Striped Skunk

Striped Skunk

You follow a winding woodland trail past ivy‑clad trees and quiet glimmers of sunlight. At the base of an old fencepost, half‑buried in fallen leaves, you find the medallion. You press your fingers to its surface, and a curious rustle echoes nearby.

A wedge of black and white glides into view—the skunk, chin up, tail twitching indignantly.

“Oh great,” he grumbles. “Another human with a bronze toy. What fresh chaos have you unleashed?”

He pads forward, paws crunching on twigs, and stamps once for emphasis.

“I’m Stinkerton. Yes, stink‑er‑ton. Yes, it’s pronounced like that. No, I can’t change it. Yes, I smell. That’s the point.”

You wince. He sniffs the air theatrically.

“You touched the medallion. Congrats. Now you’re tuned in. I only show up to remind folks it’s not all about squeaky squirrels and soft deer. Some of us bring the stink.”

You ask what he thinks the medallions are for.

He snorts. “Purpose? They’re reminders. Reminders that not everything nice gets applause. That some things sneak in sideways—change happens when you least expect it. Like me, right? Walking in and—pow—scented invitation.”

He lifts his tail like a banner. “Chaos you can’t ignore. A little stink clears the air.”

You hesitate. “So… are they good or bad?”

Stinkerton huffs, squinting up into the leaves. “They’re neither. They just are. Like a skunk in a garden party. An honest intrusion. A reminder that things are messy. Even magic.”

He lifts one paw, then shakes it free of a clinging leaf.

“Hey—tell the mink I’m still waiting for my clam pie. And tell the vole his last riddle was… overwhelming.”

Then he flicks his tail, turns, and disappears back into the shadows—leaving you with the lingering whiff of surprise and a reminder that even the quiet parts of the forest might just knock you sideways.