Fiction|Writing Challenge|Fantasy

The Not-So-Great Faigol

80 of 💯 — The fine art of wizardry.

Grasping the battered tankard with both hands, Faigol slowly brought the sloshing mead to his lips. Drinking deeply, he downed the full amount in seconds, a small river flowing from both corners of his mouth, and into his scraggly beard. He slammed the empty container onto the pitted bar. “Diela! More!” Then a putrid belch escaped his slumped form, clearing the chairs beside him.

“You’ve had enough, Faigol. Go home.” Her response was nasally with her nose pinched.

“I’ll shay when I’s had enough, woman!”

“Sheriff! See him out, would you?” Diela took the empty tankard and walked away.

The sheriff, without standing or looking towards the bar, gave his only and final command before taking another swig from his own tankard. “Faigol, go home or I’ll send for Deputy Gorgon.”

Mumbling and using the bar to help push himself off the stool, he stumbled into a couple of tables, sloshing other patron’s drinks. One disgruntled man gave Faigol a shove towards the door with his dirty boot. His two left feet left him sprawled on the floor in an undignified fashion with his cloak concealing his head.

Finally getting his feet beneath him and stumbling into the night, Faigol grabbed a bicycle that leaned against a support beam. After several tries, and falling in the old, dusty street, he was able to get his leg over the bike.

Not considering the bike didn’t belong to him, or that he’d never ridden one before, Faigol very wobbly set out for home. Three seconds later, he and the heisted two-wheeler were in a heap after crashing into the porch.

“Jumpin-jehosaphat! Jaloppy’s jammed!” He stared at the bent wheel before turning to a passerby. “Good shir, can ya point me to tha outhouse?”

Three green arms extended pointed fingers in different directions. Faigol stared in confusion for several moments before dismissing them and turning towards home. “Never ask a goblin for directions!”

Kicking up a trail of dust as he stumbled down the road, Faigol squinted his too-close eyes, then exclaimed, “Ragon! My friend!”

Shuffling towards his friend, and stumbling into him, Faigol wrapped his arm around the corn shock, whispering loudly, “I hash to tell you. I am a wizard! A powerful wizard!” He raised his weathered hand, drawing glowing amber runes in the cool air.

Just then, the wind picked up, blowing dust into his face and mead-scented beard. He sneezed, drawing the rune into his corn friend. Faigol stumbled as his friend exploded into hundreds of tiny, bio-luminescent creatures with miniature corn leaf wings that flew off into the night. “Ragon! No! What have I done?”

Looking around for any observers, he clutched his cloak about himself and hurried home, as quickly as his unsteady legs could carry him. Stumbling and belching along the way, he fell against trees — getting scraped up, crashed through an anthill like a toddler through a sandcastle, and thrashed in a muddy puddle or two.

When he finally barged through his door, slamming it behind himself with the weight of his body, he sought his cushioned chair to sleep off the mournful, drunken state. Shuffling along the wall, he turned to fall into the comforting softness when he was pushed away.

“Aww, don’t be that waysh. I’s tired.” Faigol whined to the chair.

The enchanted chair indignantly responded, “Thou are filthy! Thou will not sit on thee until clean. Go on. Go outside and wash up!”

Faigol scowled at the chair standing with the arms crossed, blocking his access. “I never should’ve enchanted you!” He grumbled all the way out the door to the water pump.

Some time later, Faigol — dripping as he walked, pushed the door. It wouldn’t budge. He pushed again, “Let me in! It’s cold out here!”

An hour later, he was huddled against the door, snoring loudly.

The brilliant morning light caused the shadows to flee as Ragon walked up the hill for breakfast with his friend. Seeing him sleeping against the door again, he gently shook his shoulder. “Come on Faigol, wake up. Let’s get you inside.”

His eyes attempting to open against the harsh light, “Ragon? Ragon! You’re alive! Thank the heavens! I am so sorry I turned you into little corn flies! Can you ever forgive me?”

Raising his eyebrows at the story, Ragon shook his head, long locks swaying back and forth, “Buddy, I think you had some wild dreams. Let me help you up.” He reached out a hand to his friend, steadying the stiff man.

They turned to the door, finding a parchment attached by a nail stating Faigol was being summoned to appear before the court of magic for wanton destruction of Faerie property and creation of a new species without a license.

The men looked at each other, saying in unison, “It really happened?”

Next is Faigol Strikes Again. Check it out!

Don’t know about Faigol’s Antics? Read the collection below!!

2 pts - Faigal's declaration to being a wizard, summoned to magic court
1 pt - Faigal gets shoved to the ground
1 pt - The sheriff threatens to send for the deputy
1 pt - Never ask a goblin for directions!
1 pt - Chair got angry when filthy Faigal tried to sit down
2 pts - Tautogram - Jumpin-jehosaphat! Jaloppy’s jammed
1 pt - Point box
9 points Total

This is written in response to the challenges below. I challenge Kathy K to the Monday Mash-Up! I hope you accept and tag me to read it!

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Inspired by Bradan Writes Stories — Monday Mash-Up #8, JF Danskin’s — 10 Prompts, and an October Challenge and Zane Dickens’💯 Story Challenge.