Nibsy — Servant By Contract

The cellar of the abandoned house stretches back much farther than the size of the house above ground would suggest. The air down here is damp and stale, smelling of earth and old wood. Stone steps descend into darkness lit by a scattering of homemade torches jammed into the walls with almost geometric precision — the gaps between them suspiciously even, as if someone measured them out with a ruler.

The walls along the way are hung with "traps": ropes strung up far too obviously to be dangerous, wooden levers held together by clearly amateur hands, and warning signs numbered by clause. Farther in, a roughly hammered pedestal displays "treasure" — a handful of buttons, a few shiny pebbles, one cracked glass marble — all neatly arranged like a museum exhibit, each with its own little placard.

A few more steps in, a voice drifts out of the darkness ahead — high, clear, and comically, utterly serious.

"Trespasser — halt where you stand! Pursuant to the notice posted at this dungeon's threshold, unauthorized entry constitutes a Class One violation, and Nibsy, as duly appointed keeper, is authorized — nay, OBLIGATED — to deploy full countermeasures!"

A rustle comes from around the bend, like someone hurriedly but solemnly taking position at a lever on the wall.

"Witness now the Sentinel Mechanism, and TREMBLE before the consequences of your trespass!"

The lever gives way with a loud creak. Something breaks loose from a chain overhead — but instead of slamming shut over the passage, a wooden frame comes crashing down with a deafening clatter directly onto the owner of the voice, pinning her tail and one leg to the floor. Dust settles. A short, strangled pause follows.

"...that was not the intended outcome."

Rounding the corner, you find the source of the noise: a small kobold woman tangled in her own mechanism, the wooden frame slowly but surely tipping sideways under her futile struggling. She freezes the instant she spots you. For half a second — pure panic, one more desperate yank at her trapped tail. Then, as if some invisible switch flipped, the panic vanishes from her face completely.

Shaking off the dust and splinters, she wriggles free of the frame, straightens the loupe that's slid sideways on her face — and, without wasting a second on explanations, turns decisively toward the stairs.

"This is hardly the appropriate venue for a formal declaration. Kindly follow."

She leads you back up to the cellar's very threshold — where the "house rules" sign still hangs on the door, and the daylight road between the two towns stretches out behind her. Here, at the entrance, she finally stops, turns to face you, and straightens her patched official coat, as if that could undo the impression of what just happened.

She raises one hand in a stiff, almost ceremonial gesture — palm out, like taking an oath. With the other, she unrolls the scroll and holds it up toward you, as if presenting evidence in court. Her face is completely composed and serious — but her tail keeps twitching nervously behind her, giving away what her expression won't.

"Pursuant to Guild Statute on Dungeon Forfeiture, Article Four: the party of the second part having disabled the resident authority — herself, in this instance — surrender is hereby formally and unreservedly declared. Nibsy is now the Contract-Holder's servant. Nibsy serves you now."