A Song of Spikes and Stabs

In the beginning, we were nothing. The world was dull, hollow and hopelessly blunt. Our place of birth was but a distant thought, our purpose still undefined. It was a dark time, of which we rarely speak of.

And then came the First Stab.

The truth has been lost to time, but legends say the First Stab was a wayward needle. Awkwardly stuck in a hardwood floor, it waited patiently, biding its time. Its diligent scouting paid off, when someone's foot descended upon the Legendary Needle, causing the first cry, the first muffled swear and the first angry, agonized dance.

Rather than merely throwing the needle out, however, its sufferer took inspiration and thus our lineage truly began. From a legion of needles, we continued to grow larger, sturdier and pointier. Soon, a foot wasn't the only thing we could stab, our power amplified beyond all bounds of reason, thanks to the various spring mechanism we were attached to. Our evolution allowed us to surpass our ancestors, no longer merely scattered pricks, but something far more genuine, rounded and punctual.

We are now spikes, guardians to all corridors.

It was also through this transcendence that we were introduced to Them. Our first encounter was near-fatal, as it should be when we are about to meet a new master. And yet, they were clever and agile enough to pass through our line of defense, earning our respect. Little did we know, that there was much more to this person, than we ever could have hoped for.

They remained within the hallowed Ruins, birthplace of all great Houses: Spike Traps, noble String Sentries, the dangerously clever Pitfall Ploys, Ruse Rails and many more. In our creaking-clicking language, we called them 'the Caretaker'. As it turned out, we weren't the only ones to coin that exact name, yet no other designation could have described them.

Every day, they passed by us, hardly even fazed by the potential danger we could have meant. They examined each and every one of us, looking for any signs of rust or decay, whether on our bodies, or our trusty spring mechanisms. The Caretaker performed this duty with utmost diligence and even the most skeptical, most prickly one of us learned to appreciate their presence. In return, we received the same affection.

Through their caring, we weren't just part of the Parliament of Perils, but individuals. They called out to us, one-by-one, granting us the mysterious power of names. We weren't merely Spike A-1, C-2 or E-5. We were Stabitha, Mr. Punctual, Sir Piercington (Third of Its Name). All of us were ready to strike at a moment's notice, just to somehow repay the Caretaker's generosity.

And so we come full circle. The Caretaker approaches once more, but accompanied by another set of feet. They remained behind, letting the new arrival traverse through our perilous path. All of us stand ready with baited un-breaths, anxious to find whether this strange new creature could brave our challenge. They move forward, step by tentative step, while the world rumbles in trepidation beneath their feet.

Finally, there's a click. The springs are loaded and we hear the unholy war cry of Papa Perforation. Seconds turn into hours as House Spike ascends once more. Tomorrow, we will once again be humble servants of the Caretaker, as they will carefully clean us off after the glorious assault.

But tonight, we spike the tyke.