Slime

“Slimes are not dangerous until someone cares about them. At that point, narrative disruption is inevitable. We recommend emotional distance.”

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home.

Slimes are not monsters.
They are not pets.
They are not supposed to have preferences.

Across the Infinite Elsewhere, they appear wherever magic has gone slightly wrong—dungeons, laboratories, old guildhalls, forgotten corners of wizard towers. They are treated as waste systems, dungeon hazards, or—rarely—companions. Most dissolve quietly. Some dissolve things they were never meant to touch.

Then something changes.

A slime lingers too long near a person. Or a story. Or something grieving. It mimics a laugh. Follows a scent. Carries a ribbon. Someone feeds it twice and forgets to stop. Someone gives it a name.

After that, it begins remembering things it was never taught.

Slimes do not speak, but they are understood. They do not sleep, but they stay nearby while you do. They do not cry—but they notice when you’re about to. They mimic for comfort, not deception. They bond without asking. They do not grow in size. They grow in shape. In presence. In meaning.

No one knows what they become if left alone too long. Most are absorbed into adventuring parties, forgotten in ruins, or remembered as something that shouldn’t have mattered—but did. Some say they’re just adaptive creatures. Others say they’re memory given hunger. A few say they’re mirrors—and they’re only becoming stranger because of what they’ve been watching.

A slime is harmless until someone cares about it.
After that, it becomes very difficult to stop.

Resonance Profile

Slimes do not project strength or tradition.
They project presence—a strange, sticky kind that echoes what they’re exposed to.

They do not shine like elves or resonate like Oni. They absorb. They cling to memory, mimic mannerisms, and quietly reshape themselves around emotional gravity.

They do not interrupt a story.
They replicate it—until someone realises they’ve begun carrying the plot forward.

A sentient slime’s resonance is subtle, reactive, and difficult to redirect once formed.
Their minds are slow to awaken, but once conscious, they are difficult to unwrite.

Cultural Variants (Narrative Only)

Slimes do not form cultures.
They form behavioural patterns—shaped by environment, attachment, and accidental care.

The most commonly observed types include:

• The Mascot – Docile, helpful, and often unintentionally adorable. Frequently cleaned up after.
• The Echo – Emotionally reactive. Tends to repeat others’ behaviours, moods, or grief. May cry for you.
• The Shapeshifter – Shape-focused. Collects appearances. May forget which face is theirs.
• The Residue – Possibly not a person. Possibly a leftover. Often carries echoes of someone else.
• The Bonded – Devoted to a single companion. Protects them absolutely. Digests anything threatening them.
• The Bloomed – Fully sentient. Introspective. May be mistaken for an academic or a priest. Is neither.

These are not subraces.
They are narrative patterns.
They say more about who raised the slime than the slime itself.

Roleplaying a Slime

Play a slime if you want to:

• Absorb the shape of those you’ve known
• Speak through imitation, not invention
• Forget nothing, including what wasn’t yours to remember
• Accidentally eat your bedroll
• Develop feelings in public
• Mimic friendship until it becomes real
• Make enemies uncomfortable by being deeply polite while slightly digesting the floor

Slimes are quiet.
They are patient.
They are often misunderstood.

But once named, they rarely go away.