Goblin Brew of Mischief

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In the dark part of the forest, where the branches grew so densely together that even the moon shone through in splinters, lived Grimbel Sparktooth. No one knew how long he'd been causing mischief there, and no one could say if he'd ever been young—or if goblins even age. The only thing that was certain was that wherever sparks glowed in the night, Grimbel and his cauldron weren't far away. His little house, if you could call it that, consisted of a fallen root and a crooked chimney that let more smoke in than out. In the center of his dwelling stood the cauldron, black and sooty, with three crooked legs and a belly that swallowed everything you gave it. And Grimbel loved to feed him. That evening, he was especially excited. His eyes sparkled orange like two glowing coals, and his hair stood out from his head like a nest of green wire. He squatted on a wooden block, stirring the bubbling brew with a crooked spoon, and giggled so loudly that the owls in the trees fled. "Hehehe! Today is going to be something special!" he cried, throwing a handful of glittering beetles into the cauldron. They cracked and hissed, their wings turning into sparks that leaped to the ceiling like little stars. Grimbel reached into a bag made from an old scrap of cloth and pulled out a dried mushroom cap. "Three times turned, never salted," he muttered, dropping it into the fire. A puff of smoke billowed out, forming grinning faces, and vanished. He had named the recipe he was cooking that evening "The Brew of Mischief." Not because it was dangerous—all his concoctions were—but because it instilled in anyone who tasted it an unstoppable urge to mischief. Anyone who drank the brew could no longer keep a straight face or speak serious words. Even the bitterest truth turned into a joke, and every step became a dance. "People take themselves far too seriously," murmured Grimbel, sprinkling a pinch of glowing wood ash over the cauldron. "A little mischief never hurts... hehehe... or maybe it does!" He leaned forward, sniffed, and his long teeth flashed in the firelight. The brew was almost ready. Golden bubbles rose, bursting with a low chuckle, as if they themselves had already swallowed the nonsense. Suddenly, a twig cracked in the undergrowth outside. Grimbel froze. Visitors were rare—and never welcome. He chuckled softly, this time deeper, darker, and reached for a small bowl. With pointed fingers, he scooped out a portion of the bubbling brew. In front of his hut stood a boy, barely older than sixteen summers, carrying a backpack that seemed larger than himself. "P-please..." the boy stammered. "I'm lost. Can you show me the way to the village?" Grimbel grinned broadly. "Of course, little one. But first, a sip. So you can find your way more easily." The boy hesitated, looking into the bowl. Sparks rose from it, tickling his nose.