Chapter One: Flower Child

Zuglah Glun watched the group of adventurers approach the Spectre, swords drawn and shields raised. It was black-robed, and merciless in its persecution of the living. But they were valiant, glowing with confidence and the Blessing of their party’s Cleric. He was clad in the thickest armor money could buy, fit for standing in front of a charging warhorse.

The Fighter was clad in expensive Elven chain. Shield up, he strode towards the undead. He swung right away, his silvery blade flaring briefly as it passed through the space where the undead sentry had been. It reappeared in the midst of the party, a shower of razor-sharp ice daggers raining down from above. The entire group sprang away from each other with cries of alarm.

A pair of Stone Ghouls rushed out of the darkness and seized the Blood Rogue by the arms, his dyed red leather armor useless against their life-draining aura. He began losing strength immediately, his knees buckling as they tried to drag him away into the shadows. The fighter spotted a small squad of skeletons moving in from the side, and leapt towards them with what could only be described as wild abandon.

More like teammate abandonment, Zuglah thought to himself. He glanced towards the company Cleric, whom everyone had left to deal with the Spectre on his own. He lifted his mace high above his head and began chanting in dramatic fashion. It is too strong to be turned like that. The Spectre floated close, raking the holy man with his claws. The glow began fading immediately.

Finally the Wizard stepped up. He spoke in a loud, commanding voice as he waved his glowing staff above his head. He surprised Zuglah by directing a large, luminous orange ball of fire towards the three skeletons instead of the Spectre. The Fighter was surprised too as the fireball exploded almost in his face. He leapt back with a yell.

The Wizard pointed his staff towards the Spectre. The Fighter shook his sword at him, then turned back to the skeletons. Sighing, the Wizard blasted the Spectre into ribbons of light, then trudged over to the Cleric, who was still recovering from his blow. The Rogue called for help too.

Zuglah had seen enough. Poor guy. He crawled away from the hole he had carved in the dungeon’s ceiling, careful not to scrape against the stone walls. These lava tubes carried sound almost as well as they carried curious trolls.

He emerged from the lava tube into a field of sulfuric hot springs and boiling mud pits. At seventeen years of age, he had reached his full height of about six feet. Not very tall for a troll, but his hide was a deep, rich blue and respectably thick. The shock of blue hair on top of his head was also thick, and admittedly so were his glasses. He wore a doublet of black and yellow that he quite enjoyed, and his trousers were sturdy leather, dyed black and well-worn. His boots were ill-fitting and patched.

He had found the entrance to the lava tubes quite by accident, one day when he was enjoying the overly-heated mud and mineral baths. Once inside, it was easy to get lost in the warren of tunnels.

Outside, the landscape was strewn about with every conceivable species of wildflower, which made for a gleaner’s paradise. There were cowlicks and chumblies, which always sold well, and dragon’s bane, starbutter, lilacs and Centaur’s Hooves, which all sold very well but were as rare as herbs could be. They littered this field in abundance.

His favorite, though, were the chicken pistules, and the Poppins. The chicken pistules were a perfect suspension for any and every solution. It had a high melting point, but a low emulsification factor that made it incredibly absorbent of whatever properties you cared to instill into it. Or so he had been told. All he knew was, it was magic.

Zuglah scampered across the plains, eyes always on the ground ahead of him. He was in a hurry, so he would not have stopped for anything except perhaps a fat specimen of Centaur’s Hooves or chicken pistules. They were not the reason why he kept a sharp eye. It was the Poppins.

The Poppins alone were what kept him coming back. They were tiny, green bulbs loaded with a special pollen that had unusual properties, to say the least. If Zuglah was unlucky enough to step on one, it would result in a series of angry blood-blisters all the way up to his knee, and likely some ugly scars left behind when they popped. But that was only because he was a troll, with a properly thick hide. If something flimsy, like an elf or a human, were to step on one, it would set up a burning upon their flesh the likes of which they had never known. He had heard tell of humans that would knock themselves unconscious to escape the agony. Sometimes the damage was so bad that they ended up losing the leg.

If Zuglah were insane enough to actually eat one of the bulbs, he would have nightmarish cramps and his bowel movements would be pure fire. An elf would probably suffer the same fate as he, but a human would simply die.

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The Poppins were worth an entire silver Sovereign for ten. That made them worth more than the rest of the ingredients combined.

But he saw no Poppins and he saw no chicken pistules on his way to the top of Ugly Tree Hill. He sat in the shade of the big, misshapen oak and slowly began eating his lunch while he watched the slope below him, and the graveyard carved halfway into the hill beneath.

The entrance to the dungeon was in one of those crypts.

He had judged correctly, and sure enough a golden light brightened the noonday sky. The crypt opened quickly, and the group spilled out, angry. They had been yelling at each other before the door even started opening, and attaining safety had done exactly nothing to improve inter-party relations. Zuglah watched, unnoticed.

The old Wizard looked tired. He was normally a vigorous fellow, but Zuglah could tell that this particular group had drained him. He watched, hoping to see him spot the little gift that he had left him. He was in the midst of turning away from the group when he froze, then slowly looked about the cemetery. He looked up the hill and saw Zuglah for the first time. Zuglah lifted a hand away from his sandwich and waved. The man slowly raised a bemused hand of his own.

Turning away, he opened a portal decidedly close to the group. They were all still angry but shaken, so he was able to bundle them off without too much trouble. He himself did not go through. Rather, he closed it as soon as they had left, and turned back to the tomb that Zuglah had brushed clean of debris. He opened a small, dark wood box from his pack and placed the Poppins carefully inside. Zuglah had been certain that knew how to safely handle them. After the rare group defeated enough monsters to bother with looting, all he ever saw the old magician pick up was the occasional mushroom.

The next morning, Zuglah was startled to find a small leather pouch waiting for him. He could already tell that there was a jar inside, with a note. The note had only one word; Jump.

There was an illustration of a human jumping over another human.

Excitedly, Zuglah took a sip of the potion. It was thin, and tasted awful. In fact, it tasted very much like Poppins smelled. He put the jar down carefully, and swallowed. His stomach gave a little hitch, and a warmth spread from his center throughout his entire body. Jump? He couldn’t not jump.

He made it to the top of the hill in a single bound. Without thinking, he immediately leapt again and found himself high above his favorite field of flowers. Vertigo lurched through him, having never been independently this far away from the ground before. His lazy arc very soon had him speeding back towards the terrain at an uncomfortable velocity. His troll body was tough, but he fully expected to twist an ankle at the very least. But the only thing he felt upon landing was the burning desire to leap again. And so he did.

He got almost halfway across the huge field of flowers before he figured that he should turn around and head back. On his second jump after he turned around, he found himself earth-locked once more. The ground felt hard, unyielding. But what fun the potion was!

On his walk back, he was able to pick two more Poppins that he never would have seen otherwise. The tiny blue flower on top of the bulb was not very easy to see even from aloft. A field of wildflowers contained a ridiculous amount of blue. He stepped carefully around the hill, having no reason to climb it. He put the two Poppins into his own wooden box, and delicately re-stoppered the jar. There was barely any missing. This time he left the man five Poppins and five chicken pistules. Zuglah could tell that he needed a better suspension liquid.

When he arrived at the tomb the next day, the Wizard was waiting for him.

He was wearing his usual robes, but what had appeared purple from a distance he now saw was a combination of colors that changed iridescently. His hat was black, pointed and brimmed like a proper magician. His beard and hair were both immaculate white.

Zuglah stopped dead in his tracks. This was the closest he had ever been to a wizard, and he was nervous. He knew that the man could have called lightning, even from a great distance, and burned him to a pile of ashes. He might not technically be any safer at range, but he was most definitely in less danger of saying something stupid that might anger the wizard and cause him to bring ruin upon him. Wizards were famously mercurial.

But this man was anything but temperamental. Zuglah had been watching him bring team after team into this dungeon for weeks, all after some unknown item or purpose. He had shown patience, reserve, understanding and compassion. He had a habit of picking awful teams to party with, but he himself was the most competent person Zuglah had ever seen.

“Hello.” He was proud of himself for remembering his Common. He didn’t even mean to speak it, it just came out.

“Greetings my young friend. My name is Caldwell. How did you enjoy the potion?”

Zuglah slipped off his pack and placed it on the tomb in front of Caldwell. “I am very sorry, sir. I completely misunderstood. For some reason I thought you left it for me. I didn’t drink very much. Again, I’m very sorry.” He had the small jar in his hand, holding it out in front of him. When he looked up, Caldwell had not moved. He placed it onto the tomb.

“I absolutely did mean for you to have that. And a poor recompense it is, I might add, for the ingredients you have given me these last couple of days. That is why I thought to offer you a deal.”

“A deal? What, you mean you want me to go into the dungeon with you? But I can’t. I don’t even have a trade. I… I lost my clan. Maybe I never had one, who knows? Anyway, I should go.”

“What is your name, young man?”

He looked up. “Me? I’m Zuglah Glun. I pick herbs for the Sheekie Hag.” He picked up the leather bag, thinking that the drawstring had been tied. But it had not. He should have grabbed it properly. But instead, he got it just high enough into the air that when the jar slipped out, it missed the tomb and fell onto hard stone.

He looked at the jar of incredible magic, the most precious thing he had ever owned, smashed all over the ground.

“Oh dear,” the Wizard said mildly.