Townsend Mole — Sir Diggory of the Underearth

Townsend Mole — Sir Diggory of the Underearth

The park here is quiet and overgrown, the path barely a suggestion. Somewhere near the roots of an old alder, half-covered in soil and moss, you find it—a bronze medallion, warm to the touch.

You brush it off and press your fingers against it.

The ground shifts. A snout pokes out. Then two tiny paws. Then—dramatically—a full Townsend mole emerges, blinking heroically into the daylight.

“Ah-ha! I knew it!” he declares. “Another one. You found it. Or rather, I led you here with subtle vibrations and destiny.”

You open your mouth.

“No time for questions,” he says briskly. “There’s something more important. My story.”

You blink.

“I am Sir Diggory of the Underearth, hero of the damp and root-tangled. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? No? Typical surface-dweller amnesia.”

He puffs up.

“I once rescued a vole from a collapsed tunnel using nothing but my teeth, grit, and a well-placed sneeze. I’ve diverted floodwaters, unearthed truffles for widowed badgers, and once stared down a fox by pretending to be a poisonous beetle.”

He winks. “She bought it.”

You try again.

“What happens if—”

He lifts a paw. “Please. I was just getting to that.”

He climbs atop the medallion and strikes a noble pose.

“When all the medallions are found, the great Alignment begins. A lattice of wisdom, buried and forgotten, will hum once more. Ancient roots will glow. The Earth itself will whisper. And who will guide the transition between worlds?”

He tilts his head meaningfully.

You stare.

“Yes,” he says. “Me.”

Sir Diggory bows low, nearly tipping forward.

“So carry on, noble finder. Dig carefully. Listen closely. And if ever you find yourself in peril beneath the earth, tap three times and whisper my name.”

He vanishes in a swirl of dirt, leaving only clawprints and confidence behind.