhere, even if it was a line you could technically step over. From this noble fortress, he observed the creature squatting in the middle of the dingy room.
Another ten wrappers lay strewn across the stones like tiny, crinkly tombstones. Five whole days of rations, gone. Just like that. He had thought there’d be time to plan, time to figure things out. Now there was only a single compressed, calorie-dense bar left, hidden in his breast pocket. Or as hidden as anything could be from a creature that had demonstrated both the appetite of a black hole and the moral restraint of a brick through a bakery window.
“Have you…” Lionel began, delicately, as one might speak to a grenade with legs, “calmed down yet?”
A distant tremor had just passed through the walls, dust trickling from the ceiling like stage effects at the world’s cheapest apocalypse, and that hadn’t triggered another attack.
Surely, speaking was fine. Surely—
Buuuuuuurp.
The sound that rolled through the chamber wasn’t so much a noise as a seismic event. It was the deep, resonant rumble usually associated with volcanoes, political coups, and the stomach of someone who had just devoured the daily caloric requirements of an entire orcish warband in under five minutes.
“Whoo–ee,” said the creature, stretching with the satisfaction of a cat that had eaten not only the canary but also the cage, the table it sat on, and possibly the concept of birds in general. “That sure hit the spot. Now, nap time~”
She flopped backward with the boneless grace of something very small and extremely pleased. Though, she’d barely finished her yawn as her eyes flicked open again.
“What?” she said, squinting up at Lionel who was standing right over her. “You’re not gonna be stingy enough to ask for the wrappers back, are you?”
The she beast was gone.
Now, only the regular Pink Menace remained behind in all her obnoxious glory.
Which was barely an improvement.
She waved languidly toward the battlefield of shredded foil. “They’re right there. You can have them.”
Lionel pinched the bridge of his nose, which is what people do when they’re trying not to pinch—or punch—the bridge of someone else’s.
“Let me put this in terms you will understand,” he began slowly, with the air of a man building a sentence from unstable materials. “Let us say that you do take a nap, and that you do wake up hungry again. What will you eat at that point?”
Her lips parted, and Lionel, who had anticipated the answer the way one anticipates rain after seeing clouds the size of mountains, cut her off:
“And no, I don’t have any more bars.”
The lie was a small one. More specifically: No more bars for her. The one currently residing in his breast pocket was reserved for emergencies, and not the walking, talking, pink kind.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The creature narrowed her eyes. Then she shrugged, rolling onto her side with another yawn.
“I’m sure there’s something tasty tucked away in my apartment that I let you carry around.”
Lionel’s mouth twitched. “And what if said apartment”—which, for the record, he had no memory of leasing to anyone—“was dimensionally locked because of a certain someone, and will remain inaccessible until it has seen extensive repairs?”
There was a pause.
“Then that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?” she murmured to the floor, her body having settled into the kind of contemplative stillness usually reserved for cats watching birds through windows.
Unfortunately, stillness and the Pink Menace had a tenuous relationship, and their interactions rarely lasted longer than it took to spell the word “serenity.”
The universe had barely gotten to the second ‘e’ as she erupted upward, grabbing her plushie with desperation. “We can’t go back there, Wallace!” she wailed. “We can’t go back to the Hunger! It will ruin us!”
Then she spun toward Lionel, her finger stabbing the air as if she could skewer him on sheer indignation. “You! Figure out a way to acquire sustenance. We needs it.”
For a second, Lionel just stared at the stubby appendage pointing toward his face.
This was…progress? Technically. Possibly.
At least, it was a step in a direction. He just wasn’t sure it was a direction he liked.
He exhaled, long and slow.
Delvers couldn’t be trusted. He knew that. He would need something more tangible than a tenuous relationship to feel comfortable about getting out of this mess alive.
Doing his best to ignore the unanimous vote from his common sense declaring this a terrible idea, he reached beneath his jacket. Not into any pocket or hidden seam. No, this was deeper. This was into the very skill that had started the mess in the first place.
“My name is Lionel J’khall,” he began, voice firm, “fifth son of… well, that part doesn’t really matter anymore,”—because if it did, he wouldn’t be here—“top graduate of the School of Applied Thaumaturgy and Adventuring Dynamics, honor student within Hazard Studies and Team Governance, youngest recipient of—”
It was palpable, the way her eyes glazed over as he spoke. He could almost hear the “tuning out” noise playing in the background.
“Whatever,” Lionel said, as he pulled the glowing contract from his soul space. “Just sign this, alright?”
She blinked at it, then at him, then back at it. “A paper?” she said dubiously. “But I can’t eat that.”
She said it the way one might inform a confused shopkeeper that no, of course they could pay with rocks. As if he was the ridiculous one here.
Shortly after resolving himself to sign a Delver—turning on every promise he’d made over these past few years—Lionel J’Khall damn near had an aneurysm.
***
The silence that had briefly taken up residence in the Clatterwane had, as silences do in places where trouble brews, packed up and legged it.
Its departure was heralded by the sound of Mari’s heels hammering across the floorboards. A table tried to get out of her way, failed, and voiced its objection with a loud thump. A cascade of screws leapt to their freedom, hitting the floor with the cheerful optimism of doomed tin soldiers.
Alana’s voice rose above the clamor, attempting something between sarcasm and self-assurance and landing in the uncanny valley between the two.
“Relax,” she said. “It’s not like the roof’s going to fall in on us.” There was a pause as she glanced upward toward the ceiling, which was pretending it hadn’t just trembled ominously. “Right…?”
But Mari wasn’t concerned with roofs, ceilings, or even the furniture’s betrayal. She shoved the door open, the chime above making sure the silence stayed that much further away.
Rain smeared the streets into dull gray streaks, but her Third Eye was already swivelling skyward, past the rooftops and into a dull morning that had yet to break. Greedily, it drank in what parts of Ashenmoor the mist allowed her to see.
Which is to say, the bits the scenario had deigned she could look at.
Her heart plummeted.
There, in a not-so-distant square, a mob was already gathered. The kind with cleavers sharpened out of spite and lanterns that swayed with each determined step that brought them closer.
Several townsfolk were limping. A few had bandages. All seemed to have a gripe to pick. These were people who knew pain, and more importantly, blamed someone else for it. And now, they knew precisely where to direct their anger.
SCENARIO: The Angry Mob
The citizens of Ashenmoor are displeased.
The outsiders ruined everything. The Depths turned their baleful gaze upon the townsfolk—and not, as it had been promised, upon the unwelcome visitors.
They know where to find you…
Objective: Protect the Clatterwane and its proprietor until the “procedure” is complete.
Failure Condition: The death of your wounded party member or Edrik Kain.
Reward:
- Increased reputation with Edrik Kain.
- Unlocks: Secrets of Ashenmoor: An Artificer’s Tale.
Alternative Objective: Flee and save yourselves. (OBS! Will lead to inevitable death of your wounded party member.)
Mari stared at the translucent prompt hovering in the air, stomach clenched and hand white-knuckled on the doorframe.
“Oh gods…” she whispered, the words slipping out like a prayer.
“What are you doing?” Alana called over, her voice laced with irritation. “If you are down for leaving, then let’s leave. Don’t just—”
“You’re not seeing this?” Mari asked, her voice thin and frail. She pointed at the glowing message.
“Seeing what?” Alana asked, squinting through the air, which dripped morosely in response. “Sure, the weather’s awful, but—”
“A System prompt?” Desmond asked, making his way over with the nervous energy of a reed that was just one more bad news away from breaking. “What does it say?”
Mari hesitated.
“That, uh…” She swallowed, eyes flickering between a dark gazed Alana, and a glowing message only she could see. “That the townsfolk are coming. For us. And our only way to survive is by staying here and protecting the shopkeeper. It’s a… System scenario. A survival one.”
Her heart was hammering hard enough to make her feel sick, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when a new notification appeared.
Deception… Successful.
Desmond’s and Alana’s eyes both flickered upward at the same time, catching whatever invisible thing Mari had just seen.
Or, rather, slightly altered ones.
Alana cursed loudly and with feeling.
“We shouldn’t have listened to that bitch,” she hissed, pacing to the window. She glared out into the gray street, but without Mari’s skill, there was nothing to see yet. “This shop’s a damned death trap. Now, we’re all going to pay for it.”
She chewed her nails like a woman obsessed, then spun toward Mari. “If we leave right now, what happens?”
“T-the scenario fails,” Mari said, too quickly. “And then… I, I think the townsfolk come after us. Or maybe the sea monsters? Either way, the punishment’s, um… severe?”
She hoped her words sounded reasonable, but Mari had no clue what System Prompts the other two had gotten. Surely, they must have been altered, mustn’t they? Maybe? She didn’t know.
What she did know was that she was far too deep into the lie to dig herself out without causing a cave-in. But they couldn’t abandon Yenna. Not like this.
Which meant they would stay. They would fight.
It was the only option.