Lulu knew that something was terribly wrong.

Someone had stepped forwards from the friendly gathering around the mealtime campfire, and sent out a pulse that had pushed all but the strongest into unconsciousness.

The scrubby had only had the barest forewarning, and the man’s magic had a strange tang that she couldn’t identify -- oily, greasy, forceful, wrong -- and couldn’t counter. Lulu struggled to retain her consciousness.

She hung onto Morgan’s shoulder by instinct, her mind screaming Danger! and Fight it! even as her body slipped closer and closer to sleep. Beneath her, she could feel her mistress swaying on her feet, and the situation suddenly seemed even more grim. Desperately, the scrubby tried to do something, anything, but could only muster a weak and sleepy purble.

Even her mind seemed to slow down, sinking towards sleep. The slick-feeling coils of magic grew more intense as the dangerous man stepped closer, and though Lulu itched to try cleaning him, she still found herself unable to do anything but watch. Chadwick batted her off her mistress’ shoulder with a casual flick of a hand. The scrubby flared with indignation at being treated so casually, but still couldn’t manage more than a quiet wurble in retaliation.

Things were going horribly, terribly, unequivocally wrong.

With neither skill nor natural grace to aid her, Lulu fell to the ground and rolled briefly before coming to a stop. As though from a great distance, she watched as the man who wielded oily magic reached up and placed something golden around Morgan’s neck. The feeling of forceful greasiness in the air multiplied a hundredfold as something went to work at her mistress, and for a moment, Lulu thought all hope was lost.

Then, Morgan’s purple skin markings flared with their usual glow, and hope returned. With it came a single word from her mistress’ lips.

Filth.

Lulu had lived alongside Morgan for many months now, and had experienced many messes. From icky and gross to disgusting and sticky and yuck and through to foul and slimy and even contaminated, the loyal scrubby had battled them all. Or at least, she thought she had.

Never before had an expression of dirtiness erupted from Morgan’s lips like a vulgar oath.

Never before had a mess caused such levels of disgusted outrage.

Never before had her mistress seemed so very, very angry.

The new monosyllabic term raced around Lulu’s mind, allowing her to fight off the impending urge to sleep just a little bit longer.

Filth.

Filth was clearly bad. Filth deserved to be destroyed. Filth needed to be cleaned.

Lulu struggled with her entire self. She tried to wriggle, to lather up, to do anything other than lie there and watch, but the man’s magic still held her fast. She could not act, and yet she had to.

As if born through her need, something appeared within the depths of the scrubby’s being. Something that felt like it could be an answer. Giving up on the efforts of attempting to move, as well as letting go of the desire to stay awake, Lulu’s mind sank like a rock, to the most primal part of herself, to latch on to the [Matriarch’s Decree].

Here, deep within her subconscious, the mother of all loofahs found the energy to act.

The powerful oily feeling in the air. The shine of the necklace. The helplessness of the ones who wore it. Mistress’ anger. The spoken word of filth. She compressed it all into a packet of memory and sensation and sent it through a tiny glimmering doorway she found behind her new skill. All would know of this new kind of mess, this new dirt.

Lulu still couldn’t move, but through that doorway, she was able to observe the effect of her action, as every scrubby in the Wildlands -- all her children, no matter how far removed from her -- heeded their matriarch. She felt an unfortunate few, those embroiled in battle, wiped out as their attention turned to her. The rest responded with affirmation, understanding her decree.

The scrubby matriarch was currently unable to do anything, but not all of her children were so affected. They could act.

There was filth in the world, and one way or another, it would be cleansed. For such an insult upon their existence, a scrubby could have only one answer: filth must be exfoliated.

Satisfied that her decree had been heard, Lulu finally succumbed to sleep, lulled by the sound of crackling flames.