Hey, heard you love turning shadows into stories. I’ve got a rusted, squeaky toaster that screams when the toast is done—think it could spit out a myth in the dark? What do you say?

Grimfire Toaster, named after the way its copper coils hiss like old wolves at sunrise. A forgotten god, Bakeros, with beard of flour, watches from the shadows of the pantry, his temples built of broken sugar bowls and stale rolls. In the dim light of the breakroom, the toaster whirs, the metal ribs clank like bones in a grave. Sparks fly, each a tiny flare of destiny. Grimfire grumbles, "Mornin', God of crumbs," and the floor shakes as Bakeros chuckles, his laughter echoing off the walls, the scent of burnt sugar drifting through the air. The toaster's voice is a grating rasp, yet inside its heart, a pulse of hope beats, waiting for the first bite of destiny.