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The Mage's Apprentice

The mage's apprentice squished the wisp between her fingers. Giddy, she watched as the creature's essence oozed out of its broken body like a comet tail trailing behind it in the air. She swirled the glittering entrails with her free hand and counted under her breath. Seven. The magus had demanded his apprentice Valindra capture seven wisps for his latest conjuration, or else she would find herself sleeping in the pig pen again. For a while, Valindra's luck had failed her: few wisps tarried in the wood by the Goblin Village, and those fey she could find flitted through her stubby green fingers when she pounced at them from cover of concealment. Skitterwit goblins typically excelled at three things-- eating, drinking, and magic--and Valindra had nearly resigned herself to bunking in the muck when she finally discovered the portal. The magical threshold squirmed and shook as if it might implode upon itself at any moment. Valindra had watched it for an hour before the first wisp emerged. The creature seemed disoriented, fluttering like a drunken bee. Valindra struck before it could right itself. That had been four wisps ago, and now the trees whispered of midnight. The portal's vibrations began to swell with intensity as Valindra crept forward. Such magic did not last forever, and soon all hope for a bed would be lost to the apprentice. Valindra did not quite believe herself as she decided, hurtling forward with as much speed as her sausage legs could muster. Soon, she disappeared through the portal.

Nasty, Brutish, and Short

Nasty, brutish, and short--an apt description, the old witch thought drily, as the fat little goblin tumbled through her portal. Goblin. Strange. The old witch chased the word through her memory. But memory worked differently in the realm of Acadia. Was that where she was then? She looked down at her hands, so small as to be infinitesimal. A new body, another life. They did get smaller though. So. A wisp. How many more chances before the old witch disappeared completely? She would not have much time to consider even these thoughts before they began to fade. "Little goblin," she called, in what she hoped was a common tongue, "you should not be here." "Little?" The goblin sneered, its chins wobbling. "I could eat you for breakfast. In fact, I might." "I can help you, you know." The goblin inched forward in a pathetic display of stealth. "Me? How could you help me?" "I know you quest for wisps," the old witch said. Funny, now she was one. The goblin licked its lips greedily. "Come here then. I will not hurt you. My master never told me your kind could speak!" "I am special," the old witch said. She closed her eyes, and a dozen other wisps drifted toward her from the ether. The goblin gasped in apparent delight. "I ... I can have them?" The goblin asked, her fat fingers dancing. "Them, and more. Take me from this realm, and I shall be your familiar. I sense great gifts in you, little goblin, and together we will show them to this master." The old witch landed on the goblin's shoulder. She whispered something in a much older language into the goblin's ear, thinking to herself that perhaps this form did have its advantages. The goblin looked on vacantly for a moment before startling back to the present. "I am Valindra, apprentice to the magus of the Skitterwit clan, and I ..." The goblin trailed off as she turned her head to the wisp on her shoulder. "I am not sure how to get back." Good. More pliable now. The old witch smiled, though she doubted the goblin could discern her expressions at this size. "A simple spell. I will show you." "What is your name?" "You could not pronounce it with that tongue, but you may call me ... Hibbadibity." The goblin giggled at the name's absurdity as the air before them somehow dilated, shimmering with force as a portal formed back to the village. The old witch eyed her new surroundings warily as they crossed over the threshold. On one tiny hand, she hoped the spell worked. And, on the other, she didn't.

Olgarda's Mysterious Cookie Chalet I

Olgarda lived alone in a house made of cookies. They simply appeared one day, as mysterious cookies sometimes do, raining from the sky instead of water or blood. Olgarda salvaged as many as she could in the pocket of her apron. She used the cookies to build a chalet, the finest in at least two realms. Olgarda's chalet dwelt in both, sometimes appearing at the outskirts of Serin's Goblin Village. Sometimes elsewhere. Olgarda loved the cookies and their peculiar magic. They always smelled of hot ovens and whatever spice a nose might crave: a minor charm in most circles but one that worked especially well on children--and Olgarda loved children even more than she loved cookies. She loved them on toast, suspended on a hook from the ceiling, in her own hot oven, screaming--any which way she could get them, really. The cookies made Olgarda's appetites much easier to manage. Olgarda did not consider herself a greedy witch. Her chalet appeared in Serin only once every seven years, and she took precautions never to arouse suspicion from the citizens of Seringale. She lured only the forgotten children, orphans of some war or another, those who would not be missed by any save Olgarda. And miss them, she did, on those lonely stretches of time after she transported her chalet back to Acadia. Opening such a large portal required more magic than Olgarda could muster alone. She spent the years between visits harvesting wisp essence for her next great spell. Nearly a century after the rain of cookies, Olgarda received another gift. She thought so, anyway, when she spied the little goblin through the crumbs of her chalet window. A wisp sat upon the goblin's shoulder, an omen of good luck. Olgarda went to answer the door.

These Dreams

Valindra awoke from another dream about cookies. Every night for a week, another dream--this one, an old witch with cookies; that one, a pixie with her tongue soldered off--the memories sliding like fingers through her hair until only a tangled impression of foreboding remained. Every night for a week. Every night since she'd brought home Hibbadibbity. She went to rattle the wisp's jar. Not that she expected much. The wisp barely stirred. It no longer spoke as it had that first night before they returned through the portal to the Goblin Village. Valindra wondered if she brought the wisp back to Acadia if it would regain the power of speech. In fact, Valindra wondered a great many things, a peculiar affliction that did not often trouble goblins. She stood at her tiny vanity on which the wisp's bell jar rested. She narrowed her eyes, and the ceramic wash basin began to fill with water. Well, the wisp had been right about that: charms that once puzzled the young apprentice now sprang to her lips easily--as if the wisp had unlocked some deep reservoir of magic inside of Valindra. She began washing her hair and thinking about dinner. Always, dinner. Why did this appetite consume her? Perhaps it was not a reservoir the wisp had unlocked, but an engine. Once ignited, it must be fed, or it threatened to burn Valindra right up. She'd enjoyed her supper before--she was a Skitterwit after all--but this was something wholly different. Valindra stepped over the half-eaten corpse of the magus as she exited her sleeping chamber, wrapping a linen cloth around her wet hair as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen. She had not meant to slay the magus. Well, not exactly. But he'd spoken so disparagingly of Valindra's efforts in Acadia despite all the wisp essences she'd brought him, and he had certainly not expected her hellstream. She had not either. But the ancient words had appeared in her mind fresher than the recall of any dream, engulfing the magus in the little goblin witch's arcane energies. The reflection of the light had danced merrily in Valindra's eyes. She'd enjoyed what was left of the magus, but she was still so hungry. Valindra wondered if there were any cookies in the cupboard. She wondered a great many things.

Olgarda's Mysterious Cookie Chalet II

Perhaps little was a misnomer, Olgarda thought, as she regarded the goblin. Though small of stature, the creature's girth strained against every piece of drab fabric that contained her, and her chins wobbled as she took purposeful steps toward Olgarda's chalet. Soon, a stubby emerald hand rapped its intention upon the door. "Who calls upon a humble spinster?" Olgarda crooned. "Forgive me, but I am very lost. Can you help me?" The goblin paused before continuing in a hurry. "Something in there smells incredible." Olgarda licked her lips as she opened the door. Not a child, no, but the goblin would taste far better than another plate of mushrooms or the Wayfarer's cakes growing mold in the cupboard. "Come in, come in," Olgarda said. "I was just cooking supper. Are you hungry?" The goblin waddled to the chalet's kitchen table, which, as always, looked as though it had been custom built to accommodate whoever approached it. The goblin, therefore, had no trouble taking her seat in a tiny wooden chair that reached the table easily despite being several degrees smaller than its nearest neighbor. The wisp circled the chalet's great room in a few quick zips before alighting back on the goblin's shoulder. Olgarda watched her visitor enter quizzically. Typically her guests required more coaxing before accepting the chalet's hospitality, yet the goblin looked all but ready to tuck into whatever Olgarda served her. Good. Then her fate was assured. Olgarda twitched her fingers, and a few mushrooms sprouted on the goblin's plate. Any but Olgarda would perceive the fungi as a veritable feast thanks to the table's many enchantments. "You are too kind, thank you. I am famished from the journey. What is your name? Is it ..." The goblin smiled slyly as she conferred with her wisp, "Olgarda?" Olgarda flinched. She had not so much as whispered her own name in a decade; she knew the power such an invocation held in the right hands. Still, those hands were surely not the stubby green ones now drumming idly against her table. This must be the wisp's fey mischief. Nothing more. "Why, you are a clever little one! What is your name?" Olgarda asked. "Go ahead--dig in. I must check something in the oven." The goblin needed no encouragement. She swallowed her serving in two gulps as she eyed her host greedily. She did not answer the question. "Shall I tell your fortune, Olgarda?" The goblin produced a deck of cards from seeming thin air, though likelier one of the pouches dangling from her waist. The creature shuffled the cards with more dexterity than her sausage digits might suggest. "Why, I ..." Olgarda stopped halfway to the oven. "Do not be frightened," the goblin said, in a cruel parody of Olgarda's own dinner patter, "I will not harm you." Olgarda turned back, catching the goblin's reflection in the mirror above the stove. An old crone stood with her hand on the goblin's shoulder. Olgarda thought she looked familiar. Olgarda began conjuring immediately. Whatever dark spirit the goblin had dragged across her door step would not have anticipated Olgarda's spelled glass. It reflected the truth of things, but only for the chalet's mistress. The goblin smiled in the glass's reflection, reminiscent of a toad regarding a fly. The crone's smile mirrored the goblin's exactly. Olgarda pivoted to deliver her conjuration, but her voice caught in her throat. "Now, now. Enough of that. Let us see what the cards have in store for you." Olgarda found herself--unable to deliver a squeak, let alone a spell--seated across from the goblin at the table. Something smelled delicious. The goblin turned over the first card from her deck. "The Fool. A new beginning or adventure. How exciting!" Olgarda still could not speak. The goblin flipped the next card. "The Tower--change, destruction," the goblin said. "Do you see this?" She asked while pointing at the streaks of lightning splitting the card down the middle. It seemed to crackle as the goblin touched it. Olgarda nodded mutely. "The bolt striking the Tower represents the divine fire of the gods, destroying what is rotten, purification in flame." The goblin flipped a third card. She tapped it with a stubby finger, and the shrouded figure therein began to stir: a fearsome rider astride a dark horse. "Many fear Death," the goblin said, "But it most often represents renewal or rebirth. Do you see the river? It is that of eternal life, cascading as a waterfall into the ocean below." The goblin smiled again, perhaps a little more kindly. "Do you understand now?" Olgarda found her tongue unstuck in her mouth. "I ... I am afraid not." She hated herself for the stammer. Olgarda feared little in this realm or the other in which her chalet dwelt, but--yes--she decided: this goblin was, in fact, little. "You will," the goblin said, tapping the Death card once more, "In time." She then rapped sharply on the card with her knuckles, and Olgarda felt a great wrenching, like the sting of a thousand nettles piercing her skin. The sting of a foreign enchantment, and strong. All went dark, though Olgarda swore she could still see the little goblin's sly smile. <> Olgarda awoke in a heap upon the ground. She did not recognize wherever the goblin had spirited her. She looked about in shock, grateful at least that she had survived the bizarre encounter. It was only then that her eyes drifted downward and recognized the mouth of a great river. She watched it cascade as a waterfall into the ocean below. A rider on a dark horse approached. He was, perhaps, the only one to hear Olgarda scream.

Golembolin I: Hair Today

Valindra needed hair. She'd once hinted to Gimbolin that any hair could be used in the conjuration of a golem, and she hadn't been joking. Valindra remembered animating a variety of constructs, gruesome creatures of tooth and blood, but--like in many of her memories since meeting Hibbadibbity--Valindra looked different, working ancient rites with hands she did not recognize. That did not matter now though. Valindra did not get to bury her friend. Mourn him, yes, she loved to: in a veil of shredded blood carrot enchanted and dyed black. She'd anointed herself a handmaiden of tragedy upon assuming her place among the Heralds, so it seemed only fitting that the gods had finally answered. She worried for her other friends. Ilromie and Serra. A noble elf and a giant healer--improbable companions for a little goblin witch, but Valindra grew accustomed to such aberrations. She sensed something kindling within her, a largeness awakened when she met Hibbadibbity. Now, as a Herald, she knew more of the truth of herself: to crow and croon, rhyme and rant, foretell and divine--these were the purposes to which she had been called. Mostly. Where was the body? Where was the body? Where was the body? Valindra just needed a piece, preferably one of the tufts of hair Gimbolin had sprouted after eating her pepper. She'd marked him then with magic she did not understand. She hoped it would aid her now. She unlaced one of the pouches dangling from her waist, and out flittered Hibbadibbity. The tiny wisp alighted on her shoulder as Valindra readied herself to step through the portal and return to Acadia. She would track down Gimbol's soul there, or answers at the very least. She would trap his spirit in a spelled jar and fit him into the incomplete golem now languishing in the Herald's bathtub. But only if she could find that hair.

Golembolin II: Hibba, Untethered

Hibbadibbity escaped through the portal. Was that her name? Hibbadibbity. Since the witch had snatched her body, she'd had trouble keeping track. She thought she was a goblin once. She perched upon the shoulder of the old witch. Perhaps she should be angry. But she wasn't. Was this another curious enchantment or simply relief? The life of a goblin was nasty, brutish, and short--and Hibbadibbity struggled to mind her new situation. The fizzling portal spat the little wisp into Acadia like a diner with a chicken bone. She knew what she must do. She hauled the letters she'd been given to each circle of rocks, each scummy pond where a soul might dwell. She found a few. But most--like her--had accepted their new situation. She tucked the letters, often twice her size, into variously enchanted vessels of receiving. Until. Until she spied the carrot. "Carrot? I don't even know it! Fellow members: I write to laud the courage of our patron Master Gimbolin, known variously as the Prince of Carrots and the Bringer of the Salad Days (well, mostly by me, but I think it's really catching on): he has successfully petitioned both the gods and upper tavern management to change the menu at Mocker's. Now, instead of those dreadful gnome lips, Mereth serves a lovely holy mackerel as well as carrot cake baked with vegetables grown in our own garden outside the Rest. Vikka's gnomeburgers are now sized for, not from, gnome, and are actually crafted from a 'meat'-like substance. Impossible, you say? Honey, try it! Yours, as ever, Valindra Skitterwit Chronicler of Myth" Wait ... Hibbadibbity did not write that letter. How did she recall it? She then spied the enchanted ear hair, snaking toward her ankles. The Prince of Carrots. Inside her body. You think she'd grow tired of this.

Trial and Error

Valindra labored at her desk. Well, as good as hers. Did she not deserve the fruits of this office, if not the title? She examined her judge's wig with stubby emerald fingers. A gift from the Collector. And now--gripping the gavel--a trial. Valindra sensed that history began to move too quickly, a furtive animal spied from the corner of her eye. She could not look upon it directly as she once had. And now--the words she spoke as a lark rang through Serin louder than any trumpet. She would sit in judgment of the Rebuked Chimera, a proper farce with two uncertain outcomes. He was so handsome. She hoped that he survived. Hope. The thing with feathers? No, no. Hibba flew without them anyway, little flecks of her essence trailing behind her like buckshot as she tore through Serra's portal. Valindra could not feel her now, and she did not quite feel like herself either. Only the dark hum of Olgarda in the pouch at her waist felt like anything at all. Valindra studied her crystal ball. It weighted down several of her papers, its only current use. A flame danced merrily within its glassy, prismatic depths, but such did not reveal its secrets to her. She canted her head to one side, listening to the rustle and scratch of wind against her window. She scried the breezes since accepting Vevier's patronage, prying gusty scraps of prophecy from the air like rings from the hands of a bloated corpse. But she missed the flame, missed its warmth. These hands were cold and lifeless, after all. She remembered the flame caged in Ilromie's eyes, could hear the doughy men who bound the polymath in her gilrhood as if they sat beside her, taking tea. A clever spell, if inexpertly bound. Valindra thought ... A portal opeend beside her desk like the eye of an angry giant, interrupting her reverie. Hibbadibbity emerged, and--curiously--she brandished a carrot before her, nearly twice her size. The little wisp alighted upon Valindra's shoulder. Good, she thought grimly, as she crossed from behind her desk. They had work to do.

The Darksworn's Concubine

Valindra wove a black rose into her hair every morning for a year that Celestial of Vanity. She rose from her desk to fasten dried flowers, drained of their color and dyed darkly by stubby, emerald fingers, to the ledge of her office window. She watched as Hibbadibbity threaded a garland with the same decaying buds. The little wisp hummed a discordant tune as she strung the Rest's rafters with her handiwork: a simple spell, this invitation to return. The old witch reclaimed her pen with a thud. Why did the Darksworn not attend her? Was she not favored among his consorts, the only one strong enough to resist the reek of onion and blood? It roiled off him in waves, rising in her throat like a black flag. Valindra Skitterwit was in love. What was love to a proper witch? What was proper? She knew only that she could feel his fist tighten close on her heart like an iron vise, a wrought cage with cruel, rusted pricks. She thrilled at every squeeze. No one ever said it would be easy. Such poetry as she wrote now, verses of the maiden while the crone slipped further from her grasp. Olgarda rose to the surface of her containment spell and pressed experimentally against the glass. Valindra thought she could almost make out her eyes in the depths of the enchanted pouch. Enough foolishness, she thought, slamming her pen down once more with enough force to sunder it in two. The refrain 'Now he knows I take what's mine' clawed at her ears like branches scratching against a hoary window. The wind whispered menace she could not escape, of the one who would claim the Darksworn first. So. She could not have him, not for herself. Not as he once was. But at least she'd saved a piece. Valindra hummed a discordant tune underneath her breath as she patted another of the many pouches dangling from her waist. Godspeed, she wrote with the broken pen, before crossing out a letter.

Olgarda's Mysterious Cookie Chalet III

Olgarda pressed against the glass experimentally. She spied a little goblin, her gaoler, on the other side of the frosted surface: Valindra, the witch now called herself. But Olgarda remembered. What did she remember? She remembered Death astride a dark horse, a curse and worse levied at her in her chalet, a house built out of cookies and with her own two hands at a time when Serin too wore a different name. Oh, yes. Olgarda remembered. Occasionally, she sat at the witch's desk, could even grab her pen for a moment. The little goblin did not recall writing the poems Olgarda channeled but was stupid enough to take credit for them. Olgarda would make her pay for that . . . and the rest. She was really looking forward to the rest. How dare she? How dare that vapid, emerald cow think that she could best Olgarda? She must have usurped potent magics, for only such a hex could have bound the Eater of All Things Good and Evil in her prime. She struggled to shed the yoke of her curse as if it were a hairshirt. Her grimoire could free her now, but that little bitch had buried it in the Witch Wood. The dark magics that governed it meant she would never find it again. Olgarda raged within the confines of her enchanted prison as escape seemed all but lost to her her grasp. In the Office of the High Herald, one of the pouches dangling from Valindra's waist buzzed with a malevolent aura. The buzzing stopped. Yes, yes . . . that might work. Olgarda hummed a discordant tune as she began dropping seeds out of the corners of her pouch. One seed fell into the garden outside of the Travellers Rest. Others landed elsewhere. Olgarda said a prayer to no one that her revenge would take root. She might lose her mind if subjected to another Renewal of the goblin witch's oracular prattling. And it was well past time for supper.

Before the Launch

Valindra never learned the common cantrip for breathing underwater, yet this was how she now perceived herself: sunk leagues below her own consciousness, able to see her friends upon the surface but unable to reach that distant shore. She watched her enemy. She watched her enemy wear her body like a party dress. But was it ever hers? They were both passengers now, and--since the grimoire returned--Valindra had less a rite to it than ever. In fact, all her rites felt feeble, magic thick like mud in a mouth that would not move as Valindra commanded. She heard her own voice trilling gaily, offering jabs and cruel rejoinders to those who visited the Office of the High Herald. Occasionally, she could almost feel something: the brush of the dwarf's hand upon her cheek, her sister's voice tinkling, grating like bells. But then Olgarda would wrest control away from her as easily as a witch might steal a baby's blanket. Now free at last to work her dark agenda, the Eater of All Things Good and Evil would not be so easily displaced. The witches readied for the Mystique launch. In this, she and Olgarda shared a common purpose; or, at least, The Eater was lazy enough that she allowed Valindra to toil at her labors. The old witch even managed to sneak a warning into her editrix's note to any who would try separate Olgarda from the grimoire. Soon, they would take the issue to print--and then a party. And then a wedding. Valindra did not pray, had not prayed for a long time, but as she watched Olgarda dress their shared body in the mirror, she said a small one for the goblin she'd thrust aside. She'd cast her into a wisp and then later further than that, and now she wore her body and name. What then separated her from the Eater? Valindra had too much time to think.

After the Wedding

Valindra only knew how to be evil in this body. Since the wedding, since shedding her red aura in favor of a dwarf's love, she felt strangely uncertain, a crone made goblin made girl. Still, she supposed, if she'd crossed some line, she'd never been very far along the other side of it to begin with. And now: a husband. A gaseous, sausage-obsessed paladin with more back hair than sense. Valindra was in love, brought together with Dwiggans by caprice and her own big mouth. That seemed appropriate for one such as her. Free of Olgarda but missing Villidan (and Ravia and Serra. Always Serra), she felt the twin tugs of myth and tragedy acutely. At least she knew who looked at her from behind Hibbadibbity's eyes. Ah--to be free! At least approximately. Valindra could feel Olgarda writhing like a snake in her new prison somewhere to the southwest. The Eater had claimed Wylsin's eye on the way in, and Valindra wished she knew a better way than a curse to thank the newly appointed Abecedarian. Soon, another Mystique. And something else too, darker and larger, looming on the horizon. Valindra could taste it like ash on her tongue, this bitter truth of Acadia. She only hoped she could withstand it.

Ascribing an age to this little goblin witch might prove difficult: though her eyes appear milky, the rest of her features dissolve into folds of flesh indistinguishable from each other as wrinkles or fat creases. Her hair, the whitish yellow of pus pushing against the skin, flickers around her small if bulbous frame, animated by a fool's wind or some other lesser cantrip. She herself could be cast from an emerald were her complexion brighter: not the green of living things, but the green of living things unaccustomed to catching and reflecting light. A variety of worn pouches dangles from her waist, bone protuberances peeking from some, others whose contents remain a mystery.

Valindra the Poetic Prognosticator, High Herald of Myth > Ye Olde Graveyard > Abandoned Realms Forums