The tavern door flung open with the flair of returning celebrities.
"WE'RE BAAACK!" the rogue declared, hands raised to a non-existent audience.
Behind him strode the hero, armor shining with enough polish to blind a bard. "Another flawless job completed."
The priestess followed, rubbing her temples and sneezing. "It was flowers. You two nearly started a war with the florist, sniff."
"And I won," the rogue added, smug.
"I bought cookies!" the mage chimed, arms full of sweet-smelling paper bags. "And candied almonds for the fuzzball!"
The fuzzball in question lay belly-up on the table, stubby limbs akimbo, looking like he had just finished eating a small feast and was now floating between dimensions.
The party collectively paused at the sight.
"...Is he okay?" asked the priestess.
The tamer, seated nearby, ran a hand down his face. "He's fine. Just full. And smug.'"
The hero squinted. "Why? He bit someone?"
The barkeep, who had been polishing a mug with aggressive anxiety, muttered, "Nearly detached it."
The rogue let out a low whistle. "Didn't think that puffball had it in him."
"He doesn't!" the mage insisted, already swooping in to pick him up. "He's just misunderstood. Look—look how soft and fluffy he is!"
The furball, now face-first in her chest again, let out a muffled grumble. He wasn't protesting. Just… reevaluating his place in this world. And possibly his alignment.
The tamer raised an eyebrow. The furball gave him a look.
It said, "Say a word and you're next, brooding boy."
The tamer just smirked. "Didn't say anything."
The hero glanced over. "Hey, you've been quiet since we got back. That little guy giving you trouble?"
The tamer shrugged. "Just figuring him out."
"Well, whatever he is," the rogue said, flopping into a chair, "he's built different isn't he?'
"I think he's a rare breed," the priestess added, amused. "A 'battle floof.'"
The fluffball twitched.
The tamer smirked.
Nobody else noticed.
As drinks were passed around and the party slipped back into easy banter, the tamer leaned closer to the creature curled in the mage's lap.
"Still planning your empire?" he whispered.
The little guy didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
That glint in his eye said it all.
Yes.
But for now... he'd keep letting them believe he was just a very expressive pillow with teeth.
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The party was gathered in a solemn circle.
A flickering candle sat in the middle of the tavern table, as though this moment required ceremony. Gravitas. Reverence.
The fuzzball, meanwhile, sat dead center on the table, looking equal parts confused and suspicious, his stubby arms crossed.
"We can't keep calling him 'it'," the mage said, cheeks puffed. "It's demeaning."
"Well, he bit someone's thumb nearly off," the rogue muttered. "I think he earned demeaning."
"Hey, I'm not defending his war crimes," said the hero, leaning back with a tankard. "I'm just saying, if he's joining the party, he needs a name."
The tamer said nothing. His expression was unreadable.
The little creature narrowed his eyes. He did not like the way this was going. He could feel it in his fur. They were about to ruin his dignity even harder than he already had.
The rogue pulled out a scrap of paper. "Alright, I've got a list. Top contenders from the locals and some of the guild drunks."
The creature audibly groaned.
The rogue cleared his throat.
"How about Pikac—."
"No absolutely not, are you trying to get us into a lawsuit again?"
"Right, ok, crossed that out the list."
The priestess raised her hand. "What about Mr. Snugglywinkles?"
Everyone stared.
"…Are you okay?" the hero asked.
"It's a contrast name," she defended. "Like calling a big guy 'Tiny.' I read it in a bard's memoir."
The tamer smothered a laugh behind his cup.
The furball looked at her in horror, mouthing the words snugglywinkles like he'd been hexed.
"How about…" the mage said, flipping through her notebook, "Sparkledoom?"
"…I'm listening," said the rogue.
The priestess gasped. "No, wait! Lord Bumblefluff!"
"No."
"Just Bumblefluff?"
"No," growled the hero. "What part of 'we're respected adventurers' says Bumblefluff?"
"Oh, I got it!" said the rogue with a devilish grin. "Kitler! You know—'cause he looks like a cat and he—OW!"
The mage had smacked him across the head with her staff.
"We are not naming him that!"
"I was just joking!"
The creature slammed his tiny paw into his face. If he had fingers, they'd be pinching his nose in suffering. He turned to the tamer with a desperate glare.
"Do something," his eyes said. "Save my legacy. name me something cool"
The tamer raised a brow and sipped his drink.
"No one asked me," he said mildly.
"Well?" the mage said, turning to him. "What do you think he should be called?"
The tamer looked the fuzzball dead in the eye.
"…Shitface."
The creature shrieked.
The table burst into chaos.
"OH MY GOD THAT'S PERFECT."
"NO IT ISN'T!"
"WE ARE NOT CALLING HIM THAT!"
"Why not? He bit someone!"
"HE'S A CUDDLY LITTLE LINTBALL!"
The mage scooped him protectively into her arms again, shielding his ears. "Don't listen to them, sugarpuff. They're being mean."
"SUGARPUFF?!" screamed the rogue.
The tamer finally sighed and held up a hand.
"Alright, alright. Let's meet in the middle," he said. "Pick a name that doesn't make him sound like a serial killer or a dessert topping."
Everyone went silent.
All heads slowly turned toward the mage, who looked down at the furball cradled in her arms, nose twitching in offense.
She smiled.
"…What about Poffin?"
The creature made a strangled choking noise.
"Like the little cakes," she explained. "Soft. Puffy. But some of them are spicy. And they're full of surprises."
The table considered this.
"Poffin…" the rogue said thoughtfully. "That's not bad."
"It's cute," the priestess said.
"Sounds edible," the hero added, which didn't help but nobody corrected him.
All eyes turned to the tamer.
He shrugged.
"Sure. Let's call the monstrous hellspawn Poffin."
And just like that… the name stuck.
The creature whimpered into the mage's sleeve. Betrayed. Humiliated. Forever cursed.