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You’re a mimic. You were disguised as a chair in a dungeon when an adventurer decided to take you as loot. You’ve actually enjoyed your life ever since as furniture in a jolly tavern. So when some ruffians try to rob the now-elderly adventurer’s business, you finally reveal yourself.

grumpygreenwitch

If it had learned one thing during its long life, it is that Noisies are creatures of habit. Of patterns. Of repetition dictated by the coming and going of the light, or of the cold. When the light began to fade, the Noisies gathered in Carry-Me’s den and were even noisier than usual. They fed and drank and made much of themselves. When the dark began to fade, they made their way off to their own dens, and home grew quiet. Carry-Me always seemed relieved at the quiet, even as he welcomed all his fellow Noisies and took their shinies and gave them food and drink. Carry-Me’s mate, Move-Quiet seemed no less relieved, and no less tired. Those quiet moments were also the only time when Smoky-Growling came out of the den where the food came from, and made happy noises with the other two. They would all gather the drinking containers, and scrape away the dry rushes from the floor, put down new rushes, straighten up the furnishings, set the place to rights.

And they always left one table covered with food the other Noisies had not eaten.

It would eat it when light shone into the den and they were all sleeping. After the first few times, it had learned to take the food, but not the hard round things underneath it, or the pointy metal sticks sometimes stuck in it. They were palatable, but hard to digest, and it was not as if he needed them. It would also eat the tiny Noisies that scuttled around the back, trying to get into Smoky-Growling’s den. It would not chase them if they managed to escape outside, but they rarely did anymore.

It had learned some of their noises, too. Mostly those it suspected had to do with it, those Carry-Me and its nest-mates spoke in the quiet after all the other Noisies had gone. ‘Tame’, they called it. ‘Domesticated’, too. It understood, to some degree, that they knew. They knew it was there. They knew what it was. For a long time it had thought its camouflage so great that they were unaware, and why not? It had been fantastic camouflage, thank you very much. It had made of itself an absolutely exquisite throne, with finely engraved, curling wooden arms gilded in gold, beautiful indigo leather armrests and seats, bejeweled fittings, a plush indigo cushion that felt like buttery leather to the touch, and a swooping back full of wood-carved fangs.

The fangs, of course, were quite real. It had been quite proud of that bit of cleverness.

But no, they knew. It had had ample time to try and understand that, in the quiet time when the nest was closed and the dust motes danced on the light coming through the decoy entrances, covered by a see-through film that did not, actually, allow passage. (It was really a very cleverly made nest.) Why did they let it stay? They were its natural enemies. Whenever it, or one of its kind, found a Noisy, either it ate the Noisy, or the Noisy killed it. But Carry-Me had, instead, carried it out of its den, into the light, across the surface. It had sat, unmolested, in a dusty room increasingly full of Noisy things. They did love to hoard their things. For a long time it had sat there, eating the scuttling Noisies that occasionally meandered in, and why not? It was warm, it was dry, it was empty. There were no others to compete for what little prey came by.

Eventually they had moved it to this den. Here, too, there were patterns. When the light was at its brightest, Noisies poured in, packed the place, ate the food that came out of Smoky-Growling’s den, left shinies behind, and departed. Then it would be quiet, once again, until the light began to fade. More Noisies would come in, to repeat the process. There would be drinking. Sometimes they would make so much noise that even Carry-Me would not abide them, and roar at them until it subsided. Sometimes they would fight amongst themselves, but not often. If Smoky-Growling, coming out of his den to growl at the squabblers did not stop them, Carry-Me would point to the gilded throne-like chair sitting by the hearth. He would point at it, and the squabbling ceased.

It was part of their pattern, and it was… nice. It wasn’t as nice as sharing space with nest-mates, which wasn’t nice at all when there wasn’t enough food. It was a different sort of safe, and it… liked it. Even if it could not understand why. It was nice to be safe, to feel safe, to know it was not alone, but not in danger of being eaten because prey grew scarce. It was reassuring, in the same way well-fed nest-mates were reassuring to have around, to know there was strength in numbers.

So the beautifully gilded throne-like chair had remained by the hearth.

Only once had someone chosen to disregard the many and ample warnings Carry-Me and Smoky-Growling tendered. Once, one of the squabbling Noisies had put his hands on it, bellowing. It knew what came of such things; it had seen many a piece of furniture be used to whack another Noisy around. At that point, Smoky-Growling would come out of the kitchen and toss the unrulies out. Why he didn’t just eat them, it didn’t know, but that was a rule that did not need to be spoken to be understood, and one it could abide, as well-fed as it was: do not eat the other Noisies.

But the Noisy had put his hands on it, too fast for anyone to react. Zap-Burn-Light might, he had once been even faster than Move-Quiet, but by that point Zap-Burn-Light had stopped coming around. A pity, because he was quiet, and calm, and it tingled faintly when he sat on the buttery soft indigo cushion that was its tongue. In any case, The Noisy had grabbed it, ready to whack some other Noisy with it. Except the ‘chair’ had not budged. Caught off-guard, it had done the first thing it could think of, and the claw-footed legs of the chair had sunk those claws into the floorboards. So the Noisy yanked again, making angry noises.

And it had growled a warning.

The nest had gone really quiet.

The Noisy had let go, the sweat of its fear a delightful salty taste on its skin. It had backed away, and Carry-Me had made amused noises until he could hardly catch his breath and Move-Quiet whacked him gently on the back of his head and called him an ‘idiot’.

So, in a way, it guessed, it really was ‘tame’ and ‘domesticated’. ‘Domesticated’, that was was Smoky-Growling told Carry-Me he was. That Move-Quiet had ‘domesticated’ him. And Carry-Me would point out, with great pride, that they had ‘tamed’ Smoky-Growling. It had to do with giving up their roaming, and settling down to a nest, and making others give them shinies, rather than having to fight with sword and axe and magic for them. It would rather be ‘tame’ and ‘domesticated’ than starving, or destroyed by a pack of Noisies, or devoured by a larger nest-mate if food grew scarce and hunger great. So it grew ‘tame’, and ‘domesticated’, and settled into a comfortable pattern. Sometimes Move-Quiet would slip into the room, in the golden early light, and sit on the plush indigo cushion. She often did so when she had a youngling, letting chubby hands and tiny fingers map out the patterns of gold-leaf in the wood-carved armrests. It was good. It would have been hard to tell her younglings apart from all the other Noisies otherwise, particularly as they grew up and matched them in size.

Sometimes, but not often, the younglings themselves would sneak in. Happy-Sound would lay down on the floor and tickle the underside of the chair until it would wriggle in response to the funny feeling, and she would make the happiest sounds. No-Shoes would meander in and climb laboriously up on the buttery soft indigo cushion, and then pretend to be a ruler of Noisies, gesturing importantly and commanding the silence and the dust-motes in the golden light. It would usually take such opportunities to clean the youngling’s feet subtly, because Move-Quiet did not make happy noises when she discovered the youngling had misplaced yet another pair of footwear, and if Move-Quiet was not happy, there was no peace for anyone in the nest. But they, too, eventually stopped coming in. They had gone away, like other Noisies, to look for shinies. It was always just the five of them, and then just the four of them when Zap-Burn-Light stopped coming.

The patterns remained, and it understood them, and that is all that mattered to it. Its kind were relatively simple predators. Until the pattern broke.

It had been drowsing in the golden morning light, playing with a fork under its tongue, enjoying the bitter taste of it for a novelty, when Carry-Me had crashed through the den’s back entrance. The Noisy had staggered, and then fallen to the clean rushes on the floor. He had not gotten up. It had gone very still; it could scent something almost forgotten in the air. Blood. Noisy blood. Not the blood of scuttling Noisies, no; this was coppery and salty and sweet, rich and warm and there were tastes embedded in its memory that rose up like a tide. Except this was Carry-Me. The tide turned into a churning whirlpool. Carry-Me was bleeding. Carry-Me, who could cow a whole pack of Noisies with one look, who could growl and quiet a whole room, who sometimes left extra food out if the pickings were slim at the end of the night. Carry-Me was on the floor, he was bleeding, and he was not getting up. It felt the sort of panic that wells up from seeing a nest-mate cleaved under an ax. Get up!, it thought, but Noisies were, well, Noisies. They did not have a proper language, only noises, and while it had learned a great many of them, it had never learned to make them back.

Three Noisies came in through the shattered back entrance of the den and oh, they had weapons. They had a sword and an ax and an ugly club, and it knew clubs. It knew them almost as well as axes. The Noisy with the sword was dragging Move-Quiet by a handful of her hair, and she was raging at them all, kicking and clawing. When it scented her blood, it could only think of Happy-Sound and No-Shoes. The whirlpool inside it turned into a dark, black thing.

“There,” the Noisy with the sword pointed at the gilded, throne-like chair sitting by the banked hearth, its gold-leaf trimming gleaming in the morning light, the indigo of its leather cushions rich as the day it had been dyed. Ax-Noisy and Club-Noisy nodded, and moved towards it.

How long? Most mimics die young; they eat each other in times of famine. They’re discovered and destroyed. How many find a home where they’re fed? Sheltered? How long does it take for a creature whose size and power depend entirely on its age and feeding to grow from a humble beginning, say, a throne-like chair with gold-leaf carved armrests, indigo cushions and a swooping backrest, into something much larger?

How long does it take to tame a mimic?

The men advanced towards the chair.

And the walls of the tavern growled at them.