There are nights when you sit at your desk, quill in hand, schedule clear, and a faint glow from a Kirin Tor-grade security ward humming comfortingly in the background. You sip your tea. You admire the prize shelf. And you think to yourself:
"At least the duck is safe."
Dear readers, the duck is
not safe. The duck is
gone. And with it, my faith in containment magic and possibly the rule of law.
There are moments in journalism when the ink runs dry, the candles burn low, and you find yourself staring into an empty prize box asking life’s most important question:
Where the fel is the duck?
Not just any duck, dear reader. A
golden duck. A marvel of semi-animated enchantment, imbued with charm, grace, and three levels of waddling sophistication. A duck that quacked with pride and shimmered under even the stingiest candlelight. And now? Missing. Gone. Puffed.
Bingo Night Becomes a Crime Scene
On the 26th of March, behind the Stormwind Cathedral at our usual gazebo venue, the
Lion’s Roar hosted its monthly Bingo night. It was an evening of joy, stiff competition, mild shouting, and the quiet sound of people marking off numbers on their bingo cards.
Among the prizes on display that night was the Golden Duck—a glittering crowd favourite meant for the ultimate winner. Alas, the winner wanted it otherwise, and selected the year's worth of portal insurance instead. The duck remained unclaimed, its future uncertain but promising.
I took it home. Well, to the office. Our storage room is reinforced with Kirin Tor-grade wards, the sort they only install when you've previously had bombs, break-ins, or sentient baked goods with malicious intent. Everything was in place.
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Until it wasn’t.
Fast forward to a routine prize inventory check. The box was there. But the duck? Gone. No signs of forced entry. No alarms. Just one empty, duckless void where a moment of glory once waited.
No sign of forced entry. No magical disturbances. No confetti bombs. Just a clean, quiet void where quacking gold once rested. It was enough to make a lesser man weep. I settled for a dramatic gasp and a small internal scream.
I marched (read: walked briskly with mild urgency) to the City Guard to file a report. Senior Constable Morgan met me with a steady hand and a notepad. She listened attentively as I laid it all out. The timeline. The wards. The duck. The trauma.
She asked smart questions—like whether the wards could be used to trace the culprit. I admitted I wasn’t sure. They’re more of a “keep out” system than a “find the thief who thought they were clever enough to mess with
my prize shelf.”
A Duck-Sized Lead
Over the next few days I have heard rumours around town. People talking about having seen the duck. Not in the prize box. Not in my office. But—near a lemonade stand.
Could it have walked off? Been taken? Traded for citrus?
If you know something - or have information which can lead to the return of the duck, please get in touch with me, or the guards, Whiskey Company.
Reward: A free bingo card. A tall glass of lemonade. A warm thank-you. And if you're the one who returns the duck—an invitation to never play “capture the prize” again.
Contact: Hardhy Lester, Editor. Still duckless. Still hopeful.