Moppin Makes An Entrance
It had started with tea.
It always did.
Zef had just poured three cups, one for himself, one for Snorb, and one for whatever impromptu guest Snorb’s errands had attracted this time... when a spectral soup ladle flew through the air and smacked him squarely in the hat.
“SNORB.” Zef’s voice was calm. Dangerously calm. The kind of calm that made enchanted spoons tremble.
From behind a toppled cabinet, Snorb peeked out with a sheepish grin and a vaguely haunted look in his eyes. “I swear this wasn’t my fault. Not entirely.”
“Ghosts. Again?”
“Technically polter-sprites. Slight difference.”
Before Zef could respond, the drawer across the room flew open with enough force to scatter spoons like confetti.
Out flew Moppin Tiddlewhack, a teacup-sized blur of righteous fury and sock lint.
“For the FLUFF AND THE FLOORBOARDS!” he bellowed, dive-bombing a jar of cursed flour.
Zef watched, completely unbothered, as the tiny Brownie vaulted off a sugar tin, batted a sprite into submission with his thimble, then slid down the counter using a butter knife like a surfboard.
“Afternoon, Moppin,” Zef called mildly, sipping his tea. “New socks in the top drawer if you’re nesting again.”
Moppin skidded to a stop, turned midair, and gave Zef a salute. “You’re a good gnome, Zef. You’ve got a solid domestic aura.”
Zef smiled warmly. “Just trying to keep the house from spontaneously combusting again.”
Snorb was still wrestling a floating colander when Zef casually walked over, muttered a charm in Old Gnomish, and snapped his fingers. All the polter-sprites went stiff as overcooked biscuits and dropped harmlessly to the floor.
“Tea’s ready,” he said, adjusting his hat like this was the most normal Tuesday ever.
Moppin landed in Snorb’s satchel with a satisfied plop. “You see why I like him? You bring the chaos, Snorb, but he brings the cleanup spells.”
Snorb sat down next to Zef with a groan, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. “I bring other things too, you know.”
“Oh, you do,” Zef said, kissing his temple. “Like existential dread, haunted jam, and spontaneous shirtlessness.”
Moppin slurped his tea loudly. “And yet, somehow, you two work. Fae help us all.”
It always did.
Zef had just poured three cups, one for himself, one for Snorb, and one for whatever impromptu guest Snorb’s errands had attracted this time... when a spectral soup ladle flew through the air and smacked him squarely in the hat.
“SNORB.” Zef’s voice was calm. Dangerously calm. The kind of calm that made enchanted spoons tremble.
From behind a toppled cabinet, Snorb peeked out with a sheepish grin and a vaguely haunted look in his eyes. “I swear this wasn’t my fault. Not entirely.”
“Ghosts. Again?”
“Technically polter-sprites. Slight difference.”
Before Zef could respond, the drawer across the room flew open with enough force to scatter spoons like confetti.
Out flew Moppin Tiddlewhack, a teacup-sized blur of righteous fury and sock lint.
“For the FLUFF AND THE FLOORBOARDS!” he bellowed, dive-bombing a jar of cursed flour.
Zef watched, completely unbothered, as the tiny Brownie vaulted off a sugar tin, batted a sprite into submission with his thimble, then slid down the counter using a butter knife like a surfboard.
“Afternoon, Moppin,” Zef called mildly, sipping his tea. “New socks in the top drawer if you’re nesting again.”
Moppin skidded to a stop, turned midair, and gave Zef a salute. “You’re a good gnome, Zef. You’ve got a solid domestic aura.”
Zef smiled warmly. “Just trying to keep the house from spontaneously combusting again.”
Snorb was still wrestling a floating colander when Zef casually walked over, muttered a charm in Old Gnomish, and snapped his fingers. All the polter-sprites went stiff as overcooked biscuits and dropped harmlessly to the floor.
“Tea’s ready,” he said, adjusting his hat like this was the most normal Tuesday ever.
Moppin landed in Snorb’s satchel with a satisfied plop. “You see why I like him? You bring the chaos, Snorb, but he brings the cleanup spells.”
Snorb sat down next to Zef with a groan, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. “I bring other things too, you know.”
“Oh, you do,” Zef said, kissing his temple. “Like existential dread, haunted jam, and spontaneous shirtlessness.”
Moppin slurped his tea loudly. “And yet, somehow, you two work. Fae help us all.”
