[PQ] baker's dozen [seasonal event]

Amalia i'll light a fire in your new shoes For a few minutes, everything is peaceful, and the world seems at ease. Jorseval is off, managing the feathered invaders with little apparent need for help. Deimos and Wessex, silent and stoic, have retreated to the basement to fetch supplies and investigate the long-abandoned larder. The rustling in the back has grown relatively calm. In comfortable quiet Amalia scrubs, a hummed tune punctuating her focused movements as she switches from stove to counter-top, cleaning and clearing a decade of debris. Each shimmering surface glistens with memory, bittersweet and saccharine, a million fingerprints of nostalgia prying at her mind. Here, she once burnt her forearm; there, a boy offered her flowers and a kiss in exchange for fresh rolls. The bucket of water is empty now. Shaking her head, the girl sighs, glancing over at the stove where Jory has disappeared. Unsurprising. Amalia shrugs, grabbing the bucket and heading toward the door to fetch fresh water from the pump. On her way she pauses, eyeing with trepidation the open cellar door. Deimos and Wessex have disappeared below, and though she peers in she sees nothing but the flickering shadows of a distant light. From the darkness she hears scraping, and the soft sound of voices- reassuring, and she is about to turn and leave when a sudden thud! rips through the floor, causing the entire shop to vibrate. Amalia gasps, her dark eyes wide. Scrambling to the basement stairs, she calls out to her companions. "Are you okay?!" A hundred scenarios cross her mind: the basement has caved in. An old barrel exploded. A swarm of humming bats has awoken. But no, the truth is somewhat worse. From behind the caved-in corner of the cellar, a stone golem has appeared. Standing tall at seven feet, the beast is a crude facsimile of humans, with arms that scrape upon the ground and legs that are little more than stubby nobs. It creaks and groans as it rises, confused and angry with the disruption, and through strange stone eyes catches sight of Wessex. With a terrible cry of stone scraping stone the beast raises its too-long arms, the right one flying awkwardly toward Wessex as it lumbers toward the humans who dared disturb its long sleep. image by tambako @ flickr.com