The Witchling of Wildspeech
Beneath firelight and fog, a tale unwinds in a language few remember.
In the gloam of a forgotten glen, where the winds dreeped secrets through the trees and rivers disembogued into silver pools, there dwelt a peculiar man named Wyrmwood.
He did not bedight himself grandly, though on occasion he’d fard his face and don a buckram coat, bedazzling the gullible villagers who came to hear him declaim at the fire-pit.
They’d gather to hear tales that made them horripilate and flummox their minds, though some would demur, calling him a fribble, a bloviating fool who liked to brabble and palter more than he spoke truth.
Still, the children loved when he’d disport with them, dandle babies, and let them gambol around his crooked hut, which he’d bestrew with shiny charms and flecked stones.
Wyrmwood would speak in riddles, limn his tales with color, empurple his speech till it glowed like his hearthstone.
One day, a stranger came, cloaked in deturpate rags, eyes gleaming with intent to assoil his own sins.
He had peregrinated from the east, past lava fields that incandesced at night, seeking not solace, but vengeance.
He did not cark nor reck what his arrival might appertain to.
He broached Wyrmwood’s door with a clout, jolting him from a fainéant slumber.
“Speak not lies, wyrd-man,” the stranger becried.
“I come to confute your tales, to belabour your legend!”
Wyrmwood, unfazed, doffed his cap and answered with an aver:
“All truth has roots, but some I’ve deracinated.”
The stranger frowned, amaté at Wyrmwood’s calm.
He tried to rattle him further — called him a meacock, accused him of ratten crimes, even tried to bespatter his name in front of the crowd that gathered outside.
But Wyrmwood only chuckled, ensorcelled their minds with a whisper, and watched as the crowd’s eyes glassed over.
“I see you’ve come to oppugn my art,” he said softly.
“But beware — ensorcellment leaves residue.”
The stranger quailed but held his ground, unwilling to truckle.
He attempted to cadge sympathy, to chaffer for mercy.
But Wyrmwood would not cocker him.
“I’ll not nibble at your bait,” he said.
“Begone, lest I jargogle your thoughts so deep they never unscramble.”
Yet the stranger persisted, bluttered grievances, even japed at the children.
That did it.
Wyrmwood rose, eyes agglutinated with fury.
“You’ve scunnered me, and I’ve no more time to peenge.”
With a flick of his wrist, he bewraye a secret spell, one meant to assoil himself from harm, and empale the wicked with remorse.
The wind ululated as the spell took hold.
The stranger mizzled into the night, misguggled by fear, his path a ramble of regret.
Wyrmwood, drained, sat back and let the quiet bestow requiesce.
He watched a sparrow nidificate under his eave and listened to the drip-dreep of peace.
He knew the villagers would return tomorrow, to listen, to bloviate, to philander with illusion.
And he would greet them, as always — half-truths ready, fipple in hand, ever ready to flit, to boggle, to gallivant again through word and wonder.
Because some stories don’t just tell.
They bedazzle.
