CHAPTER 100: CHAPTER 100: HEARTH AND LAIR.

Dungeon-Dive Dave’s booming announcement—"’Hearth & Lair: A Tour of Cores’!"—landed in the lobby like a magical bomb, and the room exploded in a wave of chaotic, contradictory reactions.

FaeLina’s aura, which had been a calm, professional lavender, exploded into a brilliant, incandescent pink of pure, unadulterated profit. Her psychic voice was a high-pitched squeal of pure, entrepreneurial glee in my mind.

’A multi-part special?! Mochi, say yes! Say yes right now! Think of the merchandise! We could sell tiny, hand-carved Sir Wobble-a-lot dolls! Officially licensed ’Chamomile Champion’ tea sets! And a full set of collectible, hand-painted figurines of the entire team! We’ll start with Sir Crumplebuns and work our way up to Sloosh!’

At the exact same moment, Gilda crossed her arms, her expression a thunderous "absolutely not." She looked from the influencer’s floating Scry-camera to the stairs leading up to the Hibernation Hollows—the team’s shared living space—with the protective fury of a dragon guarding its hoard.

Pip, meanwhile, had simply vanished, having dived under the nearest table to become one with the shadows. Sir Crumplebuns, on the other hand, puffed out his chest and struck a magnificent, heroic pose, clearly ready for his close-up.

Dave, as a true professional, just smiled, completely unfazed by the chaotic reception. "So," he asked again, his voice full of cheerful energy. "What do you say, Great Sleeper? The entire kingdom is dying to see how the famous ’Chamomile Champion’ lives!"

I felt FaeLina’s psychic presence practically vibrating with so much excitement it was starting to give me a headache. But the thought of a Scry-camera crew, with all their bright lights and loud talking, invading my quiet, peaceful home was enough to make my core wilt.

I quickly ran a mental cost-benefit analysis.

Cost: A loud, invasive Scry-camera crew, a complete loss of privacy, and a significant disruption to my nap schedule.

Benefit: FaeLina would not stage a tiny, glittery, and very noisy coup.

The benefit, unfortunately, outweighed the cost. But if I had to do this, I was going to do it on my own terms. It was time to find a lazy, efficient, and mutually beneficial compromise that would make everyone involved completely miserable.

’FaeLina,’ I projected, my voice now a calm, steady baritone of pure, unshakeable authority that cut through her frantic excitement. ’We will agree to the special show, But only... under certain conditions.’

’Conditions?’ she asked, her excitement instantly turning in to suspicion.

’Dave,’ I projected to the influencer, my voice echoing in the now-silent lobby. ’I will grant you your special show, but you must agree to my terms.’

Dave’s eyes lit up, his professional smile widening. "Of course! Anything! We can get a Royal Proclamation granting you exclusive rights to the broadcast! A full say in the final edit! Just name your terms!"

’My terms are simple,’ I explained, my mental voice perfectly calm and steady. ’First: The entire production will be conducted in absolute silence. All interviews, all commentary, all crew direction must be done in a whisper. This is a sanctuary, not a tavern.’

Dave’s cheerful smile faltered. He blinked. "In... in silence?" he asked, his voice a confused squeak. "But my booming, authoritative narration is my trademark! It’s my brand!"

’Then you will have to invent a new brand,’ I replied calmly. ’A very, very quiet one.’

’Second,’ I continued, feeling FaeLina’s psychic presence begin to buzz with a new and very specific kind of horror. ’Your Scry-cameras are only permitted to film things that are currently... at rest. If a resident is awake and moving, they are not to be filmed. An awake person is a private individual. A sleeping person,’ I explained, my logic simple and unassailable, ’is just very comfortable scenery. You may film the scenery.’

’Mochi, what are you doing?!’ FaeLina shrieked in my mind, her thought a jumble of pure, managerial panic. ’That’s the whole show! No one wants to watch a show about sleeping!’

’Third,’ I said, calmly ignoring her frantic psychic projections. ’The tour is restricted to the first floor only. The Hibernation Hollows and the Heart of the Dream are private residences and are strictly off-limits.’

And fourth, and most importantly,’ I delivered the final, beautiful, soul-crushing condition, the one that would turn his intriguing special into a work of pure, avant-garde torture. ’The final, ten-minute segment of your grand special show must consist of a single, unedited, and completely stationary shot of my finest, most comfortable pillow.’

To prove I was serious, I manifested the star of the show. With a soft shimmer of purple light, a single, perfect pillow appeared on a small pedestal in the center of the room. It was woven from pure dream essence, and it seemed to radiate a gentle, calming aura of its own. It was, without a doubt, the most comfortable-looking object in the entire world.

A new kind of silence fell over the lobby. A deep, profound silence of pure, unadulterated bafflement.

FaeLina was having a complete, high-speed, and completely silent meltdown.

’A pillow?!’ she shrieked, her psychic voice a jumble of pure, horrified disbelief. ’You’re ending our big prime-time debut with ten minutes of a pillow?! That’s not a show; that’s a sleep aid! The advertisers will pull out! The ratings will be a disaster! Thistlewick will use this to have us reclassified as a ’Public Nuisance’! Our brand will be ruined forever!’

’Precisely,’ I replied.

Dave just stood there, staring at the pillow. His professional smile was gone, replaced by a look of pure, analytical thought. A slow, dawning light of pure, creative genius spread across his face.

"Great Sleeper," he said, his voice a reverent whisper. "It’s perfect. It’s not just a tour; it’s performance art. It’s a statement. The quietest, most boring, and most aggressively pleasant television special in the history of the world."

He bowed. "We’ll start filming tomorrow."

As Dave and his crew departed, a wave of different reactions washed over my team.

Gilda, who had been glaring daggers at the Scry-camera, finally relaxed, a small, satisfied grunt escaping her lips. Her home was safe.

Pip slowly peeked out from under the table, a look of profound relief on his face. He wouldn’t have to be on camera.

Sir Crumplebuns, however, was crestfallen. He looked from his Spoonblade to the pedestal where the pillow now sat. "BUT... BUT WHAT ABOUT MY HEROIC MONOLOGUE?" he whispered, his voice full of a deep, theatrical sadness.

___________

Author’s Note:

And Mochi’s solution to an invasive TV special is... to make it as boring as humanly (and geologically) possible. This is the most Mochi plan ever, and I am so proud of him.

I love that Dungeon-Dive Dave, a true professional, immediately sees the chaotic, comedic genius in Mochi’s terrible, wonderful idea. They are a match made in heaven. But Sir Crumplebuns being heartbroken that the star of the show is a pillow and not him is a close second for my favorite moment.

But can they really pull it off? A silent, sleepy tour of a single room, ending with a ten-minute shot of a pillow? The King is going to love this. Thistlewick is going to have another aneurysm. What do you guys think?

Thanks for reading!