“Get off,” his bluish black fingers clawed and pushed at the log stuck on the adolescent goblin’s head. “Get off, I said!” The young goblin stumbled around, twigs snapping under his bare feet as birds sang mockingly overhead. “I’m going to eat you if you don’t stop that!” The goblin cried, still trying to push the log off his head. “Get Uff!” He shouted as he tripped over a rock half buried in the grassy clearing and landed log first with a thud. The young goblin reached up to scratch his head, but his fingers found only bark, “AHHH! Get off!”
He pushed himself to his feet and then plopped down on the grass and sighed, “I give up.”
“Crugesellimus Vantiminy Aristobulus Pamplimpton Udelsfernie, what do you think you are doing?!” The voice was clear and close, its harsh pitch reminding the young goblin of the reason he was lost in the woods in the first place.
“Mom, I told you to call me Crugg, and how did you find me anyway?” He whined through his log which had suddenly become a safety blanket rather than an annoyance.
“Not even when the pits of the six hundred thousand hells cave in Crugesellimus, I will not befoul the stateliness of such an ancient name of power for the foolish whimpering of a child.” The voice was almost on top of him now, “Now get up, we’re going home.”
The log exploded; literally with all the fire, heat and debris that normally accompany such displays, leaving Crugg sitting on a burnt patch of grass, the last wisps of hair still burning on his head with a look of complete and utter misery plastered on his face, “But I don’t want to go home.” He muttered softly.
“I heard that!” his mother towered over him, the shadows giving her face a darker hue than its normally bright green. She was scowling down at him; that was never a good thing. “You’ve been gone for three day’s Cruggesellimus, three days! I thought you’d run away, I mean, what else was I supposed to think?”
“I did run away!” Crugg yelled from his seat on the burnt ground, as the last of his hair puffed out; then he muttered, “Not that it did me much good.”
His mother started at him in horror, her wide eyes proved how genuine her horror really was, then she asked, “Why would you ever do a thing like that?”
“Well I…” Crugg started, then threw his hands up in the air, “Oh, nevermind, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh really, I wouldn’t? Really, I birth you, I raise you, I give you everything in the world and this is the thanks I get.”
“Mom,” Crugg said softly, “You keep locked in the cellar most of the time cause you’re afraid Dad’s gonna come sniffin around for me.”
“Your father’s dead Crugg, you know that, he’s been dead for a long, long time-”
“Yeah mom,” Crugg said quietly, “cause that usually sticks with demon lords.”
She cleared her throat loudly, “And I don’t keep you locked in the cellar.”
“Ok, sure, you stopped locking the door after you chained me to the wall!”
She squatted down and put a soft hand lovingly on his cheek, “Well, darling, I wouldn’t have to chain you to that wall if you’d just stop picking the door’s lock.”
Crugg jumped to his feet and tried to look his mother in the eye as she stood, he managed about the middle of her throat (his mother was a very tall Gobliness, almost five feet!) “You see,” he screamed, gesturing wildly, “Are you all hearing this, the way this woman treats her only son, just cause she’s afraid some demon king is gonna come banging on the door.”
His mother looking around calmly, “Honey, who are you talking to?”
Crugg stopped, “Um…the birds?”
She looked at him for a moment, “Fine, if you come home, no more cellar, or chains, I’ll even let you go outside to play once in a while.”
Crugg took a long moment to consider that, until his stomach started rumbling, “Fine.”
His mother nodded, then turned around, “Good, now come and walk with mummy, and what were you doing with that log?”
Crugg mumbled something.
“Metermaids? What are Metermaids?”
Crugg sighed, “Mittermites mom, Mittermites, I was looking for Mittermites. I was hungry.”
His mother looked concerned for a moment, then said, “Darling, Mittermites don’t eat wood.”
As the pair left the clearing two tall men faded into visibility, “That was him Curtis? That mewling brat was Gordon’s son?” Said the stouter one; rubbing his cliché black villain gottee with one hand.
“Indeed,” said the other, slimmer man, his long blonde hair blowing in a non-existent wind, “That was him Henry.”
“Tell me your joking; we’re talking about the son of Gordon, King of the Nine Hundred Thousand Hells.”
Curtis shook his head, his curly hair bouncing, “No, didn’t you recognize the caretaker?”
Henry nodded, “Yes his mother, she hasn’t taught him a single cantrip, he might as well be any other goblin brat!”
Curtis sighed and ran a hand through his short brown hair, “What do you want to do?”
Henry frowned, “We’ll have to take matters into our own hands, get him a book, I don’t care how, just as long as he doesn’t know who it’s from.”
“You don’t mean,” Curtis gasped, “One of those books?”
“Yes, I do.” Henry said, then stepped back into hell.