You Guessed It (1/2)

“Move!” Fluffbear bellowed, as much as her squeaky little voice could bellow. “Get in there!”

It was a good suggestion.

It was a bit too late, though.

The braziers dropped from the ropes, clunking on the floor as they squirmed, questing blindly downward like worms searching for rotting meat.

The table folded over itself, manifesting teeth from its edges as the entire thing made a massive maw, snapping in the direction that the brazier had been bumped.

And the support beams up above trembled, and began to descend, each one ten feet across and picking up speed as they bent in the middle and speared downward, curling like collapsing ribs.

“Go!” Fluffbear yelled, wheeling Mopsy around to flee.

This was where RAGs training saved their lives.

All of them had been through basic guild tactics.

All of them had been taught that it was good to be heroic, but being heroic in the wrong place and time could be bad.

So instead of wasting time yelling at each other to go, they'd hold the rear, or preparing to fight and hold the line in a heroic sacrifice, not realizing that everyone else was doing the same, they followed the protocol that had been drummed into their heads from Adventuring One-oh-one onward.

The closest to the designated exit fled, the next closest followed after them, and the group folded into a fast-moving line that ran like hell, with Threadbare bringing up the rear. As the last one, it was his call whether or not to stay and fight, but the fact that the thing hadn't struck until it was touched hadn't escaped his notice.

A distraction seemed more apt, here. And so when he passed one of the metal braziers, he grabbed it up, hopped up into the air to get some room to swing it, and hurled it at the most distant wiggling rope-tendril.

In retrospect, he probably should have gone for a bigger target. Or remembered that he had never actually spent any time developing his Throwing skill and chosen a different tactic.

As it was, the brazier went wide, and he felt something brush against his ear mid-jump.

“Threadbare!” Glub yelled.

One of the tendrils caught me, he realized, and grabbed ahold of it to tear himself free.

He managed to tug his ear free, with a rip of fur, but then found he couldn't open his hand.

It's sticky! He realized too late, and the tendril whipped backward, snapping him down in between the wooden jaws of the table.

They were sticky too, and Threadbare struggled, his strength unable to overcome the surprising adhesion.

Sticky and smoking, as his fur started to sizzle, and on his back as he was, he saw red '42's and '45'sstart to rise up.

Acid, he thought to himself. This is bad.

The thought crossed his mind that he might die here, and he was thankful he had a soulstone tucked away in his belly stuffing. Perhaps the acid wouldn't destroy it. But he had a bad feeling that the jaws he was in would probably crush the little crystal if the acid didn't melt it.

Still, the others had got away, and as the jaws creaked and began to close, he took some comfort in that, even as he wracked his brain to try and figure out a tactic to use to save himself.

“Catch!” Glub yelled, and fortunately Glub HAD been practicing throwing, as he tossed a tiny glittering orb right past the table-maw's teeth, and right into the single unrestrained paw that Threadbare had left.

It was a waystone. And Threadbare knew how to use that. “Activate!” he said, squeezing it tightly.

And then he was free, and stumbling in a dirty and dusty room, staring at the backs of the groups as they fought to keep bits of the monster away from the closing wall. Rope tendrils gouged inward, and Apollyon hacked them away with his flaming sword as Dracosnack sniped larger parts with Wizardly force bolts, and the others pulled on the wires of the mechanism to haul the wall closed faster.

He could see they wouldn't get it closed before the table, now cheated of its prey, charged in.

And fortunately, there was something he could do about that. He ran over and slapped a paw against the wall. “Animus. Command Animus, shut!”

Your Animus skill is now level 61!

Your Command Animus skill is now level 43!

The rest of the group went stumbling backward as it did just that, sealing with a clunk, then shuddering in its metal frame as the creature beat on it from the other side.

Then it stopped beating, and they heard slithering sliding, the sound of something, some great tongue licking and rasping along the stone... and heading away.

“That could have gone worse,” he said, checking himself over. “Mend Golem. Clean and—”

“Wait,” Dracosnack whispered, moving to him and touching his fur where it was matted and tacky, covered in dust and grime from the floor he'd waystoned against.

“Wait?” Threadbare asked him.

Dracosnack tried to pull his claw back, and it didn't budge. “Sticky. A strong adhesive. Very strong.”

“Oh shit,” Apollyon breathed. “Ah, sorry, sorry.”

A sudden rasp, and the shuddering of the frame made them fall still for a second. But the creature passed on.

“It's a mimic,” Dracosnack concluded. “Please, mmmm... clean yourself so I can release your fur.”

“A mimic? Those are basic monsters, rarely man-sized.” Apollyon said. “Nothing like... did you see those support beams? Those were huge!”

“A mimic with roots that let it feed on things miles away,” Threadbare said, considering the implications. “A mimic that's been left alone for a very, very long time, to grow here without anyone to stop it.”

“Aren't they usually dungeon monsters?” Buttons asked.

“Probably why we only see the man-sized ones,” Glub said, rubbing his chin. “If they're stuck in dungeon columns they ain't gonna change. Ain't gonna grow.

“And they do, hm, have a basic skill which helps them conceal their status against, mmmm.... several types of detection skills. Sticky flesh, combined with acidic fluids for digestion.... yes, this is simply an enormous mimic.”