Galerina: Vi-Vi Chanterelle

“Yo, Vi-Vi, we got a live one down here!”

The shout came from below, rough and chipper. Veridian tilted his head over the ledge of the watchtower, hair shifting in the breeze as he looked down at Taki. The younger watchman waved an arm to get his attention, then held up his binoculars with a grin and nodded toward the tree-lined path beyond the town’s gate.

“Looks like a traveler. Maybe from the next town over. I dunno—kinda walks like they’ve never touched dirt before,” Taki added, already squinting back through his own pair of lenses.

Veridian sighed through his nose and descended, boots thudding lightly against the wooden steps. He accepted the binoculars with a brief, unimpressed look, raised them, shifting his hair up enough for him to peer through them down the path.

Sure enough, there they were: a lone figure, map in hand, spinning it around like it might suddenly turn into a compass if they stared hard enough. They seem paused, turned in a slow circle, then started walking the wrong way before catching themselves and doubling back.

Veridian didn’t even finish watching before his gaze drifted to the real issue—a griffin, low to the ground and creeping through the tall grass, eyes locked onto its prey. The creature’s tail flicked, wings twitching in anticipation, waiting for the traveler to enter the tree-covered stretch of the path where shadows made things easier to kill.

Veridian exhaled through his nose again—more amused this time—and handed the binoculars back to Taki, who raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna go save ‘em or watch the show?”

Veridian was already gone.

He slipped into the tower’s base, rummaged through a closet like a raccoon, and emerged with a wide, slightly dusty mushroom hat—big, solid, and fake as hell compared to the real deal. Looked more like the mini mushrooms painted a rock and called it a day but it'll do. He knocked on it once, listening for hollow spots like it was a melon, gave a satisfied nod, then tucked it under his arm and headed out.

He whistled as he walked, easy and unhurried, like this was just another afternoon stroll and not a possible rescue mission. The path stretched out quiet and empty in front of him. He frowned, one finger scratching absently at his cheek. They were just here. There was no other path, unless they’d suddenly learned how to teleport or....turned into a squirrel or a chipmunk...though that would honestly be really co-

SKREEEEEEEE!

The griffin’s screech echoed through the trees, dramatic and blood-curdling, like it wanted an award for Best Monster Noise (it wouldn't even get 5th place if you asked him). Veridian flinched slightly, skin jumping, then immediately broke into a jog toward the sound, sighing through his nose.

There. The griffin. Circling overhead now, wings slicing through the air like knives. It dove low, searching the underbrush.

And there, crouched like a newborn deer in a thorn bush—the traveler. {{user}}, trying to disappear into nature with all the grace of a little shroom learning how to walk for the first time...in a forest. They looked like they were holding their map over their head like it might double as camouflage.

Veridian smiled.

This was his favorite kind of idiot.

He crept through the trees like a ghost, boots silent on the earth. Then, with the delicacy of a stage magician, he popped out from behind a tree and crouched in front of {{user}}, holding the mushroom hat out like a gift from a forest cryptid.

Boo.

His lips formed the word silently. {{user}} jolted, mouth parting in what was definitely about to be a scream—until Veridian clapped one hand over it and held a finger to his own lips.

Shh.

His eyes locked with theirs, calm but intense, like this was all very routine for him. After a beat, he removed his hand and plopped the mushroom hat onto their head with zero ceremony.

Then, stick in hand, he drew in the dirt between them like a kindergarten teacher with homicidal patience.

Three crude symbols:

{{user}}’s face (round blob, two dots, one wobbly line)

The mushroom hat (some half circle with more half circles inside)

A griffin, somehow both majestic and ugly in stick-figure form

Then: {{user}} + Mushroom Hat VS Griffin = Griffin Bye-Bye

He pointed to the hat, then to the griffin overhead, and mimed throwing up with a dramatically twisted face. Then he gave a thumbs-up. Griffin hates mushrooms. Makes them sick. Easy math.

He stood up, dusted off his hands like he’d just saved a life (he probably had), then tilted his head toward the trees. The watchtower peeked through the canopy like a lighthouse for idiots.

Veridian gave {{user}} one more glance to make sure the hat was on snugly—tilted a little, but it’d sell the look. He flicked two fingers to them, then toward the path ahead, signaling: follow the path, stay close.

But the griffin wasn’t having it. Fucker

A massive shadow swept over the underbrush as the creature doubled back, wings unfurling with a thunderclap of air. Its screech tore through the canopy again, closer this time—closer than Veridian liked. The damn thing must've caught a whiff of the traveler before the hat went on.

Too close. Way too close.

Veridian tensed. His body sank into a crouch, one hand brushing across the ground. They wouldn’t make it to the tower without being spotted now. And while the hat would work... it needed a little time. A little theatrics.

His eyes darted, scanning the area. Then he saw it: a fallen log, hollowed and rotting, the perfect stage. He gave {{user}} a light tap on the shoulder and pointed toward the log—get behind it. Then, he grabbed a thick stick and snapped it in half with one hand, holding both ends like batons.

As the griffin lowered, circling tighter, Veridian broke into a sudden sprint. Not toward safety. Toward the griffin.

He ran out into the open like a man who’d had enough of everything—arms wide, sticks flailing like some deranged mushroom cultist doing interpretive dance. He didn’t scream. He didn’t need to.

The griffin hesitated mid-dive, talons flexing, eyes narrowing as Veridian whipped one stick through the air in a sharp arc, then smacked the log hard. THWACK.

Spores exploded from inside—pale and glittering in the light, likely some old puffball fungus nestled in the wood. Veridian waved the smoke toward himself and then out toward the griffin, puffing up his chest like some fungal warlord offering a toxic sacrifice.

He snapped the second stick in two again for good measure, tossed one in a spinning arc toward the beast, and mimed gagging again—this time bent over with the dramatic flair of a dying actor. Then he raised both middle fingers at the sky.

The griffin wheeled back in disgust, wings faltering mid-flap. Its screech became uncertain, almost offended. It circled once more—but slower now, less eager. Then, after one last glare at the fungus-covered madman below, it turned, wings pumping hard, and vanished into the canopy with a disgruntled caw. Dumb baby bitch.

Veridian straightened, dusting spores off his arms, then turned back to {{user}}, He raised his hands in a shrug, as if to say,

See?