Escaping the intolerable glare of another weekday morning, you take the spiral staircase that skirts the elven bulk of the treehouse and, after hours of climbing, reach the Primrose Gate. The light inside the tree is sweet as syrup and spreads over a realm of marble, gold and glass. Here, the Sages of Rock Paper Shotgun trace the decades of debate over the mysteries of creation, such as whether “Nvidia” should be written in capital letters. But what is it? The vaulted velvet sanctuary is empty.
There is no Ollie wandering among the shelves of blue and emerald books. No Julian rearranging the unidentifiable pieces on the war table. No James with his enameled key, crouching under the big brass telescope. The guardians of the treehouse have once again succumbed to the siren song of Bank Holiday Monday. Abandoning their duty, they party and bicker in the lands beyond the Tree, and in their absence, what dreams could come true?
On one wall of the room filled with instruments, there is a huge, immaculate silver mirror. This restores a perfect recreation of the room and yourself inside. But there is an anomaly: a figure moves among the deepest shelves behind you. It is indistinct, a clot of dull purple feathers. It’s getting closer. Quickly, my young one. You brought some new video game releases to share, right? Put your hand in your schoolbag, without taking your eyes off this hungry reflection. Present your price. In the absence of Rock Paper Shotgun staff during the holidays, it is your responsibility to FEED THE MAW. We’ll be back tomorrow, assuming there’s a treehouse to return to.
