Moloks

The Moloks were fast asleep in their village of Dantor, a unique habitat built far underground. Moloks have existed for centuries. They possess great knowledge and their skills of wizardry stretch beyond understanding. For many, many years, these peaceful creatures have remained anonymous, continuing their work and passing on the secrets of old to their children, their children’s children, their children’s children’s children… well I think you get the point.

Not a soul ever knew such beings even existed, save in the old folk-lore and legends and no-one had the slightest knowledge of the importance of their work. This is the way it had always been, the way it should be.

Each morning the Moloks would rise early from their living quarters and descend even further underground to the third level to begin the day’s activities in their vast number of workshops. Together they would joyfully wind their ways through the underground passages which had been built a long, long time past and whose design surpassed any of its kind.

Life for the Moloks had run smoothly and happily for as long as their memories could recall. Then one day, a slight disruption occurred in their daily routine which now threatened their very existence.

Meanwhile...

Meanwhile, in a distant place, a small object could be seen moving in an awkward fashion across an area of land filled with hidden terrors. I cannot at this time tell you very much about this object, apart from that on closer inspection it appeared to be conducting its own merry dance. It was also purple.

The Trunglers

‘Ssshhh!’ instructed Tolita in such a manner that her men shook in their boots. This was a highly complicated mission and Tolita wished that she did not have to rely on a bunch of fools to get the job done.

The army, made up of a bundle of cowardly creatures known as Trunglers, crouched impatiently and waited for their next command. These pitiful beings were not here of their own accord, actually they had a very limited career choice, either they served Tolita or they were dead. An easy enough choice for most of them.

Tolita was otherwise known as the ‘Judgess’ of Valdox. Biffleworth, her late husband, had been the Kingdom’s Judge for many, many years and his fairness was renowned throughout the land. Tolita took over his position, after his untimely and somewhat suspicious death.

Anyway, here the Trunglers were, trying their hardest (which, incidentally, is not all that hard) to keep their minds centred. The main reason why they could not do this was because they were creatures with a love for beautiful things. In fact, right now their three eyes were busy studying the interior of the somewhat cramped, damp passageway in which they were huddled. They had, of course, ventured this way many times before, yet the architecture never ceased to amaze their puzzled minds.

Either side of the passageway had been decorated with a curious silver and violet substance, the likes of which the Trunglers (and, indeed, all the inhabitants of the land, well, nearly all) had never seen. The substance’s flow was only ever interrupted when it hit small crevices in the rock, behind which could be seen constant eruptions of mystical sound and vibrant colour.

What bemused the Trunglers most of all (and Tolita herself although she would never admit it) was that the designs painted on the stone always managed to look different. Each time the small party travelled along this same tunnel it was like entering it for the first time. A peculiar thing.

Now, it must be said here that the Moloks are an exceptionally creative race and their ability to design such tunnels remains a mystery, especially considering their size. A Molok never grows taller than a blade of Deep Forest grass (but I would not advise travelling to such parts to find out if I am telling the truth).

‘Advance!’ hissed Tolita, sensing now was the time to strike.

The Trunglers, already numb, aching and suffering from severe pins and needles, gradually realised which body parts were their own and which belonged to fellow creatures and began shuffling down the tunnel on all fives.

Sigworth

After Ponkle had gone, Sigworth began restoring the cave to its former glory, well, not glory exactly. Sigworth Boffwungler was a clever fellow and could well imagine what events had occurred whilst he had been out collecting his special ingredients. As he put the last object, the satin box, back where it belonged, under the stone carving of Ponkle’s father, he decided that stronger measures must be taken. Things were getting out of hand, things were going beyond dangerous. He had in his possession a very harmful weapon. He must not let others use it.

Ponkle

‘No...please...I really don’t know where he keeps it!.....No..not that..I beg of you ..please..anything but that!’

Ponkle’s plea was blatantly ignored as the sheets from under him were mightily yanked, sending the half-asleep creature to the ground below. As he rose his hand to rub the aching lump now appearing over his left ear, his eyes focussed on the stubby figure hovering over him.

‘It’s a q-q-quarter to Sixteen!’ pronounced Sigworth, who was becoming rather bored with Ponkle’s curious ability to sleep for so many days at a time.

‘Oarghh,’ was all that Ponkle could manage as he curled up into a ball on the floor and once more closed his heavy eye-lids.

Sigworth decided to utilise plan B, considering the drowsy state in which he had found his companion.

'I’ve just had news that T-T-Tolita is swiftly on her way to G-Gitwit after hearing a vicious rumour that someone not t-too f-far from here is l-l-late for work!’

That did the trick. Ponkle was on his oddly formed feet before Sigworth even had time to stop chuckling. Of course, the mere mention of Tolita’s name was enough to make anyone wary.

Once Ponkle was fully conscious, Sigworth explained that his last statement may have contained a slight exaggeration (he knew that Ponkle would not remember that Tolita always indulged in a game of chess at a quarter to Sixteen) and began to cook dinner.

'W-what on earth h-happened h-here?’ said Sigworth with a handful of vegetables, noticing that the furniture was in minor disarray, then he dropped the vegetables, ‘and what have you d-done to our b-b-beautiful door? I wasn’t out for long!’

‘Oh that,’ replied Ponkle who was now dressed in his black uniform.

‘Yes, that!’ Sigworth said, gathering up the ingredients and giving them a quick wipe with the bottom of his sleeve. Yet he didn’t really have to ask.

Ponkle ignored him and studied himself in the small oval mirror. No, he could not get used to this ‘look’. It was not simply the fact that the mirror made him look shorter and fatter than he already was. Or that it made his bottom stick out more than it already did. He felt too, well, dull. Something was definitely missing. He reached into the wardrobe he shared with Sigworth. Yes, that was more like it. He strolled into the kitchen and was greeted by a most wonderful smell.

‘I must say, I think you’re the best cook I know,’ said Ponkle grabbing a nearby cushion, trying to steer the conversation away from earlier events.

‘Why th-thank you, I’ve just whipped up a little.....w-what in g-goodness name is that you’re w-wearing?’

‘What does it look like? There’s no need to look so horrified, it’s only a waistcoat!’

'B-b-but it’s b-bright purple! H-hardly suitable for the occasion! I th-th-thought the idea was to b-blend into the night not leap b-brightly out of it!’

Ponkle shrugged his round shoulders and quietly ate Sigworth’s delicious concoction. As soon as he had emptied his bowl he rose to his feet, walked silently across the cave and cautiously removed the brown sack from the hatstand, being extra careful not to disturb what was inside and disappeared through the front door into the cover of darkness.