The cold stone floor bit at her underneath the ragged brown robes she had habitually donned for this kind of work, ever since the first explosion left her a combination of luminous orange and purple. Several months on and you can still see the orange powdery substance ingrained into the wrinkles of her face. Whether that was from a lack of washing or the bleaching capabilities, nobody was quite sure.
Wiry green fingers worked nimbly, with exact precision. An exact pinch of this, an exact drip of that; such precision that even Weazle would be proud. But that was the easy part, right? Ever since turning on the wheel (yeah, the joke backfired when she returned part priest, part wizard), the secondary part never quite went to plan and always ended up rather … messy.
Taking the glass vial into her hands with as much tenderness as a mother holds her baby, the little green hero took a sharp intake of breath. The anxiety of failure began to raise, her heartbeat quicken. Trying to still the voice of doubt niggling in her mind, she focused.
Her lips began to move but the words wouldn’t quite come out right.
“By the…” she said with a croak. She took another breath. “By the powers of the spirits of light…” She let out a frustrated sigh.
She stared at the concoction between her hands, thinking of friends last seen too long ago. Wiggle. AEther. Thalia. Slinky. She felt a sense of shame wash over her. If they could see her now…
“Focus, goblin,” she whispered to herself. Although that wasn’t quite the right description anymore. Ever since she sacrificed her life on top of the mountain, fighting draconians and the biggest dragon she’d ever seen. Ever since she gave what she could to enter into the great halls of the Church of Dead Heroes. Ever since she got spat back out and told her mission isn’t over yet.
Setting the vial aside, she returned to the cold, stone floor. Huddled in a corner, she pulled the oversized hood attached to her robes over her head, laid her head in her hands and let a stray tear stain her cheek.