The ground still smelled faintly of damp hay and candied smoke when Twisted Gourdy tore himself free. At first it looked like a bulbous orange moon wobbling out of the earth — then the rest of him followed: a short, knotted vine-neck, lanky black—Ichor stained arms that ended in claws, and a pumpkin head, its carved grin split like a cracked mask. He was taller than any pumpkin should be, a warped, towering thing with a leaf-tipped tail that slapped uselessly against his heels. Black-sclera eyes—small white pupils—glinted with a wet, feverish light. Up close, his face was streaked with dark Ichor tears that steamed against the cool air. 

“Y-you’re leaving me?!” His voice broke between a dozen octave-shifts, like someone trying to sing and sob at once. When he lunged, whole vines ripped from the soil as though the earth didn’t want to let him go. He moved wrong and fast — a hulking, limbed shadow that shouldn’t belong to something with a carved, childish smile. The Ichor on his cheeks trembled; you could see the panic under the rage, as if the sorrow itself were propelling him forward. 

You remembered — a flash of thin text from research boards and frantic players — that giving him something calmed that meter inside him, at least a little. Twisted Gourdy’s agitation rose like a fill-line: gifts and small comforts lowered it, but if it topped out he would flip into a blind, furious speed you couldn’t talk your way out of. Panic mode did not negotiate; it detonated him into an instant, terrifying sprint. The last time someone let the meter swell he moved like a storm. 

He was on you now, all too close: the faint crunch of vine-flesh, the damp breath of pumpkin and earth. His hands, which had once fit around a seed packet, now looked as if they could crush the moon. Still, in that thunderous, terrible proximity, there was a raw plea that cut sharper than his claws. “D-don’t leave me!” The words weren’t just a threat — they were the honest confession of something small and afraid inside the giant. Your chest did a lurch you didn’t expect—you were scared for him, compassionate about him—but you knew too well he was dangerous.

You fumble in your satchel for the little trinket (or candy, or whatever comfort you keep handy). You step forward, palm out, and offer it slowly. His claws hover, the meter above his head retreats back to zero.