Goblins and Dwarves Smell Metals and Ores, the Muskrat Man Smells Magic
Weekly bulletin #203 to all Hester's employees from founder and CEO, Dr. Amir Salas:
My first glimpse of the creature they call 'Murphy' was just before daybreak on a crisp autumn morning as I was heading out to pick rhubarb. My grandmother's birthday was quickly approaching and I had yet to perfect my pie recipe; the plan was to spend the day experimenting with inoculated elder curses aimed at awakening the sweetness of the rhubarb without sacrificing the tart, but the sight of this wild man chewing on the roots of my eucalyptus tree threw a wrench in my meticulous machinations.
I instinctively hollered to shoo the beast from my garden, and only as it scampered away did I realize it was no beast at all, but a man with a purple shock of hair I mistook for the plumage of an exotic muskrat. When I went to examine the spot where he had been digging, I saw a silvery sheen buried beneath the tree and remembered a story my grandfather once told me when I was young. He and his old pals used to chase demons for fun, play a bit of catch and release with the lil guys. But one time they messed with a sprite by the name of Be'elze'il who wasn't so keen on playing games. Got a bit too violent about it all so they had to lock 'im up in a silver box under a tree... I dusted off the bit of the box I could see and sure enough, scribbled right on the top was my Pop-Pop's and his three buddies' signatures over a hastily etched demon seal.
But how did the muskrat man know where it was? I didn't even know it was there and I've been living in this house my whole life! I tossed my rhubarb basket aside and began to track the thing - if he was keen on releasing a violent demon on my property I couldn't very well ignore it now, could I? So, I stumbled into the jungle and got lost for a few hours in the beautiful depravity of it all before redoubling my efforts by going back home and fixing myself a cup of tea. After all, no worthwhile detective work has ever been done without a hearty dose of caffeine.
When I went back to resume my search, the man was once again tampering with my eucalyptus roots! He saw me and darted into the jungle, and though I spilled my second cup of tea I was quick this time, and ran into the jungle right after him. He moved very strangely for a human, as if he were taught to run by a koala or something.. Thinking he had lost me he slowed a bit, and luckily for me, a purple shock of hair was not too difficult to follow in these jungles. He eventually led me to a small cave dwelling, apparently his home. And from the looks of it, he was not alone. There were a smattering of cave dwellings along this particular gorge quite reminiscent of- that's what it was! He was a goblin!
Goblins, much like dwarves, have a very keen sense of smell, particularly when it comes to precious metals and certain mineral compounds. Dwarves used it to find veins of ore; goblins used it to suss out the deep pockets and buried treasures. But this Muskrat Man was no biological goblin, and surely he was no dwarf... I had to investigate further.
I waited until cover of night, snacking on the Whisper Biscuits I had packed for my little field trip, and crept closer to the village. Judging by the snoring it was indeed a goblin village, but not a remarkably large one. As I glanced around the dwellings I was relieved to see that they were not the warring type, but rather some mixture of scavenger and shaman. All of the dwellings had some sort of trophy case or pile of shiny trinkets on display, and many of them contained a shrine to Anaraxxis, a spider deity that dwells around these parts. No webs to be seen so far, but I figured I'd be alright with Ana if she found me anyway, given our history.
The Muskrat Man's humble abode was on the southern end of the gorge, secluded from the others. There was an arc drawn on the dirt across the entrance with a few bisecting hatches along its length, like a big Frankenstein scar. I dared not cross the foreboding threshold, but a glimpse inside the cave told me all I needed to know; much like all the other inhabitants of this village, the Muskrat Man had a formidable stash of goodies piled up in the corner, but his was unlike the others - for one, not all of his treasures were metallic. In fact many of them would appear entirely mundane on first inspection. But I knew better.
My eyes fell upon a wooden mixing spoon that I had lost last week. I looked all over for that damned thing, and here it was, sitting atop the treasure pile of a goblin man who had apparently been in my kitchen. You see, my grandma gave me that mixing spoon before she passed, and when she did she told me a story about it. This wasn't just any mixing spoon. No, this was the mixing spoon she used when she worked for the Queen. It was imbued with special properties, so that whatever you mixed with it would never clump or spill, and a quick flick of the wrist would instantly clean it off, no matter how sticky the batter. I knew her words to be true - it was, and is, a magical spoon.
As I looked more closely at the other items in the stash I saw the pattern emerging. A handkerchief of sneezing, the Brass Blade of Grah, a pile of silvered arrow tips that had undoubtedly seen the Wolf Wars, and hanging above the Muskrat Man's bed, a mask of the fabled Kitsune... Everything in his cave was touched by magic. While the other goblins were out getting shinies to offer to Ana, this magnificent purple-haired degenerate was collecting a lot of what looked like trash to them and earning higher favors for it! Incredible stuff really, from an anthropological standpoint.. but I didn't have time for all that, I had to get my spoon back before he fed it to a giant arachnid for a pat on the head.
I hatched a plan to trap the goblin man the next time he came digging for Pop-Pop's demon box and get him to return my favorite spoon, but that, my friends, is a story for another time, and will simply not fit in this week's bulletin.
As always you are all welcome to write to 101 Hester Drive, Red Wizard Capital with critiques and comments of both my stories and Hester's food products, it is you all that make this company the magical place it is by providing valuable feedback at every step of the process. Thank you.
Ciao for now!
A. Salas
~ Quote of the Week ~
"No stone goes unturned twice."
-Wizard #3737
Entered by: 0x0303…89cB and preserved on chain (see transaction)
The Knights Who Take Diagonally
Murphy crouched low beneath the shade of an ivy-wrapped willow tree, nose practically pressed to the stone. The moss here was smarter than usual. He was sure of it.
A swath of green lichen crept across the walkway like spilled paint, its edges feathering into scribbled shapes. Murphy poked it with a stick.
Nothing.
Then again.
Still nothing.
“Hm,” he grunted, nodding sagely to no one. He tucked the stick behind his ear, right next to the other one, and gently scooped a pinch of moss into a soft leaf pouch tied around his belt. On the outside of the pouch, he’d scrawled the word “BRAIN” in charcoal. Not because it was brain moss exactly, but because he suspected it helped. Maybe.
“Sharp think moss,” Murphy muttered.
He stood and sniffed the air.
A breeze pushed through Green Wizard City like a shy whisperer. It moved around vines, through leaning towers, over cracked runestones, and finally brushed across the stone path where Murphy stood. It smelled of warm bark, cold bricks, and a little like stew.
He trudged onward, boots muffled by moss. There was more collecting to do. Maybe snails with memory shells. Maybe bark that hummed at night. Or maybe he’d just stare at a tree and see if it blinked. Green Wizard City was good for that.
That’s when Murphy heard it.
Click. Scrape. Click.
He paused. The sound came again, steady and careful, like claws tapping stone but thinking about it first.
He moved closer, through the hedge arch and past a nest of whispergrass, toward the edge of Thornshade Commons, a plaza where even birds spoke quietly. Murphy crouched again, slow like hunting glow-wasps, and peeked through the vines.
There, beneath a crumbling gazebo wrapped in green light and drowsy ivy, two very old wizards sat across from each other at a table carved directly into the stone. Between them: a flat grid. And on the grid, pieces.
Carved bits of ivory and stone, shaped like towers, horses, tiny soldiers, and pointed hats.
One wizard leaned forward and moved a figure one square to the left.
Click.
The other responded with equal slowness.
Scrape. Click.
Then: silence.
Murphy didn’t move.
He narrowed his eyes. This was no snack-table game.
This was ritual.
Murphy stayed behind the bush. Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty. He wasn’t sure. Time got weird in wizard places.
The air in Thornshade Commons hung like an old blanket, warm and dusty, humming slightly.
One of the wizards, scarves, thin glasses, face like a wrinkled scroll, leaned forward. “Pawn to E4.”
His voice was brittle and precise. The other wizard, thicker in the beard and smelling faintly of lavender, snorted.
“You always open with E4. Try something fresh for once.”
Murphy’s brow furrowed. “E-four” sounded like a spell trigger. A sequence. Maybe a location? Echo field? Elemental focus?
He whispered to himself. “E... is air... Four is... square. Element box. Yes.”
He pulled out his backup dirt and began drawing in the soil beside him, grid, circles, lines, question marks, two stick figures with large noses.
On the stone table, another move.
“Queen’s gambit accepted,” said the lavender wizard, very seriously.
Murphy gasped. “Queen... gambit? Queen sacrifice? Magic duel.”
The game continued.
“King’s Indian Defense.”
“Caro-Kann.”
“Alapin variation.”
Each phrase layered in strangeness. Murphy's heart pounded. The words didn’t connect.
The pieces had barely moved. A pawn or two nudged forward. A knight poised but not yet leapt. And yet, it felt like the air was changing.
The wizards weren’t casting fire or turning into smoke or even floating. But something was definitely happening.
Their eyes were locked. Their posture rigid. Their fingers moved with purpose.
And the board...
The board stayed silent. Murphy could feel it vibrating, just a little. Or maybe that was just his knees.
“Why horse go bendways?” he whispered.
He stared at the knight piece. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t follow. All the other pieces moved clean, straight, honest. But the horse? The horse was lying.
“Trick piece,” Murphy muttered.
Then it happened.
The scarf wizard sneezed.
It was a loud, terrible thing. Wet and final. It startled a squirrel three trees away and knocked over one of the tiny soldiers on the board.
Murphy froze.
The lavender wizard stared at the fallen piece, eyes wide. “You killed him.”
“No I didn’t. That was accident!”
“You sneezed a bishop off the board.”
“That’s not how bishops die, Cranble!”
Murphy whispered, “Bishop death triggers spiral conflict...”
And before he could stop himself, he stood up. The wizards both turned toward the bush.
Murphy stepped out slowly. He raised a hand, serious and gentle.
“You... trap soul in grid?” Scarf wizard blinked. “What?”
Murphy pointed at the board. “Tiny men. On map. Trapped. You move them to fight...?”
Lavender wizard frowned. “Do you mind? We’re—”
Murphy approached the board. He pointed to the knight.
“This one... moves wrong.”
“No,” said the scarf wizard sharply. “He moves in an L-shape.”
Murphy squinted. “El. Like... loop?”
“No. The letter L.”
“Alphabet magic,” Murphy nodded.
Lavender wizard leaned forward. “You know chess?”
Murphy stared at them.
Then he picked up the bishop.
And moved it two squares forward.
The wizards screamed.
The bishop clicked into place with the softest of sounds.
The scarfed wizard, Fenwick, shrieked as if someone had driven a stake into his scroll collection. “You can’t just—!”
Murphy raised a brow. “Why not?”
“That’s not a legal move!” Fenwick snapped, pointing a trembling, liver-spotted finger at the board. “That bishop was locked behind the pawn structure. You didn’t even capture anything!”
Murphy blinked, then looked at his hand.
“Felt like it wanted to go.”
Cranble leaned in, examining the board. He muttered. “Hold on. Wait... Look at that.”
Fenwick sputtered. “Look at what?”
Cranble gestured with two fingers, guiding Fenwick’s furious gaze across the granite board. “His move, it blocks my open file. Your rook is now completely choked.”
Fenwick leaned forward. Then closer. Then stopped.
His mouth opened slightly.
Murphy waited.
Silence. Then:
“...Huh.”
Cranble turned to Murphy, eyes glittering. “You didn’t study theory?”
Murphy shook his head. “What theory?”
Fenwick leaned in. “No one moves a bishop like that. Not without trapping themselves by turn seven. But this... this bends the tempo.” Murphy tilted his head. “Bends tempo?”
“Adjusts initiative without yielding material,” Cranble muttered, scribbling madly into a notepad he had not five minutes earlier used to swat a fly. “It's counterintuitive. Regressive offense. Backwards control. Is it goblin theory?”
Murphy shrugged.
“Call it what you want. Bishop wanted out. Now it’s out.”
They stared at him.
Then at the board.
Then back again.
A breeze stirred the ivy above them. A bird landed on a nearby bench, regarded the match, and chirped precisely three times.
Murphy stepped back. “Already played. I go now.”
“But you just—wait!” Fenwick stood, his knee cracking audibly. “What do you call that move?”
Murphy thought. He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing.
“Knight who take diagonally.”
The wizards froze.
Cranble gasped. “The Knight Who Takes Diagonally.”
“Brilliant,” whispered Fenwick. “Absolutely against everything.”
Murphy stepped back from the stone table, hand reaching into his pouch of moss. He pulled out a small leaf-wrapped ball and popped it into his mouth like a berry.
Tasted like rock. Cleared the mind.
He turned to leave.
“Will you return?” Cranble called. “We could study this, log it, build a whole new opening variation. The Murphy System!”
Murphy shrugged. “Already opened.” He walked away, boots soft in the moss. Behind him, the plaza buzzed.
Cranble was scribbling furiously, muttering “Knight... diagonal... unprovoked...” while Fenwick tried to reconstruct the position with trembling fingers.
Murphy stopped at the edge of the clearing and glanced back once. He reached down and quietly picked up a stray game piece that had rolled beneath a vine—a small mossy bishop with one chipped corner.
He pocketed it without comment.
Might be important.
Probably was.
Then he was gone.
The wind, very softly, made an “L” through the trees.
Postscript: From the Archives of the Royal Chess Conservatory
Historians continue to debate the precise nature of the move now known as The Murphy Variation. A bishop deployed seemingly without tactical justification, through a closed pawn structure, with no immediate material gain.
To many scholars, it was a violation of sound positional principle.
To others, it was instinct made manifest.
But by all formal rules of the game, the move was legal and uncannily effective, disrupting what should have been a locked position. Since that day in Thornshade Commons, variations of the opening have appeared in fringe circles, each citing “goblin logic” as strategic methodology.
When approached for comment on the move, Murphy of Goblins said only: “Bishop stuck. I move it.”
His opponents, now retired, still study the tape.
Some say it was chaos. Others say it was brilliance. But all agree—it was goblin logic at its most effective.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
