A Castle Droughmoore Mini-Disaster
High atop the fog-choked cliffs of the Dusklands stood Castle Droughmoore, a gothic fortress with too many towers, not enough sanity, and a pantry so haunted it required its own union contract. The torchlit halls echoed with whispers from enchanted portraits, clanking armor, and—most notably—the constant bickering of the sentient food residents.
There was Sir Spudrick (a knighted potato who took his starch too seriously), the Mashed Horde (who preferred to ooze rather than walk), the aristocratic Pickled Duchess, and Mr. Fuzz’s favorite snack rivals: the Bread Loaf Brigade. Most days were a flavorful blend of mild chaos, culinary diplomacy, and the occasional gravy uprising.
And somewhere in this edible ecosystem lived SadSpud—Castle Droughmoore’s perpetually melancholy baked potato. He wore an embroidered napkin cape that was at least two sizes too heroic for him, and a small pat of butter melted on top of his head like a dairy-based crown of sorrow.
Today, SadSpud felt especially alone.
His cape drooped. His butter sagged. Even the Mashed Horde hadn’t tried to recruit him into their weekly lamentation session.
“I just… I just want a hug,” SadSpud whispered to himself.
Unfortunately, someone heard him.
That someone was The Baroness of Overcooked Broccoli—a towering, over-steamed terror whose brittle florets crackled with judgment. She patrolled the corridors like a walking health-food PSA, terrifying everyone with unsolicited fiber content advice.
SadSpud, oblivious and emotionally desperate, spotted a tall silhouette in the hallway and brightened immediately.
“Friend?” he squeaked hopefully.
The figure turned.
It was absolutely not a friend.
But SadSpud was already committed. With all the speed his little potato legs could muster, he sprinted forward, arms wide, butter wobbling dangerously.
“I NEED A HUG!” he cried.
The Baroness recoiled. “ABSOLUTELY NOT—”
But destiny (and poor eyesight) could not be stopped.
SadSpud collided with her stalk and wrapped his starchy arms around her. His melting butter instantly dripped into her florets.
There was a sinister sssssshhhhh.
Steam curled upward.
The Baroness stiffened. “YOU—YOU HAVE SEASONED ME!”
SadSpud looked up nervously. “Uhm… artisanal butter?”
The Baroness tasted one of her own florets. Her eyes widened in horror and unexpected delight. “GARLIC… BUTTER?!”
SadSpud nodded.
The Baroness trembled. “I—am I feeling… warmth? EMOTION?”
“Most people feel warm inside,” SadSpud offered, “when they’re hugged.”
The Baroness inhaled sharply. Then, in a stiff, awkward motion, she lifted him up and gave a hug back—more of a structured hold, really, but it counted.
“Do not make this weird,” she muttered.
“Too late,” SadSpud whispered, happily melting a bit more on her shoulder.
And thus, completely by accident, SadSpud hugged the wrong person…
and accidentally triggered the Great Broccoli Peace Accord, ending decades of tension between potatoes and cruciferous vegetables within Castle Droughmoore.
All because one lonely baked potato just wanted a hug.