Dobble Frox spent most of his youth fighting

The Misadventures of Dobble Frox

Fantasy Fiction by Richard W. Edwards

Dobble Frox spent most of his youth fighting. Fighting his friends, his family, but mostly himself. Fremlin nature is an odd thing. Being so closely related to their chaotic Gremlin cousins it’s difficult to lead much of a productive life. Dobble’s real problem is that he is much more orderly and organized than the average Fremlin, an immense god of control compared to Gremlins. He seeks to more meaning to his life than the usual disorganized chaos of Fremlin ways.

Now consider, Fremlin society is far too unorganized to have any type of real government. No town guards, no politics, few organized schools, and certainly no training camps for fighters or adventurers. The adventurer is part of their birthright, for Fremlins, as a culture, stay in few places for long. But Dobble had dreams of becoming a heroic fighter, a warrior Bards would be proud to sing tales about for generations. In his initial attempts to make this dream come true he realized certain skills would be necessary. This realization soon became a hard lesson learned in the swamps south of the Combstown region of Trill.

It’s a common occurrence in the lands for wounded souls, human, demihuman, or otherwise to become adopted by a Fremlin or more. This adoption is considered torture by some and madness to others. The Fremlin has an insatiable appetite for new knowledge, putting it mildly, and often goes about fulfilling that appetite through any means available. They are truly mischievous creatures, much like their troublemaking cousins Gremlins.

Dobble’s family had adopted a wounded Halfling, Ricabod Stoneslinger. Ricabod had spent months training Dobble in the use of a simple sling with stones as bullets. The training went quickly as the little Fremlin had extremely dexterous hands.

Flying along to the south Dobble slowly tired and decided to stop for a short break. Choosing a small clearing, he set down in a lightly wooded area about a mile north of the great swamps.

Yes, that’s right, flying. This clearing was perhaps one yard across at best. Dobble is a tall 1-foot from head to toe for his species. Fremlins only occasionally reach that height to their wing tips. They are considerably graceful and possess a speed and maneuverability coveted by many other flying creatures.

Giving his wings a rest he searched the clearing for small stones. Ricabod had crafted a Fremlin sized sling of scrap leather bits and Dobble had practiced hard over the past winter months. When spring had passed to early summer he figured he had graduated from bugs to something much bigger. Reflecting he realized that he may have found easier prey closer to Combstown.

Most Fremlin have the spirit for adventure and a massive curiosity but lack the courage to stick around if nothing exciting is happening. They have the reputation as being the first to run in the face of trouble or danger. Dobble is considered a bit crazy by most of his kind because he sees fun in so many things, even the occasional life threatening situation. His childhood friends often joked that he has Kender blood in his vein, a total lack of fear.

Even after admitting to himself he was probably well out of his league he hated to think the flight was for nothing. Rather than continue airborne to the south, he set out on foot following what appeared to be a path in that direction. The tracks and occasional scurrying in the nearby underbrush made it clear this was some type of deer path.

As the land around him became soggy and the musky, damp smell of the swamps closed in his thoughts went back to tales of rat beasts the size of Fremlins, snakes large enough to swallow three of his kind, and even late night stories of Ratmen that roamed these swamps. These tales sometimes made Dobble shiver, but today they made him proud in his own ambition of slaying any such beast and any fame that may follow after completing such a feat.

In over an hour of walking he had seen nothing larger than a field mouse and was becoming a bit disheartened, as well as foolishly bold. Like a small human child hiking through a darkened wood, he was making the noise of three men wearing full plate armor.

Just as he had written off a swooshing sound as the beat of wings he could move no more. With smooth motion a net encased him in a soggy, muddy fold far too quickly for him to take flight. Dobble was amused and mad at the same time but fear was not an issue. His attempts at escape were slowed by thoughts of this old, muddy trap being unattended for so long. It was a surprise it still worked so smoothly. His giggling drowned out other voices and laughter enough that he realized too late that he hadn’t fallen into an old trap, but an attended one.

The swamp quieted and it seemed as though the ground itself was coming alive for a moment. The tall grasses seemed to stand up on their own until Dobble saw the dark, gnarled limbs dripping with sludge from beneath the muddy ground. The four creatures were twice his size with large pointy ears; wide fang filled mouths, and reddish bulging eyes. Imps? Yes, Dobble recalled his uncle speaking of such creatures as Bog Imps. Cruel yet clever monsters, they rarely attack any other creature directly in the open. They prefer trapping or tricking their prey and playing with it a bit before feeding. When forced to fight they worked as a group using their long dexterous, clawed fingers to inflict as many painful wounds as quickly as they can.

Dobble unhappily recalled the blowguns and poisoned darts they commonly use just as one stung into his pride. “Hey, that was uncalled for. Just cause you catch me, hang me up in this net like tomorrow’s leftovers shouldn’t mean you have to treat me so badly. If you let me out of this net I’d be glad to personally put this dart into its owners hide!” Feeling the weakening poison sap more of his strength, Dobble sagged in his net sack prison.

One of the Bog Imps must have understood a bit of the common tongue, for right after exchanging what sounded like puppy dog growls with the others, this Imp very violently began kicking Dobble Frox into that dark place deeper than sleep.

Was it the salty, fishy smell or the fact that he was wet that woke him? Not just wet, warm too. As his vision adjusted he realized his hands and feet were tied. He was in a large vat of some sort and the fishy smell was just that; fish parts being added to the stew. Knowing he would soon be a meal for the Bog Imps, Dobble slumped and once again returned to the darkness. Woken again by a heavy weight on his head and shoulders he could barely breath due to the smoke in the air in his dark weighty cell. He wondered if Bog Imps liked smoked Fremlin for snacks or a full meal. What vegetables, if any would be served beside his own main course?

“What am I thinking? I really don’t want to know what it’s like to go through the inner workings of any imp! LET ME OUTTA HERE!”

As the weight pressed harder on him he realized he was slowly sinking in what appeared to be fishy mud and ash. Deciding it was better to fight and escape he pushed with all he could and forced over what was immediately recognizable as the vat he had previously been stewing in.

It was now well into the night, hours since his misfortune in the net trap. He must have been passed out for some time from the scalds all over his body. The heavily overgrown area of the swamp did little to let moonlight assist his vision.

The ability to see into the infrared and heatvision ranges like some of the other demihumans and humanoids of Cynth was not uncommon among his kind, and this night Dobble was very glad he had received this trait of his people.

By letting his vision carefully slip into another spectrum Dobble could see clearly that somehow the cooking vat he was being stewed in had been turned completely over, almost completely dousing the cooking fire. He was very lucky this occurred, but curious as to why. From the tracks around the vat it looked like the Bog Imps themselves had done it prior to running off into the swamps.

Without as much a second thought, Dobble shook off the fishy stew from his wings and smoothly levitated above the Bog Imp campsite. From his elevated viewpoint he was convinced that something had caused quite a panic. Deciding his curiosity had lead him enough for the day, the flight out of the swamp was under way. “No reason to find out what scared them away”, Dobble whispered to himself.

The tiny figure of the Fremlin flying north could be seen from the swamp ground. A mere shadow against the sky, flying with accuracy and ease known only to those born with flight, even though his hands and feet were still bound.

“Uncle Bagmar, please, you promised! I absolutely refuse to tell you again, unless you get out here and remove these ropes from my hands and ankles!” Dobble whined as he stuck his head towards the window of a small shack.

“But Dob’s, come on, you tell me gain bout them Bog Impy dart thingys, did it sting? Did it start sapping you strength right way?”

“No!” Dobble half squealed as he landed with a plop unexpectedly on his rump, momentarily forgetting the rope around his ankles.

Bagmar Frox had a way of telling a good story. The Fremlin love to hear his tales perhaps because most of his story telling is about things and situations that no average Fremlin would get near. With his way of dramatizing most of the stories Bagmar has been know to send some Fremlins running just from hearing the scary parts. This new tale of Dobble’s capture would certainly keep Bagmar’s fans happy, and keep him in good favor with his friends.

Fremlins have a way of getting out of favor with most intelligent species rapidly. That curiosity they so thrive on often gets them into situations that leave someone hurt. When there is nothing new to explore, investigate, or take apart the Fremlin folk fall back on their second favorite past time, practical jokes. Nevermind who the joke is on, as long as it’s a good one. If a Fremlin decides he likes you, expect to be the target of many practical jokes. And if a Fremlin decides he dislikes you, watch your backside closely! Some of these jokes can be brutal. Earning a Fremlin’s dislike is about as much fun as wrestling a porcupine.

After considerable retelling of his tale, Dobble was freed from his bonds. The following months of hearing jokes about his misadventure convinced Dobble to become a real adventurer, to learn the fighting skills needed to survive the wilds of this world.

Summer eventually came to Trill and, though not as often, Dobble still heard the occasional story and joke being told about his misfortunes in the Bog Swamps, as they had become known. He really wanted to outlive the reputation of a town clown and spent a large amount of his time arranging pranks against his tormentors.

Late in the afternoon one day Uncle Bagmar came to visit. Bagmar seemed serious in his intent to speak kindly with Dobble, promising he would not discuss the Bog Swamp stories.

“So why exactly are you here then Uncle? Did your stories finally become a bore and now you’re seeking missed details of my swamp capture?”

“Dob’s me boy, Iz jus wishin to find a way ta make it up to ya!” Bagmar was grinning wickedly as this statement oozed out like a salesman making his best sales pitch.

Dobble studied his Uncle carefully. If he didn’t play along and see what Bagmar really had to offer it could mean many more months of reliving the swamp incidents. “Alright, Uncle, what exactly do you have in mind?”

“Well, mind you this is just rumors. Iz hears some humans chattin bout being attacked by a small band o Pixies of all things!!” Bagmar has a growly kind of laugh that tends to carry on the wind telling others of a good tale to come. “Har, har, ho, ho, har… <cough> Juz imagine humans being attacked by Pixie folk! I about blew me ale threw my nose whennin theyz said that the Pixies actually took em by surprise and robbed em blind!”

Actually Bagmar did shoot some ale threw his nose, right onto the shoes of the human telling his friend of the Pixies. The human quickly took his ale skin away from the intrusive Fremlin. They have a habit of befriending anyone polite enough not to chase them off at first sight, especially anyone with a full pack or house full of provisions. Fremlin can sometimes be companionable travelers, having the gift of flight does aide in avoiding traps and ambushings on the trail as long as you can get them to pay attention long enough to be useful. A party of travelers that meets up with a Fremlin and befriends it can expect to share supplies such as food, water, ale, or wine. Fremlin don’t eat or drink much due to their size, so if a traveler meets a tolerable one, they can be plenty helpful in the wilds.

“The way Iz understan it, Dob’s, is that these humans tried to follow themz Pixie folk to take back their goods. The human said that they lost em in the wooded hills about 2 miles south of the trail from Combstown to Castleton, about three days west of heres.”

Dobble watched Uncle Bagmar closely for any signs that he was spinning a tale out of spilled ale. Bagmar simply sat there calmly waiting for Dobble to speak. There were no signs that Bagmar was fibbing. This both excited and frightened Dobble Frox. The thought of a band of fighter/bandit Pixies was unheard of.

Pixies stand about 2 ½ feet tall; when visible they appear as tiny elves, with shimmering mothlike wings. They are know pranksters and enjoy leading traveling parties astray, but are not known for raiding or robbing.

“Iz nots lyin to you Dob’s. Takes me word for it. Ifin you is still set in yer way to learn to be an adventurer youz ought to finds them Pixie folk and sees if they can teach you the ways of weapons better than that darn rock tosser o yours!”

“Well, Uncle, I might just have to check into this myself, but don’t you be expecting a story outta me this time! I plan on playing it safe.”

With that Dobble was off to prepare for his tiring day ahead. Planning to leave the next day, he set about collecting some supplies for the trip and finding a few valuables to possibly trade for training. Dobble knew little more about Pixie folk than most and didn’t know where to begin if he met them.

Dobble traveled as concealed as he could not wishing to end up in situation like his last adventure attempt. He spent one night with a band of Goblins that were attempting to set snares across the main trail. Two of the Goblins had strung themselves up a tree when their poor quality snare was tripped accidentally by one of their “friends”. Dobble knew that Goblins could be cruel but they are very bright either.

He assisted the two in the snare trap down to the ground by cutting the rope with a rusty dagger he had found earlier in the day on the roadside. The two Goblins fell promptly to the ground with a loud thud. The rest of the Goblin troop was so amused by this that they treated Dobble with unexpected hospitality and respect. A free meal is a free meal after all, less need for flying with a heavy load or time spent foraging later.

To be a bit more clear, Dobble, like all Fremlin, had very little to worry about from the Goblins. Fremlin are a magical bread of creatures, masters of flight and speed. They are nearly impossible to hit without magical weapons, unless the Fremlin is unable to move.

Dobble could clearly see that the weapons these Goblins carried would sooner rust away into pieces than ever get near to striking him if he tried to avoid them. So he spent a night eating somewhat tasty jerky and stale bread, this Goblin band must have had some success in past ambushings to have such grand supplies for their kind. They were fairly clean, this in itself being unusual, and Dobble almost enjoyed their company.

Goblins are Goblins, clean or not, and their argumentative natures can easily turn violent. Dobble spent the night asleep in a tree well out of harm’s way and the reach of the Goblins.

In his dreams he wondered what it would be like to be a goblin. He wondered if size made it easier to fight, wield weapons, or wrestle around. In his minds eye Dobble became a Goblin. He was short for a Goblin, only about 2 and ½ feet. He wielded a brutal looking club with spikes at the end. Bits of flesh hung from these bloodied spikes and a cruel smile curled on his gnarly face.

The Goblin Dobble was not as bright and he could sense it himself. The brutal bloody thoughts of violence were not Dobble’s own but that of a real Goblin. He tested his new form by bashing down at the corpse of another Goblin with his spiked club. It struck with a sickening crunch that pleased and sickened him. He thought something felt odd about his new body and realized his wings were gone. With a dream like mist and magical tingling new Goblin sized Fremlin wings appeared. He moved with grace clearing the ground. The dream became unbalanced quickly. A Goblin with wings? Like pigs fly too? Dobble’s thoughts turned inward and deeper sleep ended the dream.

Waking quietly and early enough Dobble left the Goblin camp without being noticed. Through out the next day giggling could be heard coming from the treetops as the Fremlin flew onward to his goal. A broad smile shown on his face as he recalled parts the dream about flying Goblins.

He spent many days foraging for food, snacks, and water. The rusty dagger had come in useful cleaning and cutting fruits he gathered. He found no clear signs of Pixies in the area his uncle had described. His enjoyment of living off the land and his independence brightened his moods daily. Though no picnic, it was refreshing. Travelers he approached cautiously had no tales of Pixies in the area either. His frustration was building.

As another day began Dobble lay in a perch about ten feet from the forest ground. He had constructed the makeshift nest from branches and plants lying around the tree he had chosen, just viewing distance from the main trail. It took a few moments to realize something was different near the tree.

Yes, it was the smell of bread, cheese, and fresh apples. What a breakfast this will make! Dobble floated lightly to the ground with thoughts of a tasty meal dancing in his sleep-fogged head. On the ground just below the tree lay a large sack. On this emptied sack sat a loaf of fresh bread, about a half pound of cheese with no mold, and three shiny red apples. Not sure he should take anything that wasn’t clearly his own, Dobble resisted the urge to dig in. Surveying the area he couldn’t see, hear, or smell any signs of creatures at all. He sat watching the area, often looking at the food, for some time.

As the sleep cleared from his head a few birds had gathered in the trees and bushes around the feast. The sun was making the morning warm quickly and the scent of the fresh bread and cheese was drawing attention from residents of the forest. Was Dobble being a fool?

“This feast must have been dropped by a traveler late in the night. Maybe my snoring scared him off.” Dobble giggled to himself, his voice, though not loud, startled the forest animals with its suddenness.

He didn’t have another thought, his stomach overpowering suspicion. Taking a seat, leaning up against the tree Dobble began with a taste of the cheese. Strong cheddar with some mildly spicy herb, delicious and it appeared to have been recently trimmed of all mold or wrapping. It was a particularly creamy cheese and the bread begged to be eaten with it. The apples would make a fine pallet cleanser after such a meal.

“A feast fit for a true adventurer, what wonderful luck to begin my day!”

While eating the bread and cheese Dobble dug into his small backpack and pulled out a half-filled waterskin. Taking a large drink he held his head back and just about choked on his gulp when he saw the shape above him in the tree. Dropping the waterskin he darted away from the tree sending 3 or 4 crows flying in all directions. As he spun around he realized six or seven crows had flown in silently and perched to watch him eat.

“Oh, so that’s how it is? Ganging up on me for a meal? You dirty birds better watch it I’ll hack you in two and have you for dinner!” Dobble growled as he drew has rusty dagger, loudly enough to send small creatures scurrying into the underbrush.

The crows seemed to know he was giving a warning, yet they all settled onto perches directly in front of Dobble. The hungry audience was particularly attentive to any food scraps or pieces that missed Dobble’s mouth.

The stand off worked and soon Dobble was tossing bread crust to the birds. It appeared they just wanted to share in his good fortune. His stomach swollen with bread and cheese for the first time in days Dobble decided it would be a good day for rest. Actually it was Dobble’s body that sent this message to his mind, but in a subtle way, that is until Dobble saw the first crow drop dead asleep.

It was the smallest of the bunch and toppled briefly on one leg before falling onto its side on the forest floor. The other crows hardly noticed as they now had more bread crusts to pick over between themselves with less competition. But when the next crow fell over, dead or sleeping, Dobble didn’t notice as he was falling asleep as well.

Sure he was dreaming again, but he enjoyed the sound of the breeze past his ears. There is nothing like flight when it’s so effortless, without work or sweat. It seemed odd at first, as dreams often can; it felt as though his bonds from the swamp were once again upon him. Dream may it be, he looked at his hands and saw no bonds. It was such an odd feeling, his arms didn’t move as well as they should. The flight was wonderful, peaceful and unusually bright for a dream. Dobble enjoyed the dream until the falling began. He tried to flap his wings to slow the decent, but they seemed sluggish, almost heavy. When the ground came up and swallowed him he returned to a sleep void of any dreams, allowing the darkness to swallow him.

Upon waking Dobble was forced to adjust his eyes to his innate infravision. It was so utterly dark only patterns of dark blue were visible. The only real heat came from directly in front of him on a dirt floor. It looked to be a worm crawling out of the dirt itself.

“Ahem, excuse me! What is it you think you are doing in my home?”

Dobble shook his head roughly. Did that voice come from the worm? “Am I still dreaming or did you say your home?” Dobble questioned.

“Yes, of course MY HOME! Who do you think lives in this dirt? Perhaps a cow, maybe a dwarf?” The worm giggled in obvious amusement.

“Well, you don’t have to be rude. I just woke up here, have a terrible aching in my skull, and you, a worm, are giving me a hard time?”

“Well you started your own troubles, no need to bring them to my home.” The worm twisted in what might be a thinking worm position. “Why would a creature of your size wish to crawl about the dirt and disrupt my home? I just wish you’d tell me that much, I have no desire to be rude.”

Dobble was clearly confused. What was he doing underground? How did he get here? And most of all, “What am I doing talking to a worm? Better yet, what is a worm doing talking at all?”

Through the dirt Dobble heard what sounded like 10 more of these talking worms giggling. And decided the if worms were going to have fun at his expense it was time for some payback. As he pulled his rusty dagger the dirt walls around him started shifting. When one almost collapsed he started to hear a strangely alluring sound. Without thought, without control Dobble stood tall, bursting the dirt walls and began to dance.

While he heard the music and danced about he heard other worm voices giggling and making comments about his style and ability dancing. Fremlin love anything fun including dancing with the right music. Dobble didn’t want to dance, he just did. He tried to stop repeatedly without success. Eventually his body was so tired that he fell to the dirty ground, right back into the wormhole.

The music finally stopped and a stunned and tired Dobble lay there wondering how a talking worm could control his very limbs. The first face he saw in the dim forest light was elven. He was sure it appeared that way, yet it had a light bluish skin with forest green hair.

Once he caught his breath he sat up to see the dozen or so creatures around him. Most were about his own size; these were no sprites he’d ever heard of. They had the head, torso, and arms of sprites but the rest of their bodies looked more like crickets than anything else. When many of these creatures laughed, multihued green, almost transparent wings pulled away from their bodies and unfolded in a shaking manner. Some wore tunics of bright colors that seemed to blend into the forest despite the design. Others wore colored vests lined with small throwing darts. A taller creature held a tiny fiddle and a bow.

One of these creatures glimmered as he approached Dobble and before Dobble could blink appeared to melt into the form of a Fremlin with cricket wings. “Wow, that is so neat! How did you do that?” Dobble giggled as he spoke.

Most of the creatures began laughing wildly until the Fiddler tapped his bow on the fiddle strings. The Fremlin-cricket spoke in the voice of the worm, “It’s rather a simple task I do anytime I care.” As he looked into Dobble’s eyes the creature melted into the form of a small rabbit. “We all can do it whenever we care, hee hee!”

“We can do many things whenever we want! It’s quite nice being a Grig you know!” The voice came from the rusty dagger lying on the ground. Dobble paid full attention as each word was spoken then reached down and picked up his dagger and stored it in his belt. The dagger said nothing further, affirming Dobble’s guess that it was a magical trick being played on him by the Grigs.

“So, Grigs are what you all are? Well met Grigs,” Dobble bowed politely, “I am Dobble Frox and I am a Fremlin.”

The Grig bunny rabbit spoke and shimmered almost simultaneously, “I am called TiBar (tea bar), Dobble Frox of the Fremlins. Welcome to our territory. You seem like an entertaining fellow and a good sport.” The now cricket-elf, Grig TiBar bowed politely in return.

“Our people have seen you foraging for food and were very entertained at your attempts to build shelter. You obviously are looking for something in our woods and some of my people believe it is us you seek. Is this so?”

“Actually I heard a tale of Pixies ambushing human travelers and had hoped to meet such brave and daring individuals of size and hope to learn from them.”

“We don’t know what harmless folks like us could teach one of Gremlin nature but you seem a kinder spirit than a most and have a pleasant sense of humor, if you care to travel with us we will be glad to share what we have.” As TiBar finished many of the other Grigs nodded in agreement.

As the small band of Grigs plus one Fremlin flew to the treetops, Dobble was amazed with the ease of the Grigs flight. They seemed to be even more at ease in the air than Fremlin; Dobble had never seen such beautiful flight. The Grigs and Dobble settled into the upper branches of a large old tree for a rest.

Grigs are much akin to the antics of Fremlin. They roam the forests in small bands, always with a fiddler. Their own magical nature creates a tune from the fiddle that is irresistible to most intelligent beings, and they dance until the fiddling stops or their bodies weaken or give out. They are very mischievous creatures and delight in playing pranks on anyone not Grig. It is much more of a team effort than that of Fremlins. They love to surprise their victims, and this particular band enjoys facing off with them and listing their demands, toying with their captives. When their victims have realized the size of their assailants the fiddler begins his song. The creatures that aren’t affected by the song are subdued physically when possible. It’s even more fun to release the robbed and let them try to capture the band. Grigs have many innate magical abilities; one of which is becoming invisible at will, so they don’t get caught often. They have no fear of big people and are quite fierce, by Sprite standards. Most are well trained in the use of Sprite and Pixie weapons.

Over the summer and into the fall Dobble traveled and learned from the Grigs. Their adventures were many and the band was always in good spirits. The Grigs all enjoyed teaching Dobble the use of weapons made to their size. It was very entertaining for all; most Grigs didn’t have magical weapons, so the training sessions became games. Each of the band had to test his skills in an attempt to strike Dobble with a non-magical weapon.

For a time Dobble got little rest when the clever Grigs found that striking him was easiest done when he was asleep. He sharpened his ability to duck and dodge weapons of all assortments, the larger weapons being the easiest. Dobble became proficient in the use of small throwing darts, the Pixie Bow, and the Pixie sword. And he taught the Grigs all he could about using the sling and stones.

As the colder winds of approaching winter came the Grig band planned to travel to south and east of Trill to a warmer winter climate. Dobble felt saddened in his decision to travel back to his people to display his new abilities and test his fighting skills.

The Grigs made a special flight into the woods close to Combstown on Dobble’s last day with them. They asked him to land in a small clearing near a stream and wait for their return, the deed they meant to do could not include him. Within minutes Dobble wondered if the Grigs would return at all.

Just as Dobble was thinking he would nap for a bit he noticed movement in the stream. A glimmering light came from within the stream itself. As Dobble walked to the stream edge he saw a sword hilt come clear of the surface. He listened for the giggles of the Grig band, but heard nothing but the gurgle of the stream and the daytime sounds of the woods. He reached out and took the sword by the hilt. It was by far the finest weapon he had ever seen!

More sparkling in the stream brought his attention to a half dozen metallic darts of nearly the same fine quality as the sword. As he reached to take them, movement in the bushes around the clearing captured his attention. A number of small forest creatures, rabbits, squirrels, and even a skunk or two had begun to move into the clearing. TiBar walked from the stream carrying a fine bow with a quiver full of Pixie arrows, and a belt for the darts.

His face was as serious as Dobble had ever seen it. No words were exchanged; just a firm handclasp, a courteous bow, a brief hug, and then the Grigs were gone. Dobble knew he’d probably never see the band again and that there were no words for the moment.

As he flew towards home Dobble had a sense of peace and pride for the first time in his life. He was certain his life had more direction that ever before. The tears shed at the loss of such good friends slightly blurred his vision for a time.

It was a harsh winter in many more ways than just the cold weather. Dobble had lived through cold months of much harassment by his Fremlin friends and relatives. As spring approached he knew he must get free of this circle of life.

With not a word to family, friends or even Uncle Bagmar, Dobble left quietly one day. He had to prove to himself he was a real adventurer and test his fighting skills. So, where better to go but the Bog Swamps to face the Imps again and reclaim his own self worth.

It is no long tale. It was an effortless flight; Dobble was still in excellent physical shape. He kept up his training and exercise through the winter and his body was lean. The weapon training wasn’t all he had learned from the Grig band. Moving almost silently and leaving as little trace as possible he searched the swamps for the Bog Imps.

It wasn’t necessary to find the same group that had humiliated him in the past, any Imps would do. He came for justice not revenge. When he found the Imps it was fairly easy to sneak up on them. They were busy torturing a large turtle that had fallen into a pit trap. Dobble’s blood pumped loudly in his ears, his eagerness took hold and the reckless Gremlin nature boiled in his veins. Without any planning Dobble jumped into the fray.

The Bog Imps were indeed surprised. A Fremlin jumps into their game and growls something unintelligible in common, draws a wickedly sharp sword, and before the Imps could make a move two had been mortally wounded, bleeding from deep cuts inflicted by the sword’s fine edge. But alas, this was not to be Dobble’s day of glory. His folly was his lack of vision; there were many more imps than he had seen. Some had just undone a net/snare trap nearby and quickly used it to slow, and then overpower Dobble.

As the Bog Imps delight was becoming clear and they began to arguably divide his weapons, Dobble began to cry. He had always thought fighting would be his path, his destiny. And now it appeared to be his end. The first cuts were brutal and jagged. The sight of his own blood flowing quickly released Dobble to the darkness.

Alexander had no need of a familiar. He had learned the common spell to bind a creature to his service, but had never used it. It just didn’t seem kind, what if the creature didn’t enjoy his servitude? He had a kind soul, and had no cruelty within himself to do such a thing. In his years as an apprentice magic user he had refused to study many of the spells available to him. Any spells joining creatures with one another or tainting their existences made him feel ill. Much of the art affects creatures in many ways, but Alexander had always tried to learn the ones that were reversible or temporary.

This particular spring he had need of herbal spell components easiest found in the swamps. It was a relieving break from his continuous studies. He usually studied year round only taking very brief breaks to acquire the necessary money and components needed to continue his education in the art. His winter studies had shown a need for new components he would need to find in the wilds.

Soon after arriving in the swamps he came upon the band of Bog Imps torturing a winged creature trapped within a make shift net. The lizard skinned creature was so bloodied it was unclear what it was. But seeing the Imps cut and stab into the helpless thing in the net let loosed a temper bound for all the winter months. Each creature at the scene simultaneously fell asleep after a brief few words from the Mages lips and a slight movement of his hands. Then 6 of the 8 Imps turned into solid stone at Alexander’s next use of ancient words and motions. The remaining two Bog Imps Alexander had decided should be reserved for the future wrath of the creature in the net.

These two Bog Imps were reduced to the size of gnats and placed into a corked bottle Alexander kept in his belt pouches. Before sealing the bottle he placed a few moldy breadcrumbs in for their sustenance. Next he removed his pack and produced two vials and a tin. He opened the tin and generously applied a salve to the wounds of the bloodied creature. The salve was fast acting in that the wounds rapidly healed with barely a scar. The vials were carefully poured into the creature’s mouth.

As he used a waterskin and small cloth to clean the creature it became clear it was a Fremlin. He carefully wrapped the creature in a blanket and made it as comfortable as he could, the healing had been completed soon enough that survival was certain. Sitting down he began reading from a tattered book, a mixture of cloth and paper pages. The lines on his face became deeper with his growing concentration.

Finally peacefulness fell over Alexander. He removed a small amulet from his belt pouches and placed it on the small Fremlin bundle. With a few whispered ancient words the Fremlin, blanket, and amulet faded away to nothingness.

Alexander went about the task of gathering his molds and mushrooms, the necessary components for his newly studies incantations, with a more direct effort. He spent sometime gathering extra basic spell components as he felt he might have need of them soon.

Rather than travel on foot as he had on the trip into the swamps, he decided it best to study one last exhausting spell. It would drain him of most of his powers for the remainder of the day, but would provide a rapid return to his home. Later in the day, when the studying was complete, Alexander with all his gear and newly gathered supplies stepped into a brightly glimmering doorway that had appeared with the completion of a brief incantation.

Upon exiting the magical gateway to his home, Alexander went directly into his shack to check up on his still healing guest. The Fremlin was deep asleep as he should be after the salve, healing potion, and sleeping potion took affect. Placing the miniature Bog Imps in their bottle prison upon a high shelf, Alexander retired to his cot.

Certainly he had no need of a familiar, and it would be self-abusive to bond with a Fremlin. But Alexander had a stirring in his soul, finding the Fremlin was more than a coincidence, it had meaning beyond the saving of that life. He slept the remainder of the day through the night to the next dawn dreaming of the ways of magic.

The slashing of a blade through flesh, the blood gushing forth from the passage of that blade. To slay those wretched beasts that had tormented him in the past. Dobble felt at ease in the battle, until he felt the dropping net. Blood, his own, blurred his dream vision. The pain made it feel as if it was happening over and over again. Shadowy visions of Bog Imps turned to stone. What dream is this? Stone Bog Imps?

Dobble awoke with a groan. It took a few moments to realize he was in a shack of sorts. There were bottles and books all around this place. Some appeared to be organized into a make shift library or a mad chef’s kitchen of some sort. Thinking he should feel more pain than he did, he began to study his wounds. To his surprise little trace of the gashes and blood remained but sharp pains reminded him the capture did happen. Did Bog Imps take prisoners? They looked so wild and animal like he couldn’t imagine them living in such a clean home.

As the fog cleared from his head he heard a voice outside of the shack. It brought a face to mind, not one he easily recognized though. Blurs of his failed attack on the Bog Imps flashed into thought and this oldish looking human man in grayish robes, speaking some language he didn’t understand, then Bog Imps turning to stone.

The realization hit him like a brick. Was he to be this magic users prisoner now? Would he be used in some mad experiment? Or was this old human friendly?

Dobble wasn’t clear what he should do. Most magic users are a weird sort, not very tolerant of Fremlin from what Dobble was taught by his kind. Should he flee at the first opportunity or did the mage already have spells in place to stop that from happening?

As the old human approached the door to the shack, Dobble decided it best to wait and see. His physical wounds appeared healed, but the emotional ones were deeper. He lay back and tried to act as though still asleep.

The old man carried a basket full of fresh fruits and two loaves of fresh bread. He sat down at a table covered with assorted tomes. As he took one of the loaves and cut into it he began humming to himself quietly. Eating and reading this man paid no attention to his sleeping guest. He was about 5 ½ feet tall, maybe closer to 6 feet. Wearing a worn but clean gray cloak and traveling boots, it was unclear to Dobble if the man was friend or foe.

After some hours of watching the old human study, Dobble decided it best to face his fate and find out what was to become of him. Watching had provided little insight into the old man’s nature.

“Good day, fine sir! I am Dobble Frox and am at your disposal. First I must thank you for saving me from those wretched Imps.” Dobble sat up and extended his hand to the old human.

“Well, well, my guest has awakened. I do hope the healing salve and potion did their trick, I wish for you to be as comfortable as you may, under the circumstances. Well met, Dobble Frox! I’m Alexander your humble host, and you’re welcome in my home.” The human smiled brightly as he approached and took the offered handshake.

Dobble studied this Alexander and thought his wrinkled face appeared to be prematurely so, or was it his youthful eyes?

“I know not what to say kind sir, you’ve done me a tremendous service. How can I repay your kindness?”

Alexander studied Dobble now, as he did his face brightened with a smile. “How about we begin by becoming friends first, as you heal from your wounds. I hope you understand that I mean you know harm, Dobble Frox. I’m interested in knowing more about a Fremlin with enough courage to go alone into the Bog Swamp with little more than Pixie weapons.”

Dobble looked around the room and saw most of his own weapons were stored on a bookcase not many feet away. “Well, I’d be a fool to think you meant me harm. Thank you for collecting my weapons as well as saving me. I thought I was dead for a time and when I awoke I was unclear of your intentions, Alexander.” Thinking any man brave enough to leave weapons in easy reach must be trusted. “I’m a bit more adventurous and braver than most Fremlins. I came to these swamps to test my fighting skills against an old enemy.”

“As I see it, you need more training if that’s to be your path in life, Dobble Frox. I don’t want to insult you but it’s clear fighting isn’t a good choice.” Alexander seemed kind in action as well as thoughts. “Stay with me as long as you like, but know that you will earn your stay in small deeds and work for me.”

Dobble thought through the offer. Any human that could handle himself in the wilds alone and turn Bog Imps to stone must have skills he could learn.

“I’ll stay for a while Alexander and if you truly don’t mind my company I’d enjoy learning how a human can live in the wilds by himself. I am at your service. Can you teach me how to turn imps to stone?”

Alexander laughed a friendly laugh.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years. At first Dobble seemed nothing more than a servant, going about gathering herbs and plants from the surrounding forest and swamps. But his task at collecting spell components led to a close knowledge of the herbs and plants themselves.

Dobble became more and more curious about the use of magic. Alexander did most things the way all creatures did, through hard work. The food they ate was mostly gathered from nature. Bread and cheese arrived at Alexander’s command magically; he even purified the water they drank.

Eventually Alexander spent time with Dobble teaching him to read common, then the older languages used in the art of magic. Dobble was a good student and soon was learning languages of the other intelligent creatures and races of Cynth.

Lessons in the art itself came slowly at first, but Dobble had a void to fill with knowledge, and did so with ease. Alexander was impressed with Dobble’s innate magical nature; he was an easy student to teach. That is, when Dobble took the studies seriously.

Often Alexander spent time trying to teach Dobble a method of controlling his chaotic nature. The easiest way was to give him more and more to study. Dobble’s hungry curiosity was hard to fill.

After three years had passed Alexander felt Dobble had reached a level that would take a decade for most human apprentices to attain. He wished there was a way for Dobble to spend time with another mage or perhaps a school of wizardry, but the elders would undoubtedly shun a Fremlin. Some mages even made familiars out of Fremlin and their kind; it would be too difficult to gain acceptance.