A voice is a small thing. The bird has its song, the bee has its buzz. Even the mealiest of animals can hiss, or croak, or chirp. What was I then, in that sonic hierarchy, without a sound of my own.

I had no way to reach out through sound, no way to broadcast my thoughts, and no way to reply to the voice, that friendly voice, coming from beyond the door.

"Hello?" the voice came again, deep, but somehow reedy, with a different accent to the baker and his daughter. "Who's out there?"

I lifted my leg again and rapped three more times on the metal gear.

"Don't like that, not one bit," the voice said. "H-hey stranger. If you're friendly, why don't ya give me two taps. But if you're some kind of deadly monster, hit me with another three."

I gave the door two taps.

"Huh. One two. Well, I guess you're wantin' me to open the door."

I gave the gear two taps.

"But how do I know you're not just a smart monster, playing a trick on me?"

I sagged, dejected, letting my body slump over. The voice was silent for a minute, and I straightened up when it began to speak again.

"Listen, partner. I'm gonna ask you a question. Two taps for yes, three for no, you understand?"

I turned back to the door and tapped twice. Yes.

"Okay, now listen. I've lived down here for three years, and I seen all manner of frightening business. Monsters, spirits, things I ain't even got a name for. It's a dangerous world out there, and this door has kept me safe all'n through it." The voice paused for a minute to let that sink in, before continuing. "Knowing all that, an' putting yourself in my position, would you open the door?"

I started to consider the question, but in truth my mind had already rushed to the answer. It was a dangerous world. Deadly. Would I, a bun of particularly strong self preservation, open my door to a silent caller?

No, I thought, resigned. No I wouldn't. Angel forgive me, I wouldn't even speak to them.

I lifted my leg and tapped three times.

I turned away from the door, preparing to head off to seek succor elsewhere.

Behind me there was a clanking sound. The gear door rolled open, spilling light into the tunnel.

Standing in the open pipe was an old, battered, but still recognizable gingerbread man, staring down at me with wrinkled raisin eyes.

"Well, look at you!"

The gingerbread man did look at me, and I looked back at him. He had a long scar running down his face, a gouge in the gingerbread that bisected his icing eyebrow, then skipped his eye, before continuing down to his cheek.

There was a bite-shaped piece of gingerbread missing from his shoulder that had been filled in with the same grainy substance that filled the gaps in the gear – a material I now recognized as shortbread.

His left hand was gone completely, replaced by a prosthetic composed of a round mint and several stubby licorice fingers. He looked like he'd survived a war.

He had no gumdrop buttons, but embedded on the left side of his chest was a large chunk of crystalized ginger, faceted and gemlike.

"A bun!" he said, his icing mouth stretching up into a reserved smile. "Well, come in, partner. Before something nasty shows up."

I looked around the tunnel. There was no sign of anything nasty, but that paranoia was still with me, and I thought the gingerbread man's stronghold must at least be secure.

He stepped back into the pipe, moving to the side so I could enter. I stepped forward. The gingerbread man pulled the gear back, closing the door, then latched it shut with a clunking sound. He moved ahead of me and started leading me down the pipe, talking the whole time.

"The name's Old Biscuit," he said. "What do you go by?"

I remained silent, both because I had no way to reply, but also because as far as I knew, I had no name. Old Biscuit cast a look back at me.

"No voice, huh?" he asked. "Well that's no trouble. We already got yes and no worked out, don't we."

I paused to tap my foot twice against the side of the pipe. Yes. Yes, we have that at least.

"Reckon I'll just call you... Dough Boy."

I froze, feeling my jelly growing hot. I felt my fluffy flesh shaking rage.

No. No! I will not suffer such an ignoble name.

I banged my foot three times on the pipe.

Old Biscuit stopped and looked back at me. My reaction wasn't lost on him, and he seemed apologetic.

"No? Well I don't know what to call you."

A name, a name. If I need a name, let it be something noble. Something with dignity. Let my name be... Doughtanion!

"Eh, we'll work it out later," Old Biscuit said, turning and continuing to lead me down the pipe.

After a few inches the pipe opened up into a large chamber, some kind of empty tank. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all made of copper, and at the far wall had an intake pipe, plugged by pieces of wood, cloth, and various detritus.

Above the base layer of copper, the chamber had been decorated as a cozy and cluttered living environment. One end of the room was occupied by a table and chairs, a crude couch, a baby's cot and a larger bed.

The other side was given over to a kind of workshop, with hoppers of materials, workbenches, and repurposed tools. Intricate mechanical devices were scattered between the tools, half-built or abandoned projects.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

All of the furniture in the space was made of wood, with a rough homespun look. It was all sized for Old Biscuit, and I had no trouble believing that he'd made it all himself.

"Come in, partner. Take a seat."

Old Biscuit pulled out a chair at the table, then went to grab a pair of tin flagons from hooks on the wall. I shuffled over to the chair and plopped my round bottom down on it, sliding my legs under the table.

Old Biscuit moved over to a large paper sack, where he filled both cups from whatever was inside, before heading back to me. He set one of the cups down on the table in front of me, then moved down to sit at the far end.

He lifted his cup to his mouth and took a long draw, setting it aside again with a sigh. I peered into my own cup, seeing that it was full of fine white crystals.

Sugar.

I stared at the cup, unsure how I was meant to eat from it, or even lift it.

"Well, you must have quite a story," Old Biscuit said. "Lemmie guess. You woke up on the floor in a giant bakery, forgotten an' abandoned. You slipped through a grate and eventually found your way down a well. You walked a while, and found yerself here."

The bakery part was right, but the rest was a little off. If he was drawing on his own experiences to make that guess, then his journey from his bakery had been less fraught than mine. Though from his scarred body, he hadn't had an easy time since.

Not quite, new friend. Though you have it in essence.

I nodded, dipping my entire body, then twisted it from side to side in a shake. I tapped my leg five times against the ground.

"Huh, not exactly, but close enough?"

You understand me. I tapped twice.

> Skill Advancement!

> Bready Language has advanced.

> [2/5] Bready Language Inspire, intimidate, and communicate with nuance.

> Using motion, gesture, sound, and stance to speak without words.

"Well, I don't know what you got planned now, but you're welcome to stay here a while. Reckon we can help each other."

I looked around the room. Could this place be a home to me? There was only one bed. Would I have to sleep with Old Biscuit?

My attention soon fell on the crib. It wasn't empty, I realized. Nestled within a bundle of cotton wool was a small white jelly bean.

I can't have given any outward sign of looking around, but something in my bready language must have tipped Old Biscuit off as to what I was looking at.

"Oh," he said, standing and moving to the crib. He scooped the jelly bean up, and approached me, carrying it in the crook of his arm. "This here's my daughter, Lemon. Say hello, Lemon."

I stared at the jelly bean, but it remained motionless and silent.

"Haw, I'm just goofin'," Old Biscuit said. "She don't talk."

He returned the bean to its crib and went back to his seat, taking another drink of his sugar.

I eyed my flagon again. I was curious what OB was getting out of consuming the substance, and lacking any way to lift the cup, I decided to try a more direct way of trying it.

I pressed my face down on top of the cup, hoping that my surface would be malleable enough to squeeze in and reach the contents. It wasn't, but I did succeed in knocking the cup over, and I was able to rub my face over the sugar that had spilt on the table.

"You're a thirsty fella, huh," Old Biscuit said as I swiped my face back and forth over the table.

The loose sugar felt odd against my skin. A tingling, that gave way to a powerful heat. I leaned back in my chair, and noticed that my aching back and legs were feeling marginally better.

I sat back up in my chair, feeling the tingling sink right down to my jelly. Old Biscuit must have spotted the wound on my top, as a concerned expression appeared on his face.

"Oh hey, are you hurt there partner?" Old Biscuit jumped up and came over. He rested a gingerbread hand on top of me. "Oh, gee. You've been through a tussle."

Old Biscuit closed his eyes, twin raisins pinching into thin lines. A moment later the ginger crystal in his chest began to shine with a golden light, and I felt a flood of heat radiating out from where his hand rested against me.

I startled, trying to rise to my feet.

"Easy, partner," Old Biscuit said. "This'n just my Mystic Art, the Gingerlight. It'll put you back how you're meant to be."

He pressed gently on my top, and he was right that I could feel the deep heat washing through me, easing my battered body. I felt itching from my wound as my dough writhed and spread, regenerating to replace the chunk stolen by the russet pigeon.

Soon I was feeling as strong as I ever had, my body whole, all of my aches and pains washed away.

Old Biscuit hobbled away, sank back into his chair, and took a long draw on his tankard.

"Sure takes it out of a fella, but then you'd know."

I was sure I didn't know. This Gingerlight was new to me.

What do you mean, old timer? I cocked my body to the side quizzically and rapped my foot once against the floor.

"Hm? You don't know about Mystic Arts?" Old Biscuit asked. He waited for me to tap out my negative. "Oh. Well, every animote's got a Mystic Art. A power that's unique to us, an' true to what we are."

Hold on. I tapped my foot three times on the ground, then leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs. Why don't you start at the beginning.

"You really are comin' in cold to all this, aren't ya fella?"

Yes, yes. We can laugh over my inexperience another time. I rotated my foot in slow circles, a go onmotion.

"Well now, assuming that you don't know nothin', I'm guessing you don't know about animotes?"

Clearly not. Three taps.

"Well, that's you an' me! The animus got in us, and that's why we're animotes." Old Biscuit leaned back in his chair. "It mostly happens to the big folks, but sometimes to dumb animals, and even rarer to everyday things like us. We all'n got special powers of some stripe or another. Traits, skills, an' mysteries. Mysteries is like your Mystic Art."

The gingerbread man didn't seem like the most authoritative of sources on arcane lore, but whatever he claimed to know, I knew even less, so I wasn't in a position to doubt what he was saying.

He sighed, standing from the table and moving over to the bed. He pulled a coarse blanket from under it, which he folded in two and lay as a rough pallet in the unoccupied corner of the living room.

He then pulled his chair over to the crib, and took a massive book up from where it leaned up against the wall – massive on our scale, but small and thin by the giants' standards.

"I'mma gonna be turning in shortly, got to rest up for tonight's hunt. You'n had a long day. Reckon you should take your rest where you can get it."

I looked over at the pallet. I didn't know if sleep was part of my existence, but I could certainly give lying down a try. In a way, being horizontal was my natural orientation, my innate position. It would be interesting to explore.

I slapped my face onto the pile of sugar on the table again, wiping back and forth as I absorbed as much of the sugar as I could, then got to my feet and headed for the blanket.

As I lay down on my back, Old Biscuit cracked open his book, and began reading Lemon a bedtime story.

"A long time ago, in a land far away, two spirits lived, called Night and Day..."