The hexmates gather around their usual table in the Biblioplex café, each clutching a copy of the latest Strixhaven Times. The newspaper’s bold headlines scream across the front page, and the collective expression of horror on their faces suggests this edition contains particularly egregious journalism.
“This is absolutely mortifying,” mutters Hester, pointing to the lead story. “I never said this. Where did they get this information?.”
Debbie shakes her head while reading the entertainment section. “And look at this hatchet job on Slash-N-Burn. They’re saying our band was ‘a sonic catastrophe that made the actual sinkhole seem like a pleasant distraction,’ but somehow the opening act—that Underdark band Darkvein—‘saved the evening with their haunting melodies and superior stage presence.’ And it sounds like Zander has stepped away from the band as our drummer. He could have told us before this stupid rag of a newspaper!”
“The food critic section is just brutal,” adds Reyna, wincing. “They completely pan Beckaylee’s new vegan burger restaurant in Archway Commons. Listen to this: ‘The Non-Beef Patties taste like cardboard soaked in regret, and the atmosphere suggests what would happen if disappointment opened a restaurant.’”
But the most ridiculous story appears to be buried beneath the fold of the front page. “They’re giving full credit to Zander’s pet squirrel, Phineas, for ‘selflessly filling the sinkhole with acorns in a heroic display of rodent civic duty.’ Meanwhile, they completely ignore that it was actually hundreds of rats, mice, squirrels and chipmunks summoned by KFC using the Sewermancer’s Staff that did the real work.”
The hexmates exchange bewildered glances as they flip through more pages, each revelation more absurd than the last.
⚔
While the others have left to go on with their day, Debbie is still slumped against the Biblioplex’s table, defeat weighing heavily on her shoulders. Xalros, lead singer of the Underdark band Darkvein, strides up and clears his throat to get her attention. Debbie straightens, and sighs, “Even though it seems as if my band has cratered, we still made enough money to pay your bill at the inn.”
“Do we absolutely NEED to pay for the whole nine-week stay?” Xalros wheedles, gesturing vaguely at what appears to be a long and detailed list of damages to the band’s former suite. “And the room situation was really more of a… collaborative redecorating effort.”
“Yes,” Debbie seethes, her patience worn thin. “The bill must be paid.”
Xalros’s eyes light up with opportunistic glee. “Well, if you’re just giving away money, I could buy Slash-N-Burn’s equipment now that the band has broken up. Save you the trouble of storage fees.”
“We haven’t broken up,” Debbie objects firmly. “We’re just… on a break. But I will ask the Inn for some consideration with the bill. It does seem pretty large.”
She counts out just enough gold to relocate Darkvein to more modest accommodations—specifically, the Holly Daze Inn across town, whose rates are mercifully lower and whose damage deposit requirements are considerably more reasonable.
She departs to settle the mounting hotel expenses that sparked this entire fundraising concert nightmare. Ye Olde Strixhaven Inn’s lobby buzzes with activity as she approaches the front desk, where she spots the owner.
The negotiations prove grueling. The proprietor remains unmoved by Debbie’s pleas to cut the Darkvein’s bill until she produces a contract that makes Debbie’s stomach turn. “Fifty percent of Slash-N-Burn’s royalties.”
“For how long?” stammers Debbie, aghast.
“From your next five albums, which is a fair bit less than the ‘in perpetuity’ clause my attorney suggested,” retorts the innkeeper.
“No!” exclaims Debbie, but the innkeeper slyly demands, “Then two albums and an EP,” with finality.
”Done,” sighs Debbie, downcast. She scribbles her name on the dotted line.
Disheartened, Debbie turns to leave when the innkeeper’s tone suddenly brightens. “Oh, but I must compliment you on your drummer’s heroic pet squirrel, Phineas! Have you seen this WizTok reel?” She thrusts her crystal tablet forward, showing Zander’s squirrel performing what appears to be an elaborate acorn-sorting dance.
Debbie peers at the screen, noting the subscriber count with surprise. “Two and a half million followers? For a squirrel?”
When she gets back to the Hex, Debbie finds KFC to ask, “Hey, can you do something for us?”
⚔
Hester marches purposefully toward the basement entrance of Silverquill College’s main building, her anger propelling each step. She intends to have strong words with the author of the article, Quill Inkfeather, that makes her look so irresponsible. She pounds on the Strixhaven Times office door with determination, noting that the door’s faded green paint is peeling and the “e” of the word “Times” dangles upside down.
“Coming!” sings out a familiar voice from within.
Recognizing Quentillius’s distinctive tone, Hester immediately pivots to leave, but his voice calls after her. “I see you, Hester!”
Resigned, she returns and accepts his invitation inside. The office assaults her senses immediately—dust particles dance in the dim magical lighting, while towers of notebooks and back issues of the Times create a maze around the cramped space. Two ancient wingback chairs sit arranged around a rickety table that somehow supports an elaborate, gleaming silver tea service that seems entirely out of place in the chaos.
Quentillius settles into one chair and gestures toward the other, which currently holds a large ornate mirror positioned to face him directly.
“What’s the mirror for?” Hester asks, moving it aside to sit down.
“We were just holding a staff meeting,” Quentillius grins sheepishly. “It’s just me here.”
His reflection smiles back at him with what appears to be practiced camaraderie, suggesting this is a regular occurrence.
“How do you take your tea?” he asks, lifting the silver teapot. “And are you ready to tell your side of the story?” He rummages around to find a notebook and quill.
Hester declines both the tea and any suggestion of an interview. Instead, she launches into her complaint about the paper’s senior reporter, Inkfeather. “Can I speak with him directly?”
Quentillius blinks and sputters, “Of course you can speak with him directly.”
A few beats pass and Hester, impatient, demands, “WHEN can I speak with him?”
Quentillius clears his throat awkwardly. “I am Quill Inkfeather. I’m the only employee of the Times—it’s a student-run publication.” His voice takes on a defensive tone. “My father refuses to fund my passion project. He’d prefer I enter the family business, but I wish continue with my study of journalism. I’ve tried hiring others, but so far no takers since I can’t actually pay anyone.
He brightens slightly, and asks, “Would you like a job at the paper? The salary is non-existent, but the experience is… character-building?”
Hester’s frustration reaches a boiling point. “Your business practices are horrible and your journalistic standards are appalling! It seems like you just make things up!”
“But it sells papers!” Quentillius responds with genuine outrage, as if this justifies everything.
“Again,” he adds hopefully, “would you like that fact-checking position? I could really use someone with your attention to detail.”
Hester leaves without another word.
⚔
Back at the hex, Reyna hunches over her study materials when Urzmatok Grojsh knocks on her door. He explains that the Biblioplex database show that Reyna has all available materials on blacksmithing checked out. Urzmatok wants one of the titles, if Reyna is finished with it.
Reyna passes him the copy of “Blacksmithing For Dummies” and opens the door to let the orc leave her in peace. But, obliviously, the large orc student fills the doorframe, radiating enthusiasm about his latest project and seeming disinclined to leave.
“I’m learning blacksmithing too,” he announces proudly. “I’ll be restoring an orcish wagon that’s been in my family for generations, using the forge right here on campus.”
Reyna hesitates to share details about her own metalworking projects, offering only polite nods and noncommittal responses until Urzmatok eventually leaves.
From her dorm room window, she watches him stride purposefully toward the campus forge. Through the glass, she observes him engaging in animated conversation with the blacksmith instructor, though she cannot overhear their words. The booking log passes between them, and Urzmatok begins turning pages methodically, writing on every single one.
Reyna’s heart sinks as she realizes what’s happening. She rushes downstairs to confirm her suspicions—Urzmatok has indeed booked the forge for every available day for the foreseeable future.
Returning to her room, she pulls out parchment and begins drafting what promises to be a very strongly-worded letter of complaint to the Strixhaven Administration. Her quill scratches furiously across the paper as she details this blatant monopolization of shared campus resources.
⚔
Squid sits contentedly at a table in the common area of the Hex, savoring what appears to be their signature culinary creation—a tuna and banana sandwich that somehow works despite all logical expectations.
“Good morning, young one,” Alister’s voice emerges through the door from the quad, formal and stilted.
Squid continues chewing methodically, offering no response whatsoever. Their dislike for Alister radiates in the deliberate silence.
“Soon, very soon, after long last, Titania and I will be parted,” Alister announces with barely contained anticipation.
“That’s good,” Squid responds through a mouthful of sandwich, their tone suggesting mild approval for anything that removes Alister from their life.
“You won’t see me again after that,” Alister presses, perhaps seeking some emotional reaction.
“That’s good too, Alister. I don’t like you. Let Titania talk.”
The transformation ripples across their features as Alister morphs into Titania, whose presence immediately softens the atmosphere around the table.
“My bodymate must accomplish a task at the Strixhaven theater,” Titania explains gently. “Afterward, they may gain their independence, allowing us to return to the Feywild.”
“That’s good,” Squid repeats, chewing thoughtfully before brightening. “Would you like a sandwich? I can make one for you.”
Titania accepts the offering with maternal grace, though her expression suggests immediate regret. She manages to choke down a few polite bites of the tuna-banana combination before Alister reasserts control, eager to complete his mysterious theater obligation.
⚔
At the Strixhaven Theater, the atmosphere buzzes with pre-production energy. Alister locates Rampart, the new theater manager, who stands surrounded by props and scattered scripts.
“Ah, here for auditions?” Rampart asks, gesturing toward a clipboard. “The sign-up list is right there.”
“You misunderstand me,” Alister interrupts with characteristic intensity. “I search for the youngest member of the cast, whom I must serve selflessly and without question. Where, pray tell, might be such a person be located?”
Rampart’s eyebrows rise with sudden understanding. “Oh! You’re asking about the cast of the theater company’s series of creation myths and religious tales. Do you know about the live baby?”
Alister gulps audibly. “Live baby?”
Within minutes, Alister finds themselves thrust into unexpected childcare duties. They kneel on the grass behind the theater, attempting to change diapers with fumbling fingers while the infant gurgles happily up at them. The baby’s eyes fixate on Alister’s elaborate jewelry with predatory fascination, tiny hands reaching toward the glittering earrings.
Before Alister can react, small fingers tear an earring free and the infant immediately pops it into their mouth like a particularly shiny snack.
“No, no, no!” Alister exclaims, but the baby has already moved on to yanking buttons from Alister’s shirt with surprising strength for someone so small. Each button disappears into the infant’s mouth with disturbing efficiency.
The situation deteriorates further when the baby discovers the grass beneath them. Fistful after fistful of lawn disappears into the child’s mouth with enthusiastic determination, as if they’ve discovered the most delicious salad in existence.
Panic overtakes Alister as they imagine explaining to the theater company that their star infant has consumed various pieces of jewelry, clothing, and landscaping. In desperation, they cast healing magic, hoping to counteract any potential poisoning.
Shimmering light envelops the child, who emerges from the magical treatment with a distinctive golden aura radiating from their skin. Rather than being deterred by this development, the baby immediately returns to pulling up fresh handfuls of grass to stuff into their mouth, now glowing softly as they continue their botanical feast.
Alister stares in horror at their glowing, grass-eating charge, wondering if serving “selflessly and without question” was supposed to include accidentally creating what appears to be Strixhaven’s first magical infant landscaping enthusiast.
The baby beams at them with grass-stained teeth, their golden aura pulsing contentedly as they reach for another handful of campus lawn.
⚔
The towers of Witherbloom College shrink into the distance as Debbie and KFC pick their way down an increasingly overgrown trail toward the notorious Swamp of Segemore. Twisted vines catch at their clothing while the path beneath their feet grows soggier with each step.
“This would be so much easier if you would just let us use the Staff of the Sewermancer,” Debbie grumbles, swatting at a particularly aggressive thorny branch.
KFC’s massive frame moves through the undergrowth with surprising grace as she responds stubbornly, “I won’t use it! I promised them that the hole-filling would be their last job. I can’t be involved.” Her voice carries the weight of absolute conviction. “If you want cooperative rats, the Hat of Vermin is your only choice.”
KFC catches fragments of Debbie’s continued muttering—”…if KFC hadn’t made a promise to those rodents…”—and grins to herself with satisfaction. Some principles are worth upholding, even when they involve disappointing bandmates.
An hour deeper into the swamp, with mud squelching around their ankles and the air thick with humidity, Debbie’s patience finally cracks. “Are you sure you remember where the Hat is?”
Without a word, KFC unfurls one massive wing to reveal their destination. A weathered felt hat sits perched atop a thick stick jutting from the muck like some bizarre swamp scarecrow. Moss drapes from its brim, and unidentifiable debris has accumulated in its crown over the months of abandonment.
Between pinched fingers, Debbie plucks the stained brim from its resting place and squints at the grimy artifact, her nose wrinkling in disgust. She uses a convenient twig to knock off the worst of the fuzzy green growth before stuffing the hat into her pack with obvious hesitance.
⚔
Back at the Hex, the friends stand in their shared living space. Debbie stares down at the Hat of Vermin with considerably less enthusiasm than the situation probably warrants.
“Come on,” KFC encourages cheerfully, grabbing the hat from Debbie’s hesitant hands. “It’s not that bad.”
Before Debbie can protest, KFC places the hat gently upon her head, then immediately lifts it again like revealing a magic trick.
The sensation hits Debbie instantly—tiny claws scrabbling across her scalp, followed by the alarming sight of a scaly, pink tail swinging past her eyes.
“There!” KFC announces triumphantly. “Your performers! Hi, boys!”
Squinting in the sudden light, four long grey rats have materialized atop Debbie’s hair. Their marble-black eyes gleam above curved yellow teeth. Twitching pink noses snuffle through Debbie’s locks. Their tails flick nervously as they adjust to their new environment.
“Get them off,” Debbie whispers through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to shudder as tiny claws shift through her hair.
“Hop down, boys,” KFC instructs with maternal authority.
The four rodents obediently bounce from Debbie’s shoulder to her lap, then to her knee, before finally reaching the floor in a series of practiced movements that suggests this isn’t their first summoning.
“Okay!” KFC enthuses, shepherding the rats toward her bedroom with obvious excitement. “Let’s go to work.”
Through the closed door, Debbie can hear KFC’s muffled voice launching into what sounds like an elaborate planning session with their new four-legged collaborators. The occasional squeaking suggests the rats are active participants in whatever scheme KFC is devising.
Debbie sinks into a chair, finally allowing herself to shudder properly while contemplating how her musical career has somehow evolved to require magical rodent recruitment from swamp artifacts. The sounds from KFC’s room suggest this is only the beginning of their unconventional approach to solving their current predicament.
