The Miffed Mimic Misadventure
by Reverend Dungeon MasterStarring: The Unfortunate Party of Questionable Intelligence
You enter the corridor with the swagger of someone who has definitely not learnt from past mistakes. The dungeon reeks of mildew, regret, and something that might once have been soup. You spot it at once: a treasure chest gleaming in the corner like a pensioner’s dentures in a pawn shop.
You don’t check for traps. Of course you don’t.
With all the caution of a caffeinated kobold, you lunge forward and fling open the lid.
The chest flings back.
It sprouts a mouth. Not a polite one, either. This one’s full of teeth, contempt, and the unmistakable whiff of someone who’s been chewing on adventurers since before initiative was a thing.
You Have Engaged: The Mimic (Disgruntled Variant)
Armour Class (AC): 12 – it’s been buffed to a shine by past victims’ fingerprints
Hit Points (HP): 58 – mostly gristle and pettiness
Special Abilities:
Sticky Situation
You touch it. You shouldn’t have. Now you’re stuck to it like bad decisions on a résumé. Make a Dexterity check or remain gloriously glued to your fate.
Mocking Maw
The Mimic doesn’t just bite; it critiques your life choices. Each turn, it unloads a brutal quip for 1d8 psychic damage and follows with a nasty bite: 1d10+3
“Oh, lovely armour. Did you knit it yourself?”
Treasure Trap
You think it’s a treasure chest. It’s not. You think it’s a cupboard. It’s not. You think it’s a slightly smug ottoman. It’s also not.
Sarcasm Aura
Within 5 feet, you must pass a Wisdom check or suffer a passive-aggressive breakdown.
“No, really, take your time. I’ve only got eternity.”
You try everything. You cast spells. You swing wildly. You offer it half your rations and a regrettable limerick. At one point, you’re pretty sure the Mimic sighs.
Eventually, with the stubborn persistence of someone trying to microwave soup in a tin, you defeat it. It belches up your helmet. It still has teeth marks. Possibly also emotional trauma.
Loot Acquired:
One mostly-digested helmet (suffers from mild haunting)
30 gp, covered in ectoplasmic goo
A scroll of “Identify,” which you still won’t use because “how hard can it be?”
You wipe the goo off your boots and swear never to trust anything with hinges again. You won’t stick to that promise.
You never do.