The Photocopier Guardian and the Orb of Slightly Better Lighting. Episode 3

Jul 29

A Tale from Mike’s Tavern

We were bruised, burned, and badly caffeinated. And we still hadn’t reached the Orb.

Helga, now officially titled “Temporary Dungeon Supervisor” thanks to that blasted HR goblin, led the way through a door labeled “EXECUTIVE GLOOM SUITE.” I kicked it open with all the subtlety of a barbarian wedding.

And there it was. Sitting atop a sleek pedestal in the middle of a marble-tiled room with wall-to-wall paperwork…

The Orb of Slightly Better Lighting.

It shimmered like an overpriced chandelier bulb. A beacon of radiant mediocrity. A glowing promise of barely upgraded visibility.

And in front of it? A hulking, rune-etched contraption humming with ancient magic and toner fumes.

A magical photocopier.

Helga squinted at it. “I think it’s scanning us.”

Too late. Thrain stepped forward — and the machine let out a blinding ZZZHT-KLUNK.

Now there were two Thrains.

The new one was identical… except this one immediately started speaking in rhyme.

“I swing, I sing, my axe shall ring!” it bellowed, twirling dramatically.

Thrain #1 looked at him. “I hate him.”

Balrik drew his daggers. “We’re in trouble.”

I tried casting Dispel Magic, but the copier jammed itself mid-scan and exploded toner across the entire chamber. I turned black. Balrik turned gray. Helga now looked like a glitter-covered banshee because she’d triggered a sparkle trap trying to reach the orb.

“WHY IS THERE GLITTER,” she screamed. “GLITTER ISN’T SACRED!”

I dove behind the pedestal. The poetic Thrain began reciting haikus about battle rage. Regular Thrain answered by suplexing him into a filing cabinet.

Balrik tried to sneak behind the machine and pull the plug. Tripped on a power cable. Triggered a second scan. Nearly became Thrain #3.

Helga, now with glitter in her eyes and divine wrath in her soul, snatched the Orb and screamed, “THIS BETTER BE WORTH IT!”

It pulsed.

Then fizzled.

Then flicked on like a warm bathroom light.

That’s when I noticed the label on the bottom:

Property of “GlowCo™ — Lighting Solutions for Evil Lairs.”

I squinted. “This is a lightbulb.”

The foundations rumbled.

Balrik winced. “Uh, Mike?”

“What?”

“Remember when you overloaded the copier?”

“Yeah?”

“It just... duplicated itself.”

Now there were two photocopiers. Both flashing. Both beeping in rhythmic doom.

The walls began to crack. A support pillar groaned. A goblin intern screamed, “MY RETIREMENT PLAN!” and leapt out the window.

We ran.

Thrain scooped up all of us under one arm like luggage. We bolted through collapsing corridors, over a pit of writhing paperwork snakes, dodging falling office chairs and self-destructing vending machines. Balrik tried to “parkour” out and got tangled in his own rope. Helga prayed aloud — and her god answered with a divine pigeon that pooped squarely on my head.

We burst out through the dungeon entrance — or rather, out the side wall that exploded from magic recoil — and tumbled down a grassy hill in a heap of toner, glitter, and betrayal.

Back at the Leaky Tankard, Lord Poshbottom was waiting.

We handed him the Orb.

He sniffed.

“This is… a lightbulb.”

“Yes,” I said, still coughing out printer dust. “But it’s a very slightly better lightbulb.”

He paid us in copper coins. Balrik tried to steal them. Helga gave him a glare so holy it nearly burned a hole through his pouch. Thrain tried to install the Orb in the chandelier. Shorted out the tavern wiring.

The place plunged into darkness.

Thrain gasped. “ECLIPSE?” and began chanting to the sky gods.

I went to my room, locked the door, and poured myself a mug of ale.

It whispered sweet nothings at me.

I drank it anyway.