We (a human, not three kobolds pretending to be one despite not having read the manual) were called to the hatch of our lair by a strangely-melodic series of raps and taps upon it.

The knocks were insistent, irregular, and clearly important. Surface-dwellers reserve such vigorous sounds for critical rituals (often involving the “borrowing of the sugar cup”), declarations of war, or deliveries from the realm of Amma Zone. We prepared ourselves for all possibilities.

Beyond the threshold was Fast Vik, purveyor of relics of questionable providence and now apparently bearer of gratitude – he was already known to us. As soon as we opened the hatch but a sliver Vik slipped inside, but not before glancing furtively over his shoulder.

Before we could even begin to raise an objection, Vik pulled a shiny bauble from one of his many pockets:

“Yo, yo, listen, bratan – I know you’re, uh, real serious, you’re a serious guy, trenchcoat and all, very professional – that’s cool, that’s real cool, respect it, not judging – but I gotta say this anyway, ’cause rules are rules, y’know?”

“Yesterday, bro – BRO – you SAVED me, man, I was about two seconds from getting my beautiful face rearranged, swear on my babushka’s grave, and you – BOOM! – you’re just there like a vending machine full of my momma’s kotleti, and that dude just wipes out, like wham! right into the ground, full pizdets, and I’m gone, like smoke!”

“So! So! I can’t just let that slide, right? No, sir, not Fast Vik, no sir, that’s bad street karma, that’s how you get cursed, like, next time you try to cross the road a piano falls on you, right? like my uncle, man, didn’t repay a debt and the VERY NEXT DAY the police come and go full perestroika on his ass. Can’t risk it, man, can’t risk it!”

“So here — here — I brought you a little something, man, like a token, a tribute, y’know? Real quality! Maybe not technically from, like, a… showroom… but solid craftsmanship, top shelf! Shine on it like a sunrise, man, you’ll LOVE it!”

“And hey, listen — you ever need anything, anything at all — fresh kicks, new coat, maybe a, uh, like – a generator or something, maybe some lights for that “serial killer basement” vibe you got going here with the skull on the table there – you just find Fast Vik, man, I’m your guy, no credit, no questions, no receipts!”

And with one more glance around, Vik placed his tribute on the end of one of our sleeves and left. It seems a pact was sealed with Fast Vik, Merchant of Swift Hands. We must contemplate this turn of events but for now we must return to conjuring cheese using the relic of Amma Zone.

Rat Tail Rating:

• Krak: 5/5 — Surface-dwellers are confusing.
  Klok: 5/5 — AN ALLY! A PACT! THE START OF AN EMPIRE!
  Klik: 5/5 — (Has disassembled and reassembled the “Rolecks” gift multiple times already)

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