Tag: fantasy

Voltmaster’s Garden

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The Gardener of the Voltmaster’s hedge maze is the only man alive who knows how to navigate that nefarious path of thorns, pits, and snares.
We release five goblins into the north end of the maze and place five bags of gold coins at the southern exit.
These five bags are the same ones that have been used from year to year, because no goblin has ever completed the maze.
The Gardener usually waits a week before going in with a large burlap sack to collect their bodies.
“More volunteers for the resurrectionist!” he says, shaking the bag and laughing.

Fresh Thursday

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What do you mean you’re having a bad Thursday?
Thursdays don’t spoil.
I pick my Thursdays fresh from the vine and gently place them in the basket.
So ripe and delicious they are, I can hardly believe they’re gone by Friday.
I wake up, rub the Thursday from my eyes.
Oh, why can’t every day be a fresh Thursday, picked from the vine?
Mondays… Wednesdays… not for me.
This man in the alley offered me Thursday pills. Ground up from dried Thursdays.
No. Fresh Thursdays or nothing! I deserve the best!
Today, my friend, I take a long, slow bite!

Shoelaces

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Damn. I broke a shoelace.
So let’s go out to the woods and look for a replacement.
They drop from the tree branches and slither on the ground, looking for a spot to burrow a hole.
You catch a few, check their sizes and colors, and then hope to find just the right one.
Grab each end and pull tightly to snap their spines.
That’s how a shoelaces go all soft and limp.
Nobody wants a living, writhing shoelace in their shoe.
Don’t try to keep one as a pet. They just sit there in the bottle and wither away.

The Prison of Oz

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Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion sat in the prison cell, weeping.
The Scarecrow had insisted that they take him apart and slip him through the bars.
“I can go for help!” he said cheerfully.
So, they pulled out his straw and threw it with his empty clothes out the barred window.
They blew away in the breeze.
The Tinman insisted that he could slip through the bars if they hammered him flat.
The heavy wooden bench proved useful for this purpose.
It also proved destructive. They called out to him, but the Tin Man did nothing but twitch and moan.

Curses

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The Great Mage, The Master of Kraken, taught me that all curses should be removed in reverse order as they were inflicted on the victim as to not cause harmful effects as they are unbound and dispelled.
Like turning the pages of a book. Auras overlap, but a good wizard can carefully determine the proper procedure in less than a day.
Never rush a job because someone’s dying from their afflictions. That can be delayed or cured, too.
With that in mind, where is this werewolf with the Midas Touch that’s been turned to stone?
I love a good challenge.

Shadows and Snacks

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Before I go out into the streets of Old Rustville, I fill the pocket of my robe with shadow, gathered from an alley.
Shadow is a most powerful reagent, useful for spells of concealment and death.
Another pocket, filled with pistachios. It is always good to have a snack handy.
Always the right hand with the pistachios and the left with the shadows.
One does not want to bite into raw shadow, nor does one want to cast the forbidden spells using nuts within the city limits.
Yes, this was once called Silver City. Before my careless, snack-powered Armageddon Spell.

Wyvern

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Every week, the townspeople bring meat to my cave.
Sacrifices to the dragon, they say. Keep him from burning our village, like in ancient times.
I laugh.
I am no fire-breathing dragon.
I’m a wyvern.
I don’t breathe fire. Sure, my tail has a deadly sting, but it’s not like fire.
I wear the long-deceased dragon’s snout as a mask. The townsfolk feed me at night. That helps with the disguise.
When a champion comes uphill to slay the dragon, taking off the mask
gives me a few moments of surprise.
Enter sting, exit champion.
The freshest meat of all.

Invulnerable

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Lord Bragdor’s armor stands in the Hall Of Heroes, as shiny as the day he was speared through the face in a jousting tournament.
“It was enchanted with an invulnerability spell,” said the Hall’s custodian, The Blue Wizard. “But, his visor was loose and his opponent very lucky.”
“Wouldn’t the lance have been knocked aside by the spell?” asked his apprentice Morstrawl.
“If the invulnerability had been meant for Lord Bragdor, yes,” said Blue. “But due to my misreading the spellbook, it was the armor that was invulnerable.”
The apprentice nodded, realizing why he had never had to polish it.

The Lenses

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At the rank of Mage Ultimor, the wizard will grind a Diabolical Lens.
Infused with ancient spells, this looking-glass deciphers messages from The Beyond.
The messages are often mundane, but occasionally an interesting and useful command makes it through the torrent.
Most mages grow bored with the filtering process. Others remain at their scrying table, peering into the hazy glass circle, lips trembling.
When he was an apprentice, his duty was to smash his master’s lens.
Voltmaster never took on an apprentice, so he never escaped the lure of the lens.
Surging with power, his eyes glow with distant rage.

Sturgiss

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We followed Sturgiss the Necromancer, that demon graverobber criminal!
His destination? The accursed Voltmaster.
His watchtower rises from a clearing in Gloomwood.
We goblins know to give this abomination of stone a wide berth.
On the roof, Sturgiss arranges steel rods.
Clouds, ready for harvest.
I shout to the sky: “We demand the return of Lord Grondol’s body!”
Sturgiss screams his response: “You may fight the jackals for Grondol’s unused remains.”
Inside, Voltmaster throws a switch. The tower explodes with light and power.
“This is just trickery!” I shout, but my goblin soldiers run.
Grondol, your desecration is my dishonor.