Reginald the Foul
For the third time in as many days Reginald the Foul was sprinting away from a village while attempting to wipe rotten egg from his robes. Cursing under his breath he looked behind him, relieved to finally see his pursuers give up their chase at the edge of the town. At last allowing himself to slow he looked around, surprised to find himself on a game trail, or woodcutters path instead of the main road he had been traveling down for the past week.
It had not been a good week. Since getting kicked out of his masters, Horgranox the Supremely Dire’s, tower and having his apprenticeship abruptly cancelled his plans for world domination had simply not been going well. He was lucky that he had been a mere few weeks from finishing his stint as an underling, as his knowledge of the craft of Fell and Vile Magiks was complete. He merely had had to fill out a bit more paperwork for the guild.
Well it looked like he would be freelancing for a bit. Who needed a diploma anyway?
He had been so close to finishing that he had already been awarded his surname ‘the Foul.’ It was perhaps not what he would have chosen for himself, as the jeers of the townsfolk had clued him in to its double meaning, but as least he HAD a Surname of Evil. And once he had conquered a bit he could always petition for a new one, one more fitting of his supremacy.
He was so lost in planning and scheming that it was at least two or three hours of walking before the grumbling in his stomach roused him from his reverie. Looking around he realized he had wandered into some rather bleak looking foothills, and as far as he could see there was little more than rocks, some stunted trees, a struggling river, and a bit further on, the start of the mountains proper. So loudly was his stomach grumbling however that he could not concentrate.
That’s when he realized his stomach was not rumbling at all. No, that obnoxious noise was coming from just ahead behind a mid-sized granite boulder. The mage froze and began calling his magic to himself, readying a spell most vile. Then, with hands glowing purple with barely contained power he leapt around the rock, ready top blast the menace to oblivion.
What he found was a sleeping goblin, loudly snoring. So deep in sleep was he that it took Reginald blasting the top of the boulder away to wake him.
Leaping to his feet Wekkit the goblin tried scooping up his rusty spear and tug down his horribly dented helmet at the same time, and only succeeded in tripping himself. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but there was a very smelly human with weirdly stained robed standing over him. And whatever look that was on his face, was probably not a good one.
Reginald was pleased at the way the goblin immediately prostrated itself on the ground before him. At last, here was someone with the proper respect that a mage of the dark arts required.
“Oh good. You there, goblin, I declare you my minion under the ancient pact between the Fell Mages and Races of Evil.”
Reginald wasn’t exactly sure what the goblin said then, but it sounded perilously close to “Shit.” He knew better however, that must just have been its name. “She’et, I am sure you will be honored to serve me in my evil Magnificence.”
Things were looking up.