It began, as these stories too often do, with a whisper. A shifty glance. A stranger in a hood. And a tale that began with a drink in the Mage Quarter and ended with explosive elekk plushies tucked under public benches.
The informant? A grizzled Gilnean with a pirate’s swagger and the nose of a bloodhound.
The story? One that smells of cordite, desperation, and slightly damp felt.
James Lind Autumnsong—captain of the
Jolly Mutt and an enthusiastic consumer of alcohol approached me near the Cathedral, all cloak, shadow, and cheeky grin. After a few silvers changed hands (journalism is, after all, a business), he spun me a yarn I couldn’t ignore.
“I was poodlin’ about,” he said, “up by the Hocus Pocus Lamb Bar.” A location known for strong drinks, confusing spells, and even more confusing clientele. “Saw a plushie under a bench, right beat up. Thought, ‘That’ll please the missus.’ So I nicked it.”
Romance, dear reader, is alive and well.
But then? Another plushie. Another bench. Same style. Same placement. And that’s when our Gilnean rogue did something unexpected.
He
sniffed it.
Because of course he did.
“I knew it was a bomb,” Autumnsong said with a grin, half pride, half lingering disbelief. “Dropped 'em off with the guard. Got grilled like a summer salmon. No reward, mind you.”
Naturally, I followed up with the city guard to separate fact from salty seafarer fiction.
Corporal Silverdawn, of Whiskey Company, confirmed the story.
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“A civilian brought in two plushies,” she said. “Found under benches in Lion’s Rest. Seemed like lost toys at first—until one was opened. Inside? A bomb. Not time-triggered. More of a... hug-and-boom affair.”
Four such devices have been found in total—each disarmed successfully. All shaped like elekks. All suspiciously unstore-bought. When asked if the bombs bore any kind of magical signature or shared origin, Silverdawn remained cautious.
“We’re considering both the lone saboteur and organized group theories. No conclusive proof either way.”
“There’s no need for public concern at this time,” Silverdawn told me. “But if you find a plushie on the street that isn’t yours—
don’t pick it up. Alert the guard. Or the military. ”
Solid advice, really.
Autumnsong, for his part, remains both proud and slightly bitter.
“Saved the city, didn’t I?” he said. “No reward. Not even a ‘thank you’. This is why folks turn to crime.”
When asked for a final quote, he simply said:
“Put my name in the paper, yeah? James Lind Autumnsong. Captain of the Jolly Mutt. Proper hero.”
Well James, here you are. Hero. Scavenger. Plushie bomb sniffer.
Final Warning: If you spot a lone elekk plushie lounging under a bench, this is your cue not to adopt it. Adorable as they may be, they’re not trying to be your friend. They’re trying to explode.