"Coursah! Ey, coursah!” The chittering clash of clay on clay accompanied the words and formed a bizarrely intelligible voice.

Lujayn turned, slow and measured, towards the sound. No point letting whoever-or whatever- it was know she’d been caught unawares.

“Can I help you?” she said, peering into the darkness behind her.

“Down here, coursah,” the voice said, and Lujayn’s gaze was drawn towards the floor. Sandwiched between two mossy boulders she’d passed without a glance was a series of low shelves carved into the rock wall of the cavern. Upon it stood rows of clay pots- all shapes and sizes, some smooth with patterns and some coarser in design.

“Ayy, there ya go.” The pot that spoke was a large, round-bellied thing, its smooth surface unmarred by the scratches and divots that seemed to crisscross most of the others.

Lujayn stared unabashedly. For all the years she’d spent underground, she’d never come across talking pots. She wondered what kind of spell had been cast for them to be able to speak.

“Whats’ta mattah, coursah?” the pot said. “Never seen a talkin’ pot?” The pots around it laughed raucously, their hooting and hollering nearly drowned out by the cacophonous crashing of their lids.

“What kinda adventurer’s never seen a talkin’ pot?” one of them called, setting the others clashing in laughter again.

“Come on, coursah,” the smooth pot said. “Give us a little somethin’. The Wizard ain’t feedin’ us right.”

The Wizard. Of course. Suddenly the sentient pottery made sense.

The pot clearly saw the light of recognition in her eyes. “Ahh, you know the Wizard!” it said. “Wizard,” a few of the others echoed automatically. “So you know him and you won’t even feed us,” it whined. “We ain’t askin’ for much, just a little…snack!”

Lujayn reached cautiously for the pouch of dried cave crickets she kept. They made a pleasing crunch when eaten, and weren’t a bad source of protein. Holding the edge of the package carefully between her teeth, she flung her head upwards, scattering its contents towards the pots in a spray

The pots screamed happily, lids banging loudly as they caught the crickets in their gaping mouths.

“Bless ya, coursah!” a tall, skinny pot in the back row yelled amongst the victorious cheering. “A meal! A meal!”

The cries died down, and the pots stilled.

“Hello?” Lujayn said. “Pots?”

The pots made no sound, and Lujayn craned her head, spotting crickets scattered on and around the shelf. Had the entire thing been a fever dream? Had she just thrown a packet of crickets at some regular clay pots? She stared for a moment more, then flicked her ears, facing the path again. Time to move on.