Original prompt by u/Paper_Shotgun: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1d8bv5c/wp_well_they_told_me_to_hide_that_cursed_ring_so/
The Supreme Wizard of Snoz (SWOS), like most wise and wizened wizards, delegated his work. After all, you spent a lot of time casting magic, licking boots (metaphorically), and licking boots (using summoned, disembodied tongues which are terribly effective at slurping off residual magic) to get to the position he’s at. And by golly, the SWOS would like somebody else to lick his boots (in more ways than one).
And thus, the SWOS found himself staring into a basement, wondering if the mountainous piles of rings constituted a new geographical feature to be named. After all, his belly has already been newly christened as a “large hill” back at the Academy, and his beard a “hairy river” that winded in between his legs, constantly threatening to trip him up. These were accompanied by a head so bald that many have called it the “new Moon,” and has also been the death of many a crow slightly too attracted to shiny objects.
He turned away from the musty dungeon and its associated door, and watched Mason, the blacksmith. Even though he’s often mistaken for an abnormally large grizzly bear, his arms and hand belied incredibly dexterity as he hammered a tiny piece of steel into a band. Then, with bare hands—discounting the wreaths of hair that wrapped around his palms—Mason grabbed onto the molten metal, grunted once with effort, and laid a ring onto the anvil. He picked the little thing up, squinted at it, gave a little and satisfied nod, then blew on it. A small stream of purple sparkles would exit his mouth, settled onto the ring, and he would toss it with unerring accuracy into the basement, zipping past the wizard and clanging into place alongside its siblings.
Everything happened in the space of a minute.
The SWOS cleared his throat, creating a minor earthquake to clear the copious amount of tobacco still stuck in his throat.
“And this is what you mean by hiding the… Ring?”
The… Ring was a horrible artifact. The King of Snoz was already prone to dramatic pauses after his speech coach insisted that it was the proper and royal way for any monarch to speak. But with the… Ring, a curio so powerful that it broke through the fourth and fifth walls, the King would often take hours to simply announce that he needed the washroom, thus making any room he was in a room that needed to be washed.
Mason spared some time to look away from his anvil.
“It’s a needle in a haystack,” Mason said. “Ma thought it was a good idea. After all, we just need to stop the King from finding the… Ring.”
The SWOS closed his eyes, and opened his wizard eyes, which were the same eyes but tinted purple. All he saw was a low-grade haze of magic hovering over the entire basement, a modicum of it on the anvil, and a growing fog in Mason’s mouth.
“Not at all,” the SWOS said. “Well done.”
“Thank you.”
The next time Mason finished a ring and threw it, the SWOS attempted to catch it, and though better of it when stepping too close to its path caused his eardrums to reverberate. The wizard instead stepped into the basement gingerly and picked up a ring.
“It does look like the… Ring,” the SWOS said. “What do they do?”
“They make you quack.”
“They make—wait, hold on, what?”
Mason shrugged his shoulders, which caused the forge behind him to briefly roar, and also clearly explained the lack of bellows in the smithy.
“It’s a quick, simple, and most importantly, verifiable curse that I learnt from the hag down the street.”
“A hag?!” the SWOS gasped. “Which one?”
“The Joking Hag.”
The SWOS ran through a list of wizard and witches in his mind. None came up. Then he went for something closer to the heart, which meant the taverns and bars of the Kingdom of Snoz. He then remembered The Joking Hag, a bar so dingy that if he stepped in there after visiting the smithy, he would be cleaning it.
“The Joking—Martha? The owner?”
“Yes,” Mason said. “She taught me the curse.”
“You know she’s not an actual hag, right? It’s all makeup and frizzy wigs and fake warts.”
The SWOS put the ring on his finger. One thought bubbled in his mind, refusing to go away.
“I’m not sure they… work.”
Mason nodded politely.
The SWOS stared at the ring. He tried to refuse the urge. The insistent call, scratching away at the neurons in his brain, causing fizzles down his spine and nerves and every bone in his body.
“Quack,” the SWOS uttered, then sighed. “OK, fine. They work.”
Mason gave a small smile, and resumed his routine.
“You don’t mind if I take this ring, don’t you?” the SWOS said. “Maybe I’ll pass it to the King and, that’ll convince him to stop searching for the artifact.”
“Of course.”
And thus the SWOS stepped out of the smithy, satisfied with the delegation of his work. He patted his robes for a pocket to put the ring in, then found out that his clothes were now so tight that nothing but a sliver of hair could get past the opening. The wizard shrugged and placed the ring on his finger.
“…” the wizard said.
He shook his head.
“Quack.”
The SWOS looked at the ring on his finger. He looked back at the smithy. He looked back at the ring on his finger.
“… Surely not.”
He put the thought away quickly, and replaced it with where he needed to go next. The Joking Hag…? Why not, after all, the SWOS chuckled to himself. It’s been a long time since he’s paid that old hag a visit.
Draconiques Drafts 