Interdimensional Whoopee Cushion
wondrous item, artifact
The Interdimensional Whoopee Cushion is a seemingly innocent, round, and squishy cushion with a bright rainbow pattern. When placed on a chair or seat, it magically blends in with its surroundings, waiting for an unsuspecting victim.
Multiversal Shenanigans
When an unsuspecting victim is about to sit, the cushion activates. As soon as a creature sits on the cushion, they erupt with a loud, echoing fart that resonates strangely.Immediately after the fart, the cushion disappears in a puff of multi-colored smoke and teleports to a random seat on any plane of existence that is about to be sat on by a creature. The new destination can be any kind of seat ranging from a sticky bench in a musky tavern, the royal throne of a stuffy king or the meditation mat of a stoic monk.
Destroying the Whoopee Cushon
Nothing can destroy the Whoopee Cushon. A spell can suspend it's Multiversal Shenanigans for rounds.Lore
In the grand hall of Virendale Castle, where chandeliers hung like crystal constellations and tapestries whispered tales of forgotten heroes, Alf Tudor found himself in a predicament. As the Lord’s trusted squire, he was accustomed to handling ceremonial duties with grace and precision. But this day would forever alter his fate.
The feast was in full swing, goblets clinking, and laughter echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Alf, dressed in his finest doublet, moved with practiced elegance. His task: ensure the Lord’s chair was impeccably arranged for the visiting dignitaries.And there it was—the Lord’s chair, resplendent in crimson velvet, awaiting its occupant. Alf adjusted the embroidered cushion, not noticing the faint shimmer that danced across its surface. The Interdimensional Whoopee Cushion had chosen its victim.
As Alf stepped aside, ready to take his place next to the Lord, the cushion shifted. A ripple of colors swirled, and with a soft pop, it materialized at his seat. Alf hesitated, his hand hovering above the cursed cushion. But propriety demanded he sit, so he lowered himself onto the unsuspecting trap.
The room hushed as Alf’s weight compressed the cushion. The air thickened, and then it happened—a sound that could only be described as a dragon’s belch erupted from beneath him. The Lord’s eyes widened, and the courtiers gasped. Alf’s face flushed crimson, matching the velvet of the chair.
“By the Seven Realms,” the Lord exclaimed, “did you just—”
Alf stammered, “My Lord, I assure you—”
But it was too late. The laughter began—a cacophony that echoed through the hall. Alf’s reputation crumbled like a stale pastry. The visiting dignitaries exchanged amused glances, and the bard in the corner composed a ballad titled “Alf Tudor’s Unfortunate Overture.”
From that day forth, Alf was known as “The Squire of Flatulence.” His dreams of knighthood vanished, replaced by whispered jokes and pointed fingers. He tried to explain—the mysterious cushion, the interdimensional prank—but no one believed him. The Whoopee Cushion had vanished, leaving no trace except for Alf’s humiliation.
And so, Alf carried the burden of that moment throughout his life. He became a recluse, avoiding feasts and gatherings. Whenever he heard a faint toot in the distance, he winced, reliving the embarrassment. Even on his deathbed, he muttered, “It wasn’t me, damn that cushion!”
As for the Interdimensional Whoopee Cushion, it continued its mischievous journey across realms, seeking new victims. Alf’s tale became a cautionary legend—a reminder that sometimes, fate deals you a hand, and all you can do is laugh (or in his case, cringe).
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