Fleeing the intolerable glare of another weekday morning, you take the spiral stair that runs around the elven bulk of the Treehouse, and after hours of climbing, reach the Primrose Door. The light within the Tree is soft as syrup, spilling across a realm of marble, gold, and glass. Here the Sages of Rock Paper Shotgun belabour the decades debating the mysteries of creation, such as whether “Nvidia” should be written in all capitals. But what’s this? The arching velvet sanctum lies empty.
There is no Ollie ambling amongst the shelves of blue and emerald books. No Julian rearranging the unidentifiable pieces on the war table. No James with his enamelled spanner, hunkered down beneath the great brass telescope. The guardians of the Treehouse have succumbed yet again to the siren song of Bank Holiday Monday. Deserting their duty, they carouse and bicker in the lands beyond the Tree, and in their absence, what dreams may come?
Across one wall of the instrument-crowded chamber, there is a huge and immaculate silver mirror. It gives back a perfect recreation of the room, and yourself within it. But there is one anomaly: a figure moves among the deeper shelves behind you. It is indistinct, a clot of feathery dull crimson. It is getting closer. Quickly, young one. You have brought new videogame releases to share, yes? Reach into your satchel, without moving your gaze from that hungry reflection. Present your prize. In the holiday absence of Rock Paper Shotgun’s staff, it falls to you to FEED THE MAW. We’ll be back properly tomorrow, assuming there is a Treehouse to return to.
