LJ Idol Wheel of Chaos: "Shortcomings"
Jun. 29th, 2025 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
halfshellvenusShortcomings
Idol Wheel Of Chaos | Week 2 | 1738 words
If It's Any Consolation
x-x-x-x-x
Derg was a dwarf, one of the last of his kind in the Regent's kingdom. He lived in a damp cave deep inside the Blighted Hills, where he wove moss into clothing and practiced the art of metalworking.
There were no other dwarfs in the Hills or nearby villages, so Derg lived alone, which he did not like. Something else he did not like was being mistaken for a troll. Every week, when Derg went to market, he watched the kingdom's other residents back away as he passed by, every one of them leery of being forced to solve riddles. I'm nothing like a troll! he thought. Do they even look past the beard?
Little did they know that Derg also hated riddles. Riddles were tricksy, and they made him feel stupid. And short. Somehow, they always made him feel short.
So, Derg was proud of the fact that he at least was not a troll. Trolls were the worst. Or maybe that was ogres. Trolls were different from ogres how? Yes, they were smaller, and they had fewer pustules. But what else? Not as smelly? Even smellier?
There was a lot of overlap. Both were ill-tempered, stubborn, and prone to vexing others. The important thing was that nobody liked them, and that included Derg. Which also meant that nobody liked him.
Was it really so much to ask, wanting to be appreciated for more than his skill in making jewelry, swords, and daggers?
Derg was certain he could be a fine conversationalist, given the chance. With all he knew about earth and ore and mushrooms and bugs, he was obviously fascinating. And he made the best meadow-slug marmalade of anyone. Those humans didn't know what they were missing!
So, Derg kept at it. And every week, when he trudged into town with his cart of wares, he hoped things might be different–if he could only figure out how to make that happen.
He tried whistling tunes to make himself seem friendlier, but maybe doom-dirges were the wrong kind of music? He also tried showing a lot of teeth, the way the humans did, but that seemed to make things worse. Derg had very few customers that particular week.
With no other dwarfs around, he was lonely, and there was no one he could ask about how to make friends.
The spiders in his cave had suggestions about dropping in on people, but Derg had found that spiders were wrong about everything, so he ignored them–though he still saved the best beetles for them when he could. It was only polite.
There was also the raven he met on the way to market one day. "Everyone likes shiny things," the raven said, "and you have lots to share." But that was no good– Derg needed to sell his wares in order to have money. He couldn't afford to just give them away. And while people were happy to buy what he made, they had no personal interest in him. He was just a talented maybe-troll to them.
Derg wondered why it seemed so different for elves. They were possibly more attractive than dwarfs– princesses never ran away screaming from them. It was also said that elves could do magic, which would obviously make them popular. Magic would come in very handy, Derg thought, especially when he needed more iron or jewels for his work. Sometimes he almost wished that he were an elf, but then he would remember the ridiculous pointy hats and the rumors about elves' excessive involvement with footwear. Also, they were even shorter than dwarfs. Ha! Derg would think. At least I'm not an elf!
Derg pondered all of these things as he hammered and clanged at his forge in the meadow by his cave. The frustration fueled him, resulting in sharper, pointier daggers and stronger, deadlier swords. But it didn't solve his problem.
Sometimes, Derg stomped his way through fields and fens in his frustration, scattering toads and frogs every which way. And sometimes he just grumped around the nearby forest, mocking squirrels and throwing pinecones at trees. No doubt it was childish, but everyone deserved a good wallow now and then.
One morning, after a really satisfying grumping, Derg stumbled out of the forest and nearly ran into a goat.
"Oh!" Derg said. "Pardon me."
The goat froze. "I'm not looking for any trouble," it bleated.
"Trouble?" Derg asked.
"Oh," the goat said. "Sorry. I thought you were a troll."
"What?" Derg shouted.
"I wouldn't have cared," the goat said hastily, "only, goats and trolls are natural enemies."
"Riddles," Derg scowled.
"And bridges," the goat shuddered.
Derg nodded. "Trolls are the worst."
"Also wizards," the goat said. "Did you know I used to be a deer? But my brothers and I came across a wizard one day, and Poof! Suddenly, we were all goats!"
"That's terrible!" Derg said.
"It really is.," the goat agreed. He studied Derg for a moment. "Where were you off to, just now?"
"Back to my forge. I have a knife and a sword that need to be finished by market day."
The goat's ears perked up. "Do you mind if I come with you? I've never seen anyone do metalwork before."
Derge felt a smile forming, a real one. "Please!" he said.
They walked side-by-side along the path leading from the forest. The goat, whose name was Gerald, told Derg news about the village, the farms, and the forests. Derg had never realized there was so much happening in the world around him. He didn't recognize most of the names, of course, but he knew who the butcher and the baker were, as well as those demented, shoe-sniffing elves.
They kept talking as Derg got to work. He fed the fire, stoking it hotter and hotter, and then began with the knife. He heated, hammered, and reheated the metal again and again, the knife slowly taking shape.
Gerald was fascinated. "You're quite good at this," he said. "Imagine having hands instead of hooves!"
Derg, who had never considered such a thing, suddenly felt very lucky indeed.
The goat stayed the rest of the afternoon, watching Derg finish the knife, and then left with a promise of returning the next day.
In the morning, Gerald was back. He brought news of Farmer Brown's daughter and the miller's son, and a wizard sighting two villages away.
Derg listened happily, banging out a sword and then sketching designs in the dirt for the bracelet he would begin working on next.
Day after day, Gerald visited Derg and watched him work. He relayed rumors of upcoming weddings and new houses in the village, and kept the meadow around the forge neatly cropped.
"You seem very good at talking and gathering information," Derg said one day. "How do you do that?"
"A friendly manner helps, and common interests always make for good conversation," the goat said.
"A lot of people are interested in my work," Derg said, "but they don't seem to want to talk to me. They place an order or buy from the wares I've brought, but that's it."
Gerald thought for a moment. "Everyone enjoys talking about themselves. You could start by asking them what they like about a particular knife or piece of jewelry. As you get to know them better, you can ask about their families or their travels, or how their crops are doing. Take an interest in them."
"Is that how you know so much about everyone?" Derg asked
"Well, I don't just talk," Gerald said. "I also listen. People are happy to share their good news, and important things can be learned from the bad. This morning, I found out that trolls have infested the Haymarket bridge again."
Derg groaned. He would have to start taking the longer route to market now, and the trip already took almost two hours each way.
But he was heartened by Gerald's advice. And the next market day, he tried it.
"I noticed you were looking at the daggers. Which design do you prefer?" and "What colors are most popular this year?"
Gradually, people began speaking to Derg. The more he talked with them, the easier it went. Soon, he knew the names of all the villagers, and he would ask about their families and businesses, and which stall had the best apples or the finest fabric. He even learned to make conversation about the weather.
Gerald still visited him often, and Derg was pleased to have news of his own. "The butcher's wife is expecting a child this winter. And the geese at Farmer Ansel's are planning to strike out on their own–won't that be a surprise!"
"I hope they do," Gerald said."I am my own goat, after all, and I much prefer it."
Derg realized that in the months he had known Gerald, he had never thought, At least I'm not a goat. And Gerald seemed to enjoy being a goat, although he seemed as if he would enjoy whatever life happened to be for him, regardless of the details.
Still, Derg asked, "Do you miss it? Being a deer?"
Gerald laughed. "Whenever I come across one, I think, 'I used to be beautiful, too, and now look at me.' But then I remember that no one really hunts goats for food around here, so I'm actually better off."
That, Derg thought, was probably the secret to happiness overall. Noticing the good in every situation, and embracing it.
He made some actual friends over time– the cheerful cheesemonger, the apothecary who shared his interest in plants and herbs, and a very nice horse at one of the farms on the way to the market. Derg didn't realize he'd grown merrier and more approachable himself, and he never noticed that trying to care about others' lives had one day shifted to the point where those details actually mattered to him.
He looked forward to market days now, and he strolled through forests and rambled through meadows without frightening anyone.
Gerald was busier than ever, though he still came by several times a week, if only for a short visit. That was fine, because Derg wasn't lonely anymore.
But even though he no longer saw Gerald every day, the goat was still his first and best friend in the world, and Derg finally knew what that meant.
And that, he thought, was the most important thing of all.
–/–
If you enjoyed this story, please vote for it along with any of your other favorites here!
Idol Wheel Of Chaos | Week 2 | 1738 words
If It's Any Consolation
x-x-x-x-x
Derg was a dwarf, one of the last of his kind in the Regent's kingdom. He lived in a damp cave deep inside the Blighted Hills, where he wove moss into clothing and practiced the art of metalworking.
There were no other dwarfs in the Hills or nearby villages, so Derg lived alone, which he did not like. Something else he did not like was being mistaken for a troll. Every week, when Derg went to market, he watched the kingdom's other residents back away as he passed by, every one of them leery of being forced to solve riddles. I'm nothing like a troll! he thought. Do they even look past the beard?
Little did they know that Derg also hated riddles. Riddles were tricksy, and they made him feel stupid. And short. Somehow, they always made him feel short.
So, Derg was proud of the fact that he at least was not a troll. Trolls were the worst. Or maybe that was ogres. Trolls were different from ogres how? Yes, they were smaller, and they had fewer pustules. But what else? Not as smelly? Even smellier?
There was a lot of overlap. Both were ill-tempered, stubborn, and prone to vexing others. The important thing was that nobody liked them, and that included Derg. Which also meant that nobody liked him.
Was it really so much to ask, wanting to be appreciated for more than his skill in making jewelry, swords, and daggers?
Derg was certain he could be a fine conversationalist, given the chance. With all he knew about earth and ore and mushrooms and bugs, he was obviously fascinating. And he made the best meadow-slug marmalade of anyone. Those humans didn't know what they were missing!
So, Derg kept at it. And every week, when he trudged into town with his cart of wares, he hoped things might be different–if he could only figure out how to make that happen.
He tried whistling tunes to make himself seem friendlier, but maybe doom-dirges were the wrong kind of music? He also tried showing a lot of teeth, the way the humans did, but that seemed to make things worse. Derg had very few customers that particular week.
With no other dwarfs around, he was lonely, and there was no one he could ask about how to make friends.
The spiders in his cave had suggestions about dropping in on people, but Derg had found that spiders were wrong about everything, so he ignored them–though he still saved the best beetles for them when he could. It was only polite.
There was also the raven he met on the way to market one day. "Everyone likes shiny things," the raven said, "and you have lots to share." But that was no good– Derg needed to sell his wares in order to have money. He couldn't afford to just give them away. And while people were happy to buy what he made, they had no personal interest in him. He was just a talented maybe-troll to them.
Derg wondered why it seemed so different for elves. They were possibly more attractive than dwarfs– princesses never ran away screaming from them. It was also said that elves could do magic, which would obviously make them popular. Magic would come in very handy, Derg thought, especially when he needed more iron or jewels for his work. Sometimes he almost wished that he were an elf, but then he would remember the ridiculous pointy hats and the rumors about elves' excessive involvement with footwear. Also, they were even shorter than dwarfs. Ha! Derg would think. At least I'm not an elf!
Derg pondered all of these things as he hammered and clanged at his forge in the meadow by his cave. The frustration fueled him, resulting in sharper, pointier daggers and stronger, deadlier swords. But it didn't solve his problem.
Sometimes, Derg stomped his way through fields and fens in his frustration, scattering toads and frogs every which way. And sometimes he just grumped around the nearby forest, mocking squirrels and throwing pinecones at trees. No doubt it was childish, but everyone deserved a good wallow now and then.
One morning, after a really satisfying grumping, Derg stumbled out of the forest and nearly ran into a goat.
"Oh!" Derg said. "Pardon me."
The goat froze. "I'm not looking for any trouble," it bleated.
"Trouble?" Derg asked.
"Oh," the goat said. "Sorry. I thought you were a troll."
"What?" Derg shouted.
"I wouldn't have cared," the goat said hastily, "only, goats and trolls are natural enemies."
"Riddles," Derg scowled.
"And bridges," the goat shuddered.
Derg nodded. "Trolls are the worst."
"Also wizards," the goat said. "Did you know I used to be a deer? But my brothers and I came across a wizard one day, and Poof! Suddenly, we were all goats!"
"That's terrible!" Derg said.
"It really is.," the goat agreed. He studied Derg for a moment. "Where were you off to, just now?"
"Back to my forge. I have a knife and a sword that need to be finished by market day."
The goat's ears perked up. "Do you mind if I come with you? I've never seen anyone do metalwork before."
Derge felt a smile forming, a real one. "Please!" he said.
They walked side-by-side along the path leading from the forest. The goat, whose name was Gerald, told Derg news about the village, the farms, and the forests. Derg had never realized there was so much happening in the world around him. He didn't recognize most of the names, of course, but he knew who the butcher and the baker were, as well as those demented, shoe-sniffing elves.
They kept talking as Derg got to work. He fed the fire, stoking it hotter and hotter, and then began with the knife. He heated, hammered, and reheated the metal again and again, the knife slowly taking shape.
Gerald was fascinated. "You're quite good at this," he said. "Imagine having hands instead of hooves!"
Derg, who had never considered such a thing, suddenly felt very lucky indeed.
The goat stayed the rest of the afternoon, watching Derg finish the knife, and then left with a promise of returning the next day.
In the morning, Gerald was back. He brought news of Farmer Brown's daughter and the miller's son, and a wizard sighting two villages away.
Derg listened happily, banging out a sword and then sketching designs in the dirt for the bracelet he would begin working on next.
Day after day, Gerald visited Derg and watched him work. He relayed rumors of upcoming weddings and new houses in the village, and kept the meadow around the forge neatly cropped.
"You seem very good at talking and gathering information," Derg said one day. "How do you do that?"
"A friendly manner helps, and common interests always make for good conversation," the goat said.
"A lot of people are interested in my work," Derg said, "but they don't seem to want to talk to me. They place an order or buy from the wares I've brought, but that's it."
Gerald thought for a moment. "Everyone enjoys talking about themselves. You could start by asking them what they like about a particular knife or piece of jewelry. As you get to know them better, you can ask about their families or their travels, or how their crops are doing. Take an interest in them."
"Is that how you know so much about everyone?" Derg asked
"Well, I don't just talk," Gerald said. "I also listen. People are happy to share their good news, and important things can be learned from the bad. This morning, I found out that trolls have infested the Haymarket bridge again."
Derg groaned. He would have to start taking the longer route to market now, and the trip already took almost two hours each way.
But he was heartened by Gerald's advice. And the next market day, he tried it.
"I noticed you were looking at the daggers. Which design do you prefer?" and "What colors are most popular this year?"
Gradually, people began speaking to Derg. The more he talked with them, the easier it went. Soon, he knew the names of all the villagers, and he would ask about their families and businesses, and which stall had the best apples or the finest fabric. He even learned to make conversation about the weather.
Gerald still visited him often, and Derg was pleased to have news of his own. "The butcher's wife is expecting a child this winter. And the geese at Farmer Ansel's are planning to strike out on their own–won't that be a surprise!"
"I hope they do," Gerald said."I am my own goat, after all, and I much prefer it."
Derg realized that in the months he had known Gerald, he had never thought, At least I'm not a goat. And Gerald seemed to enjoy being a goat, although he seemed as if he would enjoy whatever life happened to be for him, regardless of the details.
Still, Derg asked, "Do you miss it? Being a deer?"
Gerald laughed. "Whenever I come across one, I think, 'I used to be beautiful, too, and now look at me.' But then I remember that no one really hunts goats for food around here, so I'm actually better off."
That, Derg thought, was probably the secret to happiness overall. Noticing the good in every situation, and embracing it.
He made some actual friends over time– the cheerful cheesemonger, the apothecary who shared his interest in plants and herbs, and a very nice horse at one of the farms on the way to the market. Derg didn't realize he'd grown merrier and more approachable himself, and he never noticed that trying to care about others' lives had one day shifted to the point where those details actually mattered to him.
He looked forward to market days now, and he strolled through forests and rambled through meadows without frightening anyone.
Gerald was busier than ever, though he still came by several times a week, if only for a short visit. That was fine, because Derg wasn't lonely anymore.
But even though he no longer saw Gerald every day, the goat was still his first and best friend in the world, and Derg finally knew what that meant.
And that, he thought, was the most important thing of all.
–/–
If you enjoyed this story, please vote for it along with any of your other favorites here!
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Date: 2025-06-30 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 11:30 pm (UTC)