"Okay boys, today we’re leaving the farm to do some digging.” Wentworth addresses a group of teens — most of them his nephews and three of his own kids.

“We’ll be doing some weeding — though the client specifically requests that we keep tho root intact.”

“Weeding Da?” asks Winslow.

“Dandelions, Win,” he specifies. “They may look like flowers, but make no mistake — those buggers are weeds. Miss a small patch, and you’ll see a whole field of them in a season.”

“What’s the pay?” pipes one of his smaller nephews.

“Didn’t I just pay you last week for the harvest?” Wentworth snaps, mostly for effect. “This is part of your job — so no extra pay. There will be snacks and refreshments — and you’ll get to tell a story to your friends that they won’t believe.”

“I’m fine with just snacks and drinks, Da,” his oldest son, Warren declares, as they planned the night before. “

The other boys similarly agree, though there were a few stifled complaints.

“What do you mean we get to tell a story?” asks another of his nephews — this one chubbier. “Are we going somewhere far — Forge perhaps?”

Wentworth shakes his head. “We won’t be heading that far, and we’ll be heading to the Ram’s place.”

“The scary guy with horns?”

“I heard adventurers call him Scourge.”

“I heard he eats children and drinks their blood!”

“My papa buys this drink from him — makes you yell all night. Pa and Ma probably drank it three days ago.”

“Why are you even here Ricky? Did your parents kick you out of the house again?”

“Enough talk,” snaps Wentworth. “First of all, we will be addressing the Ram as Mister Jeremy. No, he does not eat kids — and Dylan, don’t even think of buying that drink. Not that they’ll sell you one.”

“Expect to see strange things, particularly a giant snail,” he continues. “Just ignor...”

“We’ve seen our share of giant snails, Pa,” Winslow cuts him off. “Yesterday, Ma even made a stew of them.”

The kids laugh and jeer — giant snails were no big deal to experienced farmhands.

“This snail is as big as a house and as fast as an ox,” Wentworth snaps, his voice taking on a sinister deep tone. “It might snack on a kid or two, so make sure to always check on your brothers and cousins.”

***

The new softshells were confusing. She greeted them like their regular customers — and they screamed and ran or even fainted.

Was it a game or trick? Shelby remembers her master teaching her to pretend-die when he shoots her with his finger. He was very amused at the trick but his other pet was not impressed.

Maybe it was jealous because the master didn’t teach him tricks no matter how many gifts of food and water he brought him. It seems like she was the favorite.

Gifts? Should I bring some too?

It would be bad if the little softshell manages to trick her master with his constant gifts. She would have to find gifts of her own — but what?

She gazes at the softshells. They were doing work for their home — ridding it of the irritating flowers that tainted the soil.

They tasted bad, felt wrong, and their little balls that get blown by the wind sometimes get inside her shell. Oh, how they itched!

Dashing over them was fun for a little while. Little ╧c«┘c╧ urged her to practice on the reeds. He said it would make her travel with the master smoother and faster.

She took to heart his efforts to make her more appealing to the master — even if his methods were lacking. By tapping into the earth, she could dash as if gliding on ice or flying in the air.

Doing so drained her of mana — so she only did so when her master was upon her. He graciously gives her his unique kind of mana — purer than the world’s, if a bit more intense. He laid low the forces of hellfire, abyssal frost, and dark energies, transforming them to mere fuel for his whims.

Sometimes, she could even feel the rage and despair of demons imprisoned by her master’s power. Keeping them so close was a testament to how insignificant they were. He was not afraid of these demons — not even losing a minute of sleep in their presence.

Vibrations from shuffling feet alert Shelby of an approaching softie.

One of the littler ones? What could it want?

╧c«┘c╧ told her not to go near the softies — or at least move slowly when she did so. Maybe they had jerms or something bad? They did look rather ragged and dirty.

The little one holds up a bunch of reeds, holding them up as if offering them to the snail.

Shelby urges him to follow with a wave of her flail-like feelers. She leads him to the front of the Corner Shop™ and to three waiting vats. Her master prepared the vats a long time ago — but she helped by lining the inside of the vats with glass.

The boy moves to place the reeds into the vat, but Shelby stops him with a few clicks and whistles. She motions the boy to place the reeds on the ground — and then she cuts off the root with one of her flails.

“You only want the root?” the boy asks.

Shelby nods with her flails, satisfied that this was one of the smarter softshells. Most of them could not even speak in her presence — their speech reduced to unintelligible screams and gurgles.

It takes the boy a while to separate the roots from the plants, but he manages under the snail’s supervision.

The boy turns to leave but Shelby stops him with a few more clicks.

She notices the stone around the boy’s neck and realized these small softshells probably used them to attract their mates.

She tosses him a colorful stone she found in her earlier travels in the Elemental planes. She didn’t even remember why she collected them — only that she had lots of the useless things within her shell.

The boy catches the green gem the size of his fingernail. He stares at it as if lost — alarming Shelby that she might have done something inappropriate.

Surely it doesn’t think that I want to…

The boy raises his head as if to speak to the snail — but Shelby urges it to go with her flails.

He runs back to the other softshells, frantically screaming when he gets close to them.

If a snail could raise an eyebrow, Shelby would have done so. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand these little softshells.

***

It tried to eat us!

Dylan glances in the monstrous snail’s direction — shivering at the memory of what happened before.

After two hours of walking, their group finally saw the shop. They were so eager to get started, some of them started running to the shop even as Uncle Wentworth tried to rein them in.

Then the beast came.

It glided across the earth like an avalanche — heading straight for his cousins. The ground seemed to ripple as it passed — such was the wrongness of the abomination, that even the land recoiled from its presence.

He was sure his cousins were done for — smashed into pulp by the beast’s massive snails, ground underneath its bulk, or even eaten alive as they thrashed and screamed.

The appearance of Sebas the shopkeeper was a miracle. He held the beast in check, scolding it as if it was a mere farm animal. Apologies and greetings were made, and then they were led to this field of dandelions.

Weeding was hard work — especially for just drinks and snacks. They couldn't just hack the soil because the Ram had some use for the damned roots. They had to use their hands and pull each stalk. He wondered if the Ram gleefully watched their toil and misery — tricking them into torturous labor for measly scraps. He was probably laughing at them — or maybe even using their suffering for an unholy ritual.

He saw Ricky, the youngest of the group, eagerly going about his work — finally uprooting a bunch of dandelions. He wanted to show Sebas his work, maybe get his drinks and snacks early. But to do that he would have to pass the demon snail.

To his surprise, the boy approached the beast — offering his dandelions. Ricky seemed mesmerized by the snail, lured by what seemed like strange whispers from whatever orifice the snail uses to communicate.

He saw his cousin kneel on the ground — bowing low to the snail as if praying.

He was going to call his uncle when Ricky starts to run back screaming in what he thought was horror.

“It gave me a gem!”

***

Eldwig stands at the door with trepidation. It was the first time he would meet with their leader — the so-called head of the snake. The Serpent acolyte firms his resolve, grits his teeth, and knocks.

“Enter,” a shrill voice commands.

He enters to find a plump figure sitting behind the table. It was not the image he had of the leader of their enclave. He heard they would be led by Malice — one of the strongest of their leaders — he probably heard wrong.

“Sir,” Eldwig starts. “None of the fangs have returned.”

“What of news from Bountiful?”

“None sir, as if nothing happened.”

“The nobles will certainly cover-up such a scandal,” explains the plump figure. “They would not want to acknowledge their weakness or admit the Serpents laid them low.”

The man was in all regards, Malice — he just happened to have a less suitable body than his previous one.

“That might be so, Enlightened One,” Eldwig hesitates. “But it could also imply that the attack simply didn’t happen.”

Malice stands up, power emanating from his round figure. “Explain yourself — but make sure to measure your words.”

The fangs were the most devoted of their group, ready to die to further their cause and kill for the sake of the Prophecy. They would not balk at their mission — not after months of planning, infiltration, and preparation.

Three dozen fangs, with half of them spellcasters — they would have wrought havoc on the Lilac estate, killing their way through nobles and their retinue.

“I do not besmirch the fangs, Enlightened One. I only point out that there might have been a tragic mistake.”

“Mistake?”

The possibility of a flaw in their plans was unthinkable. It spanned six arduous months, straining their resources and magical reserves. Malice crafted the portal himself over a span of 3 months — sneaking inside through the help of an insider, working his craft for an hour or two each time.

There could have been no mistake. The greatest of mages would not have detected their portal. Only divinities above dominions could sense it — even then they would have to be really close to detect the portal’s cloaked infernal power.

“Impossible!” Malice rages. “The passage to Cocytus was paid in sacrifice and blood. Our demon allies would not betray our trust.”

“It wasn’t the demons,” the Acolyte shivers. He knows his life might end by saying his next words — but he was dutiful to the Cause and the Prophecy.

“It was the portal.”

“You’re saying I made the mistake?” Malice glares at the Acolyte, holding back from tearing him apart with his bare hands or draining his soul with a spell. Power flares from his being, enveloping the room with darkness and the promise of hellfire.

The acolyte drops to his knees, unable to withstand the daunting power of the spellcaster before him.

“Perhaps you don’t know who is before you, acolyte.” he sneers. “I am Malice of the Darklight, Master of Gates, and Destroyer of Oldswell. You think I made a mistake?”

So he is Malice.

“You’ve failed before...”

Waves of darkness crash into the defiant acolyte, draining the life from his body and consuming his very soul. His body drops to the floor, a dried husk that soon crumbles into dust.

“I know I’ve failed before...”