The Paladin and the Velvet Chest
There are places a sensible adventurer knows better than to enter.
Crypts with screaming doors.
Forests where the trees whisper your government name.
Taverns where the bartender cleans the same glass for six consecutive hours.
And, somewhere between the Realm of Questionable Decisions and the Province of Horny Bastards, there stood an establishment known only as The Velvet Chest.
The advertisements were magnificent.
MEET ADVENTURERS NEAR YOU!
FIND COMPANIONSHIP!
FLIRT! DATE! MAKE FRIENDS! PERHAPS DO UNSPEAKABLE THINGS TO A PIECE OF FURNITURE!
Our Paladin saw the sign.
He considered the proposition carefully.
He weighed the potential risks against the rewards.
He contemplated whether entering such an establishment aligned with his sacred oath.
Then a beautiful woman walked past the doorway.
The Paladin's single active neuron fired.
“Heh. Tits.”
And so began the campaign.
I. The Velvet Chest
The Paladin was an old character.
Not old old.
But old enough that nobody remembered precisely which expansion he'd come from.
He'd been created sometime around the turn of the millennium by a young sailor stationed far across the sea. He had survived twenty-six years mostly through the unbeatable defensive strategy of not being played very much.
His equipment was questionable.
His Wisdom score had clearly been sacrificed during character creation.
And although technically sworn to uphold justice, honor and righteousness, the Paladin had developed another philosophy over the decades:
Mo'Fishing.
Mo'Fishing was similar to going fishing except considerably more advanced.
A practitioner of Mo'Fishing did not necessarily require water.
Or fish.
Or even a fishing pole.
It was a spiritual state in which the body remained physically present while the brain placed a small handwritten sign in the window:
GONE FISHING.
DON'T KNOW WHEN I'LL BE BACK.
FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF.
🎣
This was the champion who entered The Velvet Chest.
The Mimics never stood a chance.
Unfortunately, neither did his wallet.
II. The First Chest
She was beautiful.
Suspiciously beautiful.
But the Paladin had low Wisdom, so this presented no immediate obstacle.
“Hello, handsome,” she said.
“Hello.”
“I've made something special just for you.”
The Paladin smiled.
Then appeared the lock.
🔒 5 GOLD
The Paladin stared at it.
His neuron activated.
Special?
He paid five gold.
The chest opened.
There was, admittedly, a woman inside.
There were also tits.
The Paladin considered this transaction.
“Acceptable.”
Then another woman appeared.
“Baby, I've been thinking about you.”
🔒 6 GOLD
Thinking about me?
Six gold disappeared.
Then another.
“I got naughty tonight.”
🔒 5 GOLD
Then another.
“I couldn't stop thinking about what you'd do to me.”
🔒 6 GOLD
By the end of the evening, the Paladin had acquired several minutes of boobs, absolutely no companionship, and the uncomfortable sensation that his coin purse had been mugged by his penis.
He returned home.
He slept.
He returned the next evening.
Because nobody ever accused this particular Paladin of learning mechanics on the first pull.
III. Progression
Over time, however, something remarkable happened.
The Paladin began noticing patterns.
Women would approach.
They would flirt.
Conversation would begin.
Perhaps there would be talk of meeting.
Perhaps romance.
Perhaps extraordinarily detailed descriptions involving furniture that the Paladin suspected would invalidate the manufacturer's warranty.
Then:
🔒
At first he paid.
Then he paid selectively.
Then he began asking questions.
Then he began saying no.
This produced fascinating results.
Some continued talking.
Others became strangely persistent.
“Don't you want to see what I made for you?”
“No.”
“But it's special.”
“I'm sure it is.”
“You'll love it.”
“No.”
“I made it just for you.”
The Paladin looked at the locked chest.
Then at the woman.
Then back at the chest.
“Ma'am, you made that before you knew I existed.”
Silence.
Somewhere in the distance, a developer coughed.
The Paladin's Wisdom increased by one point.
IV. ACT BROKE
The doctrine did not arrive through divine revelation.
There were no angels.
No burning bushes.
No ancient tablets carried down from a mountain.
The Paladin simply looked at his dwindling coin purse and said:
“Fuck this.”
Thus was born:
ACT BROKE
It was an extraordinarily powerful defensive spell because it required no actual poverty.
The practitioner simply behaved as though every unnecessary coin expenditure would cause immediate rectal discomfort.
Five gold?
Too expensive.
Six gold?
Absolutely fucking not.
Special bundle?
May it remain special forever.
Limited-time offer?
Then time better hurry the fuck up.
The Mimics were horrified.
Their most powerful weapon had always been curiosity.
The possibility that this chest contained something extraordinary.
Something irresistible.
Something worth five more gold.
ACT BROKE destroyed the entire premise.
The Paladin discovered the most devastating phrase in the dungeon:
“I don't care what's inside.”
Mimics recoiled from it.
Locks rusted.
Treasure chests spontaneously developed anxiety.
V. The Rules of Engagement
The Paladin nevertheless remained merciful.
Mostly because repeatedly pressing SMITE required effort, and he was still committed to Mo'Fishing.
Therefore he established a simple rule.
If someone sent him a locked chest, he would explain:
“I don't buy these. Please don't send another.”
This was reasonable.
Civilized.
Possibly even mature.
If she continued talking normally, wonderful.
Perhaps there really was a person underneath all the monetized nonsense.
Perhaps they could flirt.
Perhaps they could become friends.
Perhaps they could eventually meet and commit atrocities against an unsuspecting sofa.
The Paladin was flexible.
But if another locked chest appeared after the warning?
He stopped negotiating.
SMITE.
Not because the chest contained tits.
The Paladin remained enthusiastically supportive of tits.
The issue was simpler.
He had said no.
The Mimic had interpreted this as:
CAST AGAIN.
That was not a conversation.
That was a combat mechanic.
And the Paladin knew what to do with combat mechanics.
VI. The Mad Man
One particularly persistent Mimic attempted psychological warfare.
“Has someone told you that you are mad, or am I the first?”
The Paladin scratched his ear.
“You are the first.”
“You know you are mad.”
The Paladin searched his inventory.
“I am currently unable to provide a serious fuck.”
“You mad man.”
“Please provide any given fucks to the person who cares.”
The Mimic's confidence began dropping.
“Never mind.”
The Paladin sensed weakness.
Twenty-six years of mostly unused Paladin instinct surged through him.
“What happened? Did your willpower give up?”
The Mimic attempted one final attack.
“How can I date a mad man?”
The Paladin blinked.
“I didn't ask you to date one.”
“Ok.”
Silence.
Victory.
The Paladin leaned back.
Perhaps, he thought, they had finally reached an understanding.
The Mimic reached behind herself.
🔒 INTIMACY VIDEO
The Paladin stared.
The Mimic stared.
A tumbleweed crossed the dungeon.
“Motherfucker.”
VII. The Tollbooth Mimic
But even that was not the creature's final evolutionary form.
One evening the Paladin encountered a woman who expressed an interest in meeting.
Excellent!
A real-world quest!
The Paladin immediately requested the most fundamental information required for such an expedition:
“Where?”
The woman smiled.
She produced a treasure chest.
🔒
The Paladin stared at it.
Inside, presumably, was information necessary to locate the woman who had just invited him to visit.
He examined the chest from several angles.
Perhaps he'd misunderstood.
No.
The fucking directions were DLC.
This creature would later be classified by scholars as:
MIMIC, TOLLBOOTH VARIANT
Its natural habitat was directly between the adventurer and whatever the Mimic had just claimed to want.
The Paladin did not pay.
Instead, he inscribed a message upon the dungeon wall:
You threw bullshit behind a curtain
hoping the fool would bite.
Go chomp on a cactus.
And departed.
Somewhere, a cactus became extremely nervous.
VIII. Smol Monke
ACT BROKE was powerful.
But the Paladin possessed a terrible vulnerability.
Smol Monke.
Smol Monke lived inside the Paladin's skull.
Most of the time, Smol Monke slept.
Occasionally, however, a particularly attractive woman appeared.
Smol Monke awakened.
🐒
TITS.
“No.”
TITS.
“We've discussed this.”
BOOBIES.
“It's six fucking dollars.”
CLICK CHEST.
“No.”
MONKE WANNA KNOW.
The Paladin gripped his shield.
Sweat rolled down his forehead.
The chest shimmered.
🔒 5.99 GOLD
Smol Monke began smashing cymbals together.
The Paladin realized ACT BROKE alone was insufficient.
He needed something stronger.
Something ancient.
Something capable of suppressing curiosity itself.
And so he knelt.
IX. The Goon Prayer
The dungeon became quiet.
The Paladin placed his shield before him.
Mimics gathered in the darkness.
Dozens.
Perhaps hundreds.
Locked photographs dangled from chains.
Intimacy bundles glowed ominously.
Somewhere, Smol Monke whispered:
maybe just one—
The Paladin closed his eyes.
And prayed.
Thy goon and thy shield give me strength.
Lead me not into Intimacy Bundles.
Deliver me from Mimics.
Though the thumbnail be tempting, my wallet shall remain closed.
For I shall Act Broke, and my willpower shall not falter.
Should the Mimic test me once more— grant these hands nine hundred degrees.
The dungeon shook.
Smol Monke screamed.
The Mimics looked at one another.
One whispered:
“Oh shit.”
PALADIN'S UNFLINCHING WILL Rk. III
Discipline activated.
Duration: 30 seconds.
Curiosity: SUPPRESSED
Smol Monke One-Neuron Proc: DISABLED
Intimacy Bundle Charm Resistance: +1000
ACT BROKE: CANNOT BE DISPELLED
Hands:
900°F
A Mimic stepped forward.
“Baby, I made something special—”
🔥 CRITICAL SMITE
Another appeared.
“You don't want to see me naked?”
RESISTED
🔥 SMITE
Another:
“But this one is only—”
IMMUNE
🔥 SMITE
Another attempted:
TITS OF FINANCIAL RUIN Rk. IV
The spell struck the Paladin directly.
Nothing happened.
The Mimic gasped.
The Paladin slowly raised his hammer.
“No.”
CRITICAL RESIST: $0.00
🔥🔥🔥
Treasure chests scattered.
One disguised itself as an ordinary woman.
“Hey, I actually just want to talk.”
The Paladin narrowed his eyes.
“Proceed.”
She talked normally.
The Paladin lowered his weapon.
Another Mimic observed this from behind a pillar.
Interesting.
Perhaps the Paladin wasn't indiscriminately slaughtering treasure chests after all.
Perhaps there was a mechanic.
The Mimic stepped forward.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
“How's your night?”
“Pretty good.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Conversation. Maybe something casual. We'll see.”
“That sounds nice.”
The Paladin smiled.
Perhaps—
“Anyway, baby, I got really wet thinking about—”
🔒 5.99 GOLD
The Paladin's eye twitched.
The Mimic looked at the glowing discipline timer.
00:04
“Oh no.”
00:03
“WAIT.”
00:02
“I CAN EXPLAIN.”
The Paladin raised his hammer.
00:01
🔥
X. Aftermath
Thirty seconds later, silence returned to The Velvet Chest.
Smoke drifted lazily through the dungeon.
Charred hinges littered the floor.
Smol Monke cautiously emerged from underneath a helmet.
🐒
The Paladin surveyed the battlefield.
A notification appeared.
YOU HAVE GAINED EXPERIENCE!
The Paladin waited.
Another appeared.
MIMICS DEFEATED: A SHITLOAD
Excellent.
Another.
TREASURE ACQUIRED: 0
Fair enough.
And finally:
TOTAL SPENT: $0.00
The Paladin smiled.
He returned his hammer to its sheath.
He retrieved his fishing pole.
🎣
There would always be another Mimic.
There would always be another chest.
There would always be another suspiciously gorgeous woman claiming she'd created something especially for him approximately fourteen seconds after learning his name.
That was fine.
The Paladin had finally learned the encounter.
He didn't need to open every chest.
He didn't need to determine whether every Mimic was really a Mimic.
He didn't even need to become less horny.
That would have required a miracle far beyond the abilities of any known deity.
He merely needed to remember one thing:
No treasure chest was entitled to his gold simply because it made Smol Monke curious.
And so the ancient Paladin returned to Mo'Fishing.
His shield rested beside him.
His wallet remained closed.
His single neuron went back to sleep.
And carved into his shield were the sacred words that had carried him through the darkest depths of The Velvet Chest:
THY GOON AND THY SHIELD GIVE ME STRENGTH.
Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice
If a treasure chest repeatedly tells you that it isn't a treasure chest, do not waste three hours debating the chest.
Especially when the chest has already charged you $5.99.
Also, don't fuck the cactus.
It has suffered enough.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
- Senior Vice President of Peppercorn Acquisition
P.S. Boris has informed me that the Mimic harvest has supplied enough Peppercorn for the foreseeable future and that I am not to touch the new bag.
This accusation is both unfair and completely accurate.