Deep in the forests of Mobia, in a solitary hole under a rock, lived a Mobian jungle badger who called herself "Sticks."
She was not sure how old she was, but that did not really matter to her. The less others—and sometimes she—knew about herself the better. Thankfully, she had done all she could to make sure she did not come into contact with "others." Except for a few run-ins with speedy Ringwielders and two-tailed flying creeps and maniacs with hammers and half-metal monster rabbits, Sticks was alone and happy to be alone.
Alone meant scrambling out of her hole every morning, lifting her hand over her eyes, and staring up at the mist-filled forest canopy above her. It meant racing through the forests checking all her traps for game (or monsters), and if those produced nothing, she settled with a good patch of mushrooms. It meant listening to the sounds and living in the scent and watching everything. And then, when it was all over, it meant crawling back into her dark, moss-laden hole, polishing her warming rocks and drifting off to sleep.
Drifting off to sleep after she had dug over her door entrance, blocked it with stones and secured all her makeshift locks, that is.
So that no one would ever find her home, and, most of all, her, and try imposing their regime of terror on her perfect, quiet, normal life.
So that night, when Sticks heard the sound of someone howling, her eyes flew open and she lay perfectly still.
The howling continued. It was the howling of a male Mobian. There was no mistake about that. No normal animal would make a sound like that…it was too guttural. She had caught something in one of her traps….
…she would just have to see what it was in the morning.
Sticks closed her eyes again.
There was silence for a moment, when another howl rang out.
Sticks flinched a little.
You should go help that person, Sticks.
Stick's eyes widened. "What?" She hissed aloud. Since there was no one else to talk to, she often held conversations with her own thoughts. Usually they were nice conversations. They talked about the birds migrating or a nice piece of moss she had found or the constellations moving on. This conversation was another matter entirely. Her thoughts seemed rather demanding.
"No." She said. "I can't do that. Too dangerous."
You should go help that person, Sticks.
"No! It's probably a man and men are the most dangerous of all creatures. He'll find my hole and then I'll have to kill him," she hissed.
You didn't kill the others.
"I probably should have," she muttered. "If I don't kill him, then I'll have to move my hole."
You should still go help that person.
"I don't want to! It's nighttime out there. I never go out once it's nighttime!"
You should still go help that person, Sticks.
Sticks wriggled around and buried her head beneath a clump of moss. "No. No, no, no, no. No. Not doing it. Go away. I'm going to sleep."
There was stillness in the burrow. For five minutes, nothing moved. The only sound was the occasional howls and grunts of whoever it was that was caught in her trap.
"Mmmhh," Stick growled, climbing to her feet. She crept towards the door, snatching up a makeshift spear, a boomerang and some nun chucks lying near her bed.
You'll be glad you helped him.
"Oh, please. It's not because of him. I can't sleep with all that awful noise disturbing everything," Sticks muttered. "And if he smells evil and dangerous, I'll stab him."
You'll be glad, Sticks.
"Well, if this will make you be quiet, then, yes, I will be glad," Sticks muttered to herself. "Mm, mhr, disturbing a perfectly peaceful night…"
