The peevish spirit pulled out a bottle filled with dark fluid, opened the cork, and sniffed the contents.
“Doesn’t smell like a bad vintage,” she said.
“That was dumb!” the boy scolded. “It could have released a poison.”
“You had the ointment, the panacea. It smells good,” the sylph argued.
She then removed thirteen daggers, thirteen cloaks, thirteen ropes, thirteen hats, garments, foodstuffs, more wines and ports, phials of liquids, parchments, hats, mats, a tent, keys, a cart, rings, strings, snakes, snails, puppy dog tails, dragon scales, and a plethora of other things. Items filled the little cottage and the Bag of Concealment was not empty! Many items had auras of Magick.
“The owner was a superstitious lot. He kept thirteen of many things and seven of nothing,” the sylph mused.
“Do you believe in the luck of thirteen and the misfortune of seven, mother?” the boy asked.
“Just say that I carried seven blue roses on the day I fell into the sprite trap, my son,” the sylph answered angrily. “The witless woodsman knew not the Magick of the trap! Death did not end my torment! I’m changed to this cursed wisp of existence! I don’t know whom I’m to ultimately serve! For now, I’m confined to this cottage and that witless dragon barely sustains itself waiting for me to exit and return to my beloved woods!”
benjamintowe 