ENTRY 020: THE TUNIC OF PLOT ARMOR

Dear Diary,

When someone drags a mannequin into your shop, you know it’s going to be one of those days.

This morning, a scruffy adventurer staggered in, lugging a chipped wooden mannequin under one arm and a tattered tunic in the other. “I’ve got something special for you,” he wheezed, plopping both onto the counter. (I hear this exact phrase about seven times a day.)

I raised an eyebrow. “I hope it’s not the mannequin.”

“No,” he said, glaring at me like I’d insulted his grandmother. “It’s this.” He held up the tunic, a patchwork of stains and fraying threads that looked like it hadn’t seen soap in a decade.

“It’s… something,” I said, leaning in for a closer look. “And what, exactly, is it?”

“The invincible Tunic of Plot Armor,” he said, puffing out his chest. “No matter what happens, this tunic ensures the wearer survives. It saved me from bandits, a collapsing bridge, and—get this—a dragon!”

I winced, recalling the last time I had to deal with a quote-unquote "dragon." Then I glanced at the tunic again, unimpressed. “You’re saying this rag is the reason you’re still alive?”

“Don’t believe me?” he snapped, dragging the mannequin forward. “I’ll show you!”

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Before I could protest, he slipped the tunic over the mannequin and grabbed a mace from the display rack. With a flourish, he raised the weapon high (as his face turned an amusing shade of red) and brought it crashing down on the mannequin.

I flinched, expecting splinters, but to my surprise, the mannequin didn’t shatter. In fact, it didn’t even wobble. It just stood there, looking as smug as a wooden figure can.

“See?” the man crowed. “The tunic saved it!”

I stroked my chin, pretending to look less impressed than I really was. The display was convincing, sure, but I’ve been in this business long enough to get straight to the point. “How much?” I asked finally.

“Twenty-five gold,” he said, his wide grin almost splitting his face, ear to ear. I haggled him down to seventeen, and the man left whistling a jaunty tune, the untouched mannequin slung over his shoulder.

It wasn’t until hours later that I realized something wasn’t right. Korgath, ever the skeptic, had been eyeing the tunic since the transaction. Finally, he spoke up. “You test it yet?”

“No need,” I said confidently, my smug grin matching that of the man who sold me the tunic. “I saw it in action.”

"Hurgh," Korgath grunted. I'd been working with him long enough to know that "hurgh" is Korgathese for "I'm not so sure about that." He grabbed the tunic and slipped it over one of our shop mannequins. Then, without warning, he smacked it with a hammer he was supposed to bring to the storeroom.

My self-satisfied grin was gone almost as quickly as the mannequin. One swing was enough to completely demolish it, but Korgath hit it twice more just to rub the salt in my wound.

“It wasn’t the tunic that's indestructible,” I said as the enchanted broom finished cleaning the debris. “It was his mannequin.”

So there you have it. I paid fifteen gold for a worthless piece of fabric and got duped by a glorified wooden dummy. If I ever find this lying sack of cowdung, even the real Tunic of Plot Armor won't be able to save him from me.

Yours in profit,

Garren