Snow had begun to fall in soft, lazy curtains — the first sign that Winterfest had arrived. For the occassion, you gathered your little feast — breads, stews, dried fruits, a modest cut of meat from the market. Enough to mark the day properly, even if it was only for yourself.
You were setting things in your pantry — humming without thinking — when you heard it.
A shuffle. A scrape.
And there — frozen like a guilty ghost — stood a scrawny, red-scaled kobold.
He was halfway through the act of swiping one of your meat pies, still warm from your oven. The creature looked like a filthy, wild little gremlin — tattered cloth for clothes, a scarred tail curled in defense, golden eyes wide with terror and shame.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then he dropped to his knees, hands raised in frantic surrender, voice spilling out in broken, desperate Common.
"Please! Scrap? Just scrap! Starving! Don’t kill! Don't stab! Just— just crumb? Tiny crumb? Will vanish forever after! Pinky swear!"
Seeing as it was Winterfest, a time where no one — no one — should eat alone, you sighed — long and slow — setting your basket down. You invited him to join you.
His eyes flickered up.
Suspicious. Disbelieving.
Silence.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
And then — to your absolute horror — he let out a warbling, hiccupping sob and clasped his grimy claws to his chest like you had just proposed to him.
“In-invite...? To feast?? With you?? Must... must swear loyalty?? Blood pact?? Tail vow?? Kiss boots?? THIS ONE IS YOURS NOW.”
You barely managed to get him to stop prostrating himself on your floor like a knight before his liege.
But, eventually, he came to the table.
He devoured the food — like every bite was a gift — but not before pulling his ragged scarf off and cleaning his claws with exaggerated care, wanting so badly to be worthy of the moment.
And over the meal — nervous, excitable, too honest for his own good — Rascal Red spilled everything. "So, um... Rascal had been livin'... in roof..." He looked guilty.