Zenge⦠Iāve been talking with your wife and I think itās time to let you know. You donāt have bones. Kirbyās are invertebrates. I realize this may be difficult to come to terms with, so please take all the time you need, weāll be here.
okay DBD came out with a new chapter and its FNAF and as a chronically online middle schooler, 13 year old me is screaming and crying and throwing up over the fact i get to play against matthew lillard in the game. so i will be MIA for the next hour while i heal my inner tween
Zenge⦠Iāve been talking with your wife and I think itās time to let you know. You donāt have bones. Kirbyās are invertebrates. I realize this may be difficult to come to terms with, so please take all the time you need, weāll be here.
Zenge⦠Iāve been talking with your wife and I think itās time to let you know. You donāt have bones. Kirbyās are invertebrates. I realize this may be difficult to come to terms with, so please take all the time you need, weāll be here.
Gruffendale, once a village of order, harmony, and hay-baked pie, would remember this night as the one where nothing quite stayed in placeā¦
It began like every third night of Goatapalooza should: with silence. That lasted for all of 2 seconds before the arguing started. The elders murmured that tradition was for nights to be for resting.
And yet, from the hayloft barn, horns clashed.
"Robertās got a long horn..." someone sang nervously under their breath ā an old rhyme, mostly nonsense. But it was back on every tongue that night.
By moonrise, the pasture was full of stomping hooves and angry bleats. It was the wrong night for all of this ā and somehow, everyone knew it and no one stopped it. The goats fought as if the third night were a myth, not a rule etched into the ancient stone slab beside the cheese cellar.
"All the other goats with the puffed-up chests,
You better run, better run ā outrun my hornsā¦"
It wasn't just the goats. The night, too, grew odd.
And then, the sound.
A booming, mechanical voice tore through Gruffendale like a lightning strike wrapped in velvet:
āTHAT. WAS. EASY.ā
It echoed from nowhere and everywhere ā bouncing off the stone chapel, the goat tower, the ornamental picket fence that had never fenced in anything at all.
The villagers froze. A dozen hooves paused mid-charge. A cider barrel toppled. And just like that, clarity scattered like hay in wind.
Some who meant to open private conversations - deep, personal reckonings with trusted allies - instead opened them with themselves, lips moving in silent, confused arguments no one else could hear. Others wandered about, covered head to hoof in shimmering stickers that stuck for no reason they could name. One goat had a "Kick Me" note on her ear, though no one remembered putting it there.
The bleating continued, but now, no one seemed sure who they were mad at. Goats that had locked horns moments earlier were suddenly nuzzling. One villager hurled a goat-shaped pastry at a friend, then hugged them weeping. Another swore she'd just voted for someone, despite there being no vote - and no ballot box. The dog, allegedly in charge, seemed lost and had no idea what time it was.
In the middle of the chaos, Gwendolyn Hoofspark the Baffling appeared ā entirely dry despite the drizzle. She twirled a candy-striped umbrella and danced in a puddle like a storybook sprite. Her ears flopped with each spin. She grinned wide, as if the world made perfect sense to her and only her.
She lived up to her name.
And every goat - even the ones bleeding slightly from poorly-aimed headbutts - was super jealous of that umbrella. It was cute, and she looked like magic with it. Julie Andoews would have been jealous.
Then came dawn.
The torchlights flickered out. The moon gave way to a reluctant sun. And someone screamed.
Sir Wigglechops Fencechewer was found slumped near the council tent, half-hidden under a mound of suspicious hay. His tufted beard was tangled with scraps of hay. His eyes were wide ā not in pain, but in shock, as if even he hadn't seen it coming. No wound. No signs of a struggle.
His kill was a surprise to everyone. Maybe even to his killer.
The village was quiet.
Then the murmuring began ā low and wary. Accusations without names, suspicion without proof. Friends eyed friends. Goats stared at their own reflections in troughs, unsure who theyād been last night.
And the chorus returned, soft but certain, as if the song itself had watched everything unfold:
All the kids with their goat beards pressed,
You better run, better runā¦
Third nightās getting colder.
No one voted that night, because that wasn't when votes happened. But no one forgot.
Some who meant to open private conversations - deep, personal reckonings with trusted allies - instead opened them with themselves, lips moving in silent, confused arguments no one else could hear.