Kobold's Crossing—a modest junction where dirt paths divide the flat plain dotted with rocks and barbed shrubs.

Poppy of the Reach, a solitary kobold with a singular appetite for that kind of roasted beetle the Anurans peddle (the very crunchy kind that most consider too dried out on the inside to to offer any meaningful textural contrast), ambles to the side of one path, eastward. He affords the occasional glance backward toward the sapphire slime trailing behind, the sapphire slime which has been given no name.

He hears the ting of his foot striking something metallic. He stoops to pick up a large bronze buckle, encrusted with dried mud. He feels its heft against his fleshy palm. A dry whistle escapes his lips. What luck, what luck, he says to himself. With a shallow groan he fastens it to the sash around his waist. His eyes narrow, scanning the ground for more treasures—perhaps a good strip of leather, or a pouch of cowries. Nothing transports a kobold like a bit of treasure.

He shrieks. The dull glint of a dirty blade projects from the rubble at his feet. What luck! He reaches for the dagger, a ribbon of torn flax brushes the back of his hand. Now he sees the bony black hand, and a bit further on the open toothless jaw, the half-crushed skull beside it. The remains have been here for a good while, he thinks, odd that the bones haven’t been scavenged. Plenty to value in a good bone. Judging by the faded, half-buried robe, this was a wizard.

Supressing a shiver, he straightens back up with the dagger in hand. A thin jet of water emits from his palm, dislodging the dirt from the handle. He sees a worn inscription encircling the pommel, of a style wholly unfamiliar to him (the only scripts familiar to a kobold being the tallies along the walls of a mine shaft). The slime inches to his side, its lips widening into a sort of gormless grin. Poppy glances over toward his familiar. What luck we’ve had today, my slime, he says. You and I, we’ve a belly full of beetles to look forward to, he says.

He slips the dagger into his sash, then pauses. With a bit of morbid curiosity he bends down once again, to the skeletal remains. The bony, withered hand of the wizard points upward, vaguely toward the mountains to the northwest. Now Poppy sees it: the black iron ring on the wizard’s finger, in which a single jasper has been set. He shrieks again. What luck, what luck!

In his excitement he does not wrap his hand in the hem of his tunic before reaching for the ring. He in fact does not manage to touch the ring. The moment his left hand grazes the outstretched finger of the wizard there is the sound of smoldering brush and an unbearable burn, and a smell like that which wafts from the acid marsh. He stumbles backwards clutching himself. He sees the skin on the side of his left hand turned black and charred, the wound beginning to spread past his wrist. Without stopping to think, he focuses a jet of water from his right, soaking his left arm and the whole of his tunic besides. He shuts his eyes. The burning sensation begins to subside, the jet from his hand slows to a trickle.

He stays completely still for a moment. Then, slowly, he opens his eyes. The curse for now has ceased to spread. He sees the wizard’s black hand, unmoved. And the skull, glowering. The smell, sulfurous, shrouds the crossing. He hears the discontented screech of a vulture circling overhead. What misfortune, he mutters, then glances at the slime which has been given no name. The slime, much diminished, spreads its gormless grin. Come, retrieve your water, says the kobold. The slime glides forward.

Entered by: 0x1075…4bBA and preserved on chain (see transaction)