Story #1487

Prompt: Alvenheim drummed his fingers on the worn wooden counter of his shop, watching through the window as yet another potential customer walked away shaking their head. For three days now, he had followed up with every vendor in town, and the answer was always the same: Fickler's inventions were brilliant, yes, but far too expensive. The self-stirring spoon cost more than a month's worth of regular spoons. The automatic door-opener required such intricate gears that only the wealthiest merchants could afford it. That evening, Alvenheim trudged to Fickler's workshop in the basement, where the gnome was already tinkering with a new contraption that appeared to be a hat with tiny mechanical wings. The merchant sighed and sat down on a stool that wobbled alarmingly. "Fickler, my friend, we need to talk about practicality." The gnome looked up from his work, goggles magnifying his eyes to comical proportions. "What's wrong with practicality? This hat will fan you on hot days!" Alvenheim explained the situation as gently as he could, watching Fickler's enthusiasm deflate like a punctured balloon. But then the merchant had an idea. "What if you invented something everyone truly needs? Something that would change how people live? Like... a flying carpet, or better yet, a flying chair that could transport people across great distances!" Fickler's eyes lit up again, and he immediately began sketching. For hours they discussed designs and possibilities, until the gnome finally set down his pencil with a troubled expression. "There's just one problem," Fickler admitted. "Flying contraptions require as much magic as they do materials and engineering. And neither of us is a wizard." The solution came from an unexpected source. Old Hemmel, the baker who sometimes bought Alvenheim's imported spices, mentioned that a wizard lived atop Mount Craggle, about three days' walk from the village. "Name's Flakey," Hemmel said, kneading his dough vigorously. "Goblin fellow. Bit strange, keeps to himself mostly. Haven't seen him come down in years, but he's supposed to be quite powerful." Alvenheim and Fickler exchanged glances. By the next morning, they had packed supplies and begun their journey, their determination fueled by visions of flying chairs soaring over the countryside. If the trek up the mountain was difficult, they reasoned, it would only prove how desperately the world needed their invention. They had vastly underestimated how rough and frightening the mountain path would be. By the second day, they were clinging to rocky outcroppings, with sheer drops yawning beside them that made Alvenheim's stomach lurch. Fickler, being smaller, had an easier time of it, but even he looked pale as they navigated a particularly narrow ledge where loose stones skittered down into the misty abyss below. "If we don't convince this wizard," Alvenheim panted, pressing himself against the cold stone face, "I might just learn magic myself out of sheer spite. We need those flying chairs, Fickler. We NEED them." The gnome nodded vigorously, too breathless to speak. When they finally reached the summit on the afternoon of the third day, exhausted and scraped, they found a crooked tower that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts of other buildings, held together by determination and possibly magic. The door opened before they could knock, revealing a goblin barely taller than Fickler, with wild silver hair sticking out in all directions and robes that might have once been blue but were now a patchwork of stains and hasty repairs. "Visitors!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with disuse. "Real visitors! Not imaginary ones! You ARE real, aren't you?" He poked Alvenheim in the stomach to check. "I'm Flakey. Wizard Flakey. Grand Wizard Flakey? No, that sounds presumptuous. Just Flakey. Come in, come in! Watch the step, it's been meaning to fix itself for years but it's quite lazy." He ushered them into a tower filled with floating books, bubbling cauldrons, and what appeared to be a small thundercloud raining into a bucket in the corner. Flakey talked rapidly, barely pausing for breath, asking questions and answering them himself before his guests could respond. He hadn't spoken to another soul in seven years, he explained, unless you counted the argumentative teapot, which he didn't because it always disagreed with him. As Alvenheim and Fickler exchanged uncertain glances, they realized that convincing this eccentric goblin wizard to join their venture might be even more challenging than climbing the mountain had been.