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Lugh by Reenie
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LUGH

Illuminated words shimmered in the blue light the emanated from his Gauntlet; with his other hand, he delicately flipped through each page. At last, he stopped on a page that bore a simple knot-design of, coloured by traditional green and orange.

“At last!” Mozenrath hissed gleefully. “The power of Lugh is mine!” Xerxes chuckled as well, slithering around his master’s shoulders.

Quieting the eel, he leaned in for a closer look. The words were tiny, written in the ugly language of the west; Mozenrath sneered at this. “Look at this nonsense,” he muttered. Leaning in further so that his nose nearly touched the page, he began to read aloud, struggling with the words. “Tar isteach... Seo do teach saoire... An mbeidh deoch agat... Deoch do mě Lunasa... failte...” He stopped, give Xerxes an incredulous look. “This is ridiculous. Why am I wasting my time?” He stood, absently straightening his turban.

Without warning, Xerxes’ eyes grew wide in terror. “Master!” he cried. “Look!”

“At what?” Mozenrath asked flatly. With a supercilious snarl, he followed Xerxes’ gaze back down to the book. To his wild amazement, it was no longer flat on the table; it was floating, about three feet off the black stone floor, shimmering extravagantly. It began to contort itself into strange positions, and they watched in frozen terror. From far off they heard what sounded to be a man bellowing. With what seemed to be a great deal of effort, the book spat out something quite large and fleshy, before slamming to a close and falling to the floor with a great deal of clatter.

Mozenrath and Xerxes leaned over the black obsidian table in curiosity at the thing on the floor. It stared back with beady blue eyes that peered from between bushy grey brows and a stubby hooked nose with flaring nostrils.

At last, the thing spoke. “Oh no,” it said dryly. “No need at all t’ help me up. I’m quite fine, thank you for asking.” It groaned, and rolled over on its chubby stomach to push itself up–first on to its knees, and then with a sour grunt, onto its feet. When it was all done, Mozenrath realised that it was not a thing but rather a fat, squat man in green and orange whose height came no higher than the table. His beard was as bushy as his eyebrows, but was still a deep brown; the hair under his jauntily positioned green cap was much the same.

A chubby hand pinched his fat nose, and he shook his head, before peering again at Mozenrath owlishly. “Oy you, what does it take t’ get something t’ drink around here?” he demanded.

As though suddenly brought out of a trance, Mozenrath remember he was still irritated. He gave the little man on of his best sneers. “I serve no one,” he said ominously, his gloved fist beginning to glow. “Then why'd summon me here, you git!” the little man asked. “You invited me in for a drink, and that’s what I want.” He crossed his arms, tapping his foot impatiently.

“I summoned the power of Lugh!” Mozenrath roared, banged both fists on a table. Xerxes winced visibly.

The little man’s eyes grew wide with fright. Quiet suddenly, he began to laugh. “Lugh, eh?” He put on finger beside his nose, looking shrewdly at Mozenrath. “Oh, yeh, we go way back, Lugh and I do. He owes me a pint, he does, that’s why he sent me here.” He pretended to be serious for a moment. “You are the Birthday Boy, aren’t you?”

Mozenrath spluttered in indignation, attempting to ask the little man what business it was of his what day it was, but the little green and orange man continued regardless. With a wave of his chubby hand, the table was suddenly filled with candles and decorations and warm food and tankards of warm brown mead. The room itself was cheerier too, filled with a hazy light, and a fire in a fireplace that was not there before crackled happily. The little man nodded in satisfaction. He waddled in around the table to Mozenrath, who looked down at him with active dislike. “Now that that’s settled...” He held up his right hand. Warily, not knowing why, Mozenrath took it. The little man grinned an awful grin. “Please t’ meet you, Mozenrath, old boy, congratulations on another year!”

He peeked around the tall sorcerer at Xerxes. “Not so fast, boy-o...” He grabbed the eel by his grey tail, pulling him to him. From a pocket on his green coat, the little man pulled out a festive party hat, elastic attached, and placed it on Xerxes’ head. The eel gave a choked cry; outraged, he slithered away, trying unsuccessfully to shake it off of him.

Mozenrath, who still had not taken his eyes of this eccentric stranger, managed to find his tongue again. “Who, and what are you?”

The little man turned back to him. “Who am I? Why, I’m none other than Donall O’Samhradh, I am.” He grinned, tipping his cap, a proud glint in his eyes.

Mozenrath squinted at Donall shrewdly. “You're not a... leprechaun, are you?”

Donall snorted in disgust. “A leprechaun! Really! Do I look like I mend shoes? Do you see me walking around, playing paddy-fingers with other Faeries? I am a Faerie! I am the Faerie of Summer and Good Tidings! And if you don't watch yer mouth, I'll box yer ears, you git!” His face grew quite red. “Now go and eat yer bloody birthday feast!” He pointed to the table.

Scowling, Mozenrath sat anyway, struggling to decide on a plan of action on how to rid himself of the little man. He took a bite of the meat in front of him–it was lamb, dripping with a sort of wine sauce, and on the whole was not all that terrible, he admitted to himself–and pushed the plate away from him. “I am the master here. I take orders from no one!” He growled as Donall climbed into a high-back cushioned chair across from him. Completely irritated, his Gauntlet burst into a searing blue-light.

Donall looked calmly back at him. “Oh, it seems to me that the Birthday Boy’s a bit on the impatient side. You want yer presents now, don't you?” He smiled slickly. “I know exactly what you want–you be wantin’ to go to a footie match, don't you? I bet you do, all the lads yer age are absolutely mad for football! Whot’s yer favourite team? Manchester? I know, Agrabah United! The good old Purple and Blue!”

Mozenrath’s scowl grew deeper, but the glow of the Gauntlet subsided a bit. Donall shrugged, and took a long swig from his tankard. He looked pointedly at Mozenrath’s plate. “Look, boy-o, if you don't eat yer meat, I’m not going to go away,” said Donall. Obediently, wanting to rid himself of the irritating little man as quickly as possible, Mozenrath cleared off his plate in several bites. Donall beamed. “That’s a good lad.”

“You're still here, I see,” he growled.

“Of course I’m still here!” Donall snapped back. “I haven't yet given you yer present!”

Mozenrath groaned inwardly. “The only way I like Agrabah United is when it’s united under my command!”

Donall shrugged again. “I can't do that, fer you, but I brought you something else you've been wantin’ instead. If you'll be so kind as too take a peek at yer dungeon...” He took another long swig.

Mozenrath leaned forward; brushing a few crumbs aside, he waved his Gauntlet over his plate. Instantly, and image of a dark dungeon arose. Pacing behind wrought iron anti-magic bars was a rather good size Gryphon. It’s golden fur and beak gleamed in the little light available, and feathers of the same shade of gold ruffled restlessly. It stopped, sitting on its haunches, and let out a terrible roar. Mozenrath was struck with awe as he let the image fade. “A Gryphon...” he said, nearly drooling with delight.

“Yer Gryphon,” Donall assured him. Mozenrath grinned wickedly; Donall frowned in satisfaction, his blue eyes twinkling. “Eh, look at that! He’s smiling! Who’d’ve thought? Who’d’ve known?” He chuckled to himself.

“It seems I've underestimated you, Donall,” he coughed, slightly embarrassed. “This is a princely gift.”

Donall climbed down from his chair. “All in a days work, it is.” He pointed one stubby finger at the book that lay forgotten on the floor. It rose again, returning immediately to the plain page from whence the little man had come. Donall turned, giving Mozenrath one last look. “Happy Birthday, boy-o. Don't be causing too much trouble with that Gryphon of yers.” With a tip of his cap, he grinned farewell, and stepped back through the shimmering book. The book snapped closed, and returned itself to Mozenrath’s hands. He gaped at it; the untouched feast remained on the table, but the room was a bit darker in the little man’s absence.

Xerxes, still struggling with the party hat, returned to Mozenrath’s side. “Master?” he said plaintively.

Absently, he took the hat off the eel, and placed it next to his plate. “A Gryphon...” he repeated in awe. His grin grew broader, and he laughed; there was even a twinkle in his usually dead eyes. “A Gryphon, Xerxes, do you know what this means?”

Xerxes, who was busy eyeing the feast, shrugged. “Mozenrath pleased?” He nodded; the eel took this as a good sign, and dove for a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Mozenrath watched him, and then sighed. “What are you doing?”

He looked up between bites; a bit of potato and butter was sliding down his forehead. “Eating?” he rasped innocently.

The look Mozenrath gave him was that of a spoiled brat. “If you don't watch yourself, I'll be feeding you to my new Gryphon!” He paused in thought. “That reminds me. It’s feeding time; I want to keep her in good health, now that I have her.” He rose, and started away from the table. “Coming, Xerxes?”

Suddenly, Mozenrath stopped; he turned to Xerxes, letting out another brilliant grin. “You know Xerxes, I think I'll enjoy having the gift of Lugh at my fingertips...”