Stories from the Lodge

No one in the raid quite remembers when Kivara first decided Blinky was 'cute.'

It might have been after the third wipe. Or the fourth. Possibly somewhere between being devoured and being launched off a platform.

Regardless, while the rest of the raid saw a two-headed nightmare stitched together from teeth, eyes, and poor life choices... Kivara saw something else entirely.

"Aww," she said the first time, tilting her head mid-pull. "Look at him!"

"LOOK AT-" someone screamed over comms before being immediately deleted.

But in Kivara's mind, Blinky wasn't a grotesque, slobbering horror. He was soft. Loyal. A misunderstood little guy who just needed a friend. While the rest of the raid dodged mechanics and questioned their life decisions, she imagined herself curled up beside him, patting one head while the other drooled happily.

"Who's a good Blinky?" she whispered once.

That was also the pull where healers gave up.

Reality, however, was less... cuddly.

Blinky died every raid night.

Violently.

Loudly.

And usually while half the group yelled, "JUST KILL IT THIS TIME."

The creature would collapse in a heap of twitching limbs and far too many teeth, its many eyes dimming one by one. The raid would gather, weapons still drawn, catching their breath.

Then the leather workers would step forward.

"Well," one of them would say, cracking their knuckles. "Time to get paid."

Kivara lingered at the edge of the group, her glaives lowered, her expression somewhere between sadness and quiet betrayal.

"Do we... have to?" she'd mutter.

"Yes," came the immediate reply.

Every. Single. Time.

With a sigh, she would kneel beside what remained of Blinky-her Blinky-and reluctantly begin the work. Her movements were slower than the others. Careful. Almost respectful.

"Sorry," she whispered once, under her breath, as she made the first cut.

Behind her, someone looted gold.

Another complained about drops.

Someone else asked if they could pull trash.

No one else noticed.