Story #1471

Prompt: The days following the market fair brought nothing but disappointment to Alvenheim's doorstep. One by one, the vendors returned with the same disheartening news: Fickler's inventions were marvels of engineering, certainly, but their prices soared far beyond what common folk could afford. The self-stirring spoon that never tired? Too expensive. The lantern that burned without oil? Magnificent, but impractical for everyday purses. Alvenheim sat in his shop, surrounded by gleaming contraptions that nobody wanted to buy, and realized that brilliance alone would not fill their coffers. That evening, he climbed the stairs to Fickler's workshop above the store, where the gnome inventor was already sketching plans for a device that could peel potatoes in seven different artistic patterns. Alvenheim cleared his throat and spoke gently but firmly about the need for practical invention. What people truly needed, he suggested, was something useful and affordable—perhaps even something revolutionary like a flying carpet or a flying chair that could transport people across distances. Fickler's eyes lit up like twin lanterns at the suggestion, his small hands already gesturing wildly as he calculated trajectories and lift ratios in the air. But then his enthusiasm dimmed considerably as he explained the fundamental problem: flying contraptions required not just clever mechanics and quality materials, but also genuine magic to overcome the laws of nature. Neither of them possessed such power, and without a wizard's touch, even the most ingenious flying machine would be nothing more than an elaborate paperweight. It was Fickler who remembered the stories whispered in the village tavern about an old wizard living atop Mount Cragglehorn, several days' journey from their town. The wizard was said to be a recluse who had abandoned society decades ago, preferring solitude and study to the company of others. With little choice and much hope, Alvenheim and Fickler packed provisions and set out on the mountain path. The journey proved more treacherous than either had anticipated—narrow trails that crumbled at the edges, winds that howled through rocky passes, and steep climbs that left them gasping for breath. More than once, as Alvenheim clung to a cliff face with aching fingers, he thought that a flying chair would be not just convenient but absolutely essential for civilized travel. After three exhausting days, they finally reached a crooked tower perched impossibly on the mountain's peak, held together by what appeared to be equal parts stone and stubbornness. The wizard who answered their persistent knocking was not at all what they expected. Flakey was a goblin, barely taller than Fickler, with wild gray hair that stood in all directions as though permanently startled. His robes were mismatched and patched with fabric that didn't quite belong to this century, and he blinked at his visitors with enormous yellow eyes that seemed to have forgotten what other people looked like. He spoke in fits and starts, sometimes to them and sometimes to a brass telescope that he insisted was an excellent conversationalist, and he had clearly not entertained guests in so long that he offered them a pot of tea that had been brewing since last winter. Despite his eccentricities—or perhaps because of them—Flakey listened with growing interest to their proposal. He paced around his cluttered tower, muttering calculations and occasionally stopping to argue with his own reflection in a cracked mirror. Flying magic, he explained between tangents about cloud formations and the migratory patterns of invisible birds, was indeed possible, though it required a delicate balance of enchantment and engineering. The real question, he said while standing on his head for reasons he didn't explain, was whether he wanted to leave his peaceful mountain solitude to join their commercial venture. Alvenheim and Fickler exchanged hopeful glances, sensing that beneath the wizard's odd behavior lay a brilliant mind that might be just lonely enough to say yes.