Scratch

Roving bands of Mirrors are to the Wastes what packs of squirrels are to Sornieth's forests: a sight so common as to rarely warrant commenting upon. They can be a nuisance at times (especially when the hunt's aim is possible clientele), but leave them be and they'll move on soon enough.

Then there was Scratch. Scratch was a curious sort - glances at Varley from a distance turned into creeping along the building's perimeter, which went on for a week before he drew up enough courage to poke inside.

After that, he was nearly impossible to get rid of. He inspected every amenity, bauble, and corner like a cat purveying its new home, but would not respond to offers to book him a room. Another week passed.

Finally - finally! - Scratch walked up to the front desk.

"Can I have a job?" he asked.

"No," said the receptionist, who promptly chased him out the door with a broom.

He was not seen for the rest of the day, but alas, his absence was only temporary. He returned the next morning, standing in the doorframe.

"Can I have a job?" he asked, somewhat louder than his last attempt.

"No," said the receptionist, but Scratch had too much of a head start and took off before she could round the desk.

The doorman intercepted him the next morning, so Scratch instead stood a great many yards from the door to yell his question from afar. The doorman only shook his head.

Every morning, Scratch would stand in the same spot, his question getting progressively louder each day until one was left wondering how his vocal cords could stand to be used in such a manner.

Approximately one month following his first attempt at employment, a massive Bogsneak walked out to Scratch's spot at the same time he did.

The Bogsneak looked down at him.

The Mirror gazed up.

"I like your dedication," the larger dragon said. "My name is Tatters."

"Can I have a job?" Scratch asked.

Tatters slapped him on the back and gave him some papers to sign. Scratch was now a dishboy.




11.26.23 - Purchased for 9g