But the…

Darn. Nothing rhymed with orange.

With a weary sigh and an enraged squeak of frustration, Alstaf hurled the latest poetic effort into the nearby fire, where it sizzled and flopped. A metaphor for his writer’s block, he mused.

The pressure had gotten to him, he reasoned, standing and wandering to the window of his Terror Mountain cottage. Across the snowy terrain, young pets threw snowballs and built snow-Wockies. The sunlight, chilled by the faint touch of winter, cast dappled patterns upon glittering ivory. The scene itself should have inspired a million poems, but all it made him want to do was vacation somewhere warm. Being considered Neopia’s greatest poet was one thing… He hadn’t let it go to his head, hadn’t gotten uppity, like some might have…

But what good was it when he had lost his gift?

He couldn’t remember the exact second it had happened. Perhaps he was burnt out. Perhaps inspiration had escaped him. Perhaps he was out of apples. It really was time to do some shopping. Perhaps get some bread.

He shook the thought away. Lately he couldn’t focus on poetry to save himself. The last great work he had written had been an ode to Edna. A bit of an odd subject, certainly, but the witch of the Haunted Woods had paid well, so he had bitten his words back and constructed a flowing saga to her grace. Well, nobody said it had to be non-fiction. Since that poem, nothing. Nada. Just words that didn’t rhyme and the occasional odd limerick about Chias from Brightvale. It was as if his own quill had betrayed him.

There it sat, motionless upon the desk where his work had once flowed like a river. Now it just seemed to mock him. The ivory, feathered instrument of disappointment, nestled next to the silent insult of blank paper.

He blinked.

Well, it should have been blank.

The quill hadn’t moved, but the paper itself was rapidly filling…

A cascade of ink was…

…cascading?

The half-spun metaphor faltered and drifted away, a concept brushed against but unable to reach realization, but the words – whatever they were cascading like, they were none so frail. The page was rapidly filling itself with a looping, slightly slanted cursive script, stray spatters of ink appearing here and there to dot the paper as though flung from an invisible, hasty quill. The words were unfamiliar, to say nothing of the invisible hand that penned them, but the handwriting, he recognized immediately.

It was his own, after all.

On a better day, Alstaf might have taken a minute or five to think – how this in and of itself was a metaphor, the way words could flow from mind to page with seemingly no input from the hands. The first drafts were often haphazard and unpolished, but pure in meaning and intent, when words fell freely from the soul and… splattered? Landed? They got on the page, somehow, and… happened, and it was fast becoming clear why those several minutes of introspection on the nature of the creative process weren’t happening.

Today, Alstaf Poogle was feeling about as poetic as a Slorg in a… place with salty things, and so he merely snatched it up, hungry eyes devouring the sudden words without half a thought as to where they had come from.

They widened as he read.

Greetings, my theater, my font of quintessence;
Pardon the meter, but time’s of the essence.
Words carry and wind, but please, tarry not.
These words stand to bind, dare you dig past the rot.

How fallen from grace is the
Endless mind’s drought
Loved things were misplaced, and
Poor Alstaf’s without

Mind separate from matter, except in one thing
Expert thief is the witch; ware the mayhem she brings

This new malady
Has unnatural causes
More dire than you know

How black, consider, is the night
Untouched by even trace starlight
Regret for the words yet unsaid
Regret for fountains dried and dead
Your eyes are open without sight

I beg your pardon, Alstaf dear;
I cannot speak in simple prose.
My efforts yet have yielded null,
And my brief time draws near its close.
Circumstance is rare our friend
And inward digs its claw and tooth.
I spin my words in desperate strings
And hope to capture, here, the truth.

Consider this verse, consider this flow,
Consider the gift you’ve lost brokenhearted,
I am your muse, and fast should you know:
Three weeks ago were we roughly parted…

Alstaf turned the paper around, turned the paper on different angles, but the message didn't continue onto anything. Nothing. The message had ended in the middle of a prose - nothing bothered Alstaf more than an unfinished poem. He almost crumpled up the paper. He was as frustrated as a...

As frustrated as a...

As a kid who didn't get his way?

No, that didn't work at all. The Poogle knocked over the ink bottle in a fit of frustration. He didn't mean to, but he felt better after the ink spilled. Though when the ink started going everywhere, he became concerned after the ink spread like a...

Like a...

Now was not the time for half finished similies.

"No no no, this ink will make a mess, it'll never come out," Alstaf said to himself as he rushed to clean his desk of the dark blue ink. "Ink stains are as stubborn as Skarl, maybe even more stubborn if a thing existed." He stopped as he thought about the sentence he had just said. That was the first poetic thing he had said in a week.

While Alstaf was focusing on the similie he just spouted, the ink went all across the table. The feather of the quill went from ivory to midnight blue. The paper soaked up the ink without hesitation, rendering the message that had just appeared unreadable.

Alstaf groaned as the paper was ruined by the ink. He just stared in defeat at his ruined desk. That defeat was slowly washed away as the ink was repelled by some of the letters. As the paper was soaked into the paper, outlines of a few letters remained untouched. Alstaf read the outlines of the letters. He recognized that they were all in a neat column. They were all the first letter of each line.

H
E
L
P

M
E

H
U
R
R
Y

Alstaf couldn't believe his eyes. He wasn't sure if this was nonsense or a fluke. He picked up the ink soaked paper, being sure not to get his fingers stained. It wasn't a trick of the light, the letters were still there. But what could have caused this?

Alstaf just did what he thought would lead to some more answers. He cleaned off his desk and put a fresh sheet of paper on the wood surface to see what happened...

"No, I just need to calm my mind and collect my thoughts." Alstaf said to himself, tapping the pen to the paper that he had just laid out.

His gaze turned upward, thinking of what he could write about, his pen slowly slipping from his fingers. And then his ears perked up when he heard the sound of the pen scratching along the paper once more.

a Poet's mind is a prize
for secrets and truth it beLies
Even when a thought is dull
inspirAtion can soon be full

so even if a tale is Short
all their words are worth Effort

there is MAGIC in their writing
beauty, Truth, it's sO exciting
Or darkness, fear, emotions dwell
Keeps the reader under the spell

TALENT? No, all have the gift
some just must develop it.

At that point the pen stopped writing. This time the message was clear to him. But it didn't make sense. How? Or Why?

He did not have much time to think about what just happened. As he stared at the ink-covered paper, a soft, delicate knock rapped about the door to his study.

"Alstaf? It's me. The Storyteller..."

“Come in,” he called wearily as he hurried to the door, the sheaf of paper that may-or-may-not have contained his trapped muse clutched in hand.

A green Eyrie stepped into his cottage gingerly, brushing snow from his broad wings. A thick, tattered tome was held in one claw; the other cupped his chin thoughtfully as he surveyed his friend’s abode.

“My, Alstaf. Forgive me for saying so, but you’ve seen better days.”

Alstaf grimaced; he could hardly deny it. His studio was a mess, half-eaten food forgotten on the table and scribbled papers strewn everywhere. Ash dotted the rug around his hearth, the grave of a dozen poems-that-weren’t.

The Storyteller took a step closer, expression turning a shade mournful. “What has happened to you, my friend?”

The Poogle sighed. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

The Storyteller scoffed. “Why, Alstaf! You should know how deeply I detest the concept of making a long story short. It’s nothing less than sacrilege! So much is lost! So much is… is that page writing itself?”

Alstaf looked down. Yes, yes it was. “It would seem so,” he sighed, laying the sheet on his desk. A new poem had appeared, which he proceeded to read aloud.

“Enter Storyteller, the poet’s old twin.
Duet of the pen and potential within.
Neither poem nor prose can triumph alone,
Act together, perhaps, and bring me back home.”

It was short, and he stumbled over the ending, expecting more words to spin themselves beyond the short stanza – but nothing came. He lifted his eyes back to his friend. “It indeed is self-writing; this is the third time it has chosen to create something. The implications of such a thing are staggering, to say the least.”

The Eyrie gave it a sidelong glance that almost seemed… trepid? “Well, yes, Alstaf, but this… perhaps not the first time I’ve seen works that write themselves. Some more literal than others.” He rubbed his beak, looking sheepish. “These are powerful forces you toy with. Perhaps dangerously so. Be careful, old friend.”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Alstaf said grimly. “If these verses are to be believed, this is none other than my muse – stolen from me. I have little choice but to get involved.”

“Is that so?” The Storyteller tilted his head, looking a little more invested. “The literal embodiment of such a banal, yet crippling, malady. The muse, lost and alone, calling out to its soul – or perhaps its heart. How very… curious. How did this come to pass?”

“I know you asked for the long story, but the long story involves little more than three dreary, dull weeks of the most terrible writer’s block I’ve ever experienced. I can scarcely string together a functioning metaphor these days.” Alstaf gestured to the page. “Until today, upon which something has chosen to write to me – something that claims to be my muse.”

The Storyteller picked it up, reading and turning it over. “The capital letters… ‘please… magic took talent.’ Hmmm. I must confess, it is strange to see such things in your own handwriting. Though I am not certain what the more recent one hopes to convey – unless it is simply cementing the call to adventure, now that your characters are assembled. For the record, Alstaf, I’m with you. Something most curious is afoot here, and I will not rest until my part in this tale is done.”

“It’s an acrostic,” Alstaf said, realization dawning. “Edna…”

The Storyteller’s beak scrunched. “Edna? A most unpleasant character, to be sure, but why…” He trailed off.

“Three weeks ago, I wrote an epic for Edna – self-aggrandizing drivel, just a tribute to egomania – and ever since, I haven’t been able to finish the hastiest of sonnets. Nothing comes.”

The Eyrie’s frown deepened, but instead of disbelief, he merely looked pensive. “Actually, that explains rather a lot. A month ago, I received a rather unusual request…”

Alstaf felt his stomach beginning to… drop? Curdle? Curdle was a decent word, albeit difficult to rhyme, but it wasn’t quite encompassing the sort of nauseous déjà vu he’d probably have some really good words for on a regular day.

“Let me guess. Edna wanted a story?”

The Storyteller puffed out his chest. “I did not accept, of course – I am no common author, and my works are not things to be peddled. Whims do not come when called; I answer to my muse alone. Ah, no offense to you, of course, my friend. Yet, I wonder…” He scratched his chin. “Had I accepted, what might have become of me?”

“I think you can see the answer,” the Poogle replied dryly, gesturing to the messy cottage around him. “But this doesn’t make any sense. “It… it’s like…” Alstaf struggled and frowned when once more, suitable words failed him, dancing on the very edge of his perceptions. “Edna’s a witch. What would she want with muses? Is she looking to get into the Neopian Times?”

“I do not know, but I do know this.” The Eyrie’s eyes glinted. “Whatever schemes Edna has brewing, a fantastic story is afoot, and I’m not about to let it pass me by. Let us be off, Alstaf. The Haunted Woods awaits…”

And that was how Alstaf Poogle found himself dragged out of his misery and halfway across the globe, with an eager green Eyrie in tow and a sheaf of papers in hand…

Chilling laughter and creeping creaks broke Alstaf out of his musings and suddenly he was aware of just how close to the Haunted Woods they were. Lush leaves and cloudless skies quite suddenly turned to darkness and bare and gnarled trees.

The Storyteller's eyes and mind remained glued to the latest issue of The Neopian Times. Alstaf nudged The Eyrie just as the carriage they'd traveled by came to a halt.

"Sorry," said the rather slight-looking Gelert minding the carriage, "I don't go any further than this..."

"Right, of course," said The Storyteller tossing a few coins into his paws.

"Come, comrade!" exclaimed the Eyrie, fearlessly. "The story has just begun!"

Alstaf hesitate, looking back and forth. The carriage had already disappeared through the Deserted Fairgrounds and out of view. There was no going back.

"Well...do we just charge into Edna's Tower? Certainly there's a more diplomatic approach we can take?" questioned the Poogle, who grew wearier by the minute.

The Storyteller shook his head in deep thought before his eyes lit up with an answer.

"Of course! The gypsies. They love a good story..."

"Oh yes," the Eyrie piped up. He then whispered to Alstaf, "leave things to me," before he stepped forward to converse with the gypsies. Greetings first. I'm the Storyteller and this is my dear old friend, Alstaf Poogle, the Poet."

"We know -" One of them said.

"And we're huge fans!" The other finished.

"That's great to hear!" exclaimed the Storyteller, spreading his wings in a proud manner but making them droop helplessly by his sides as he continued in a dejected voice. "But you see, Alstaf's talent has been stolen. Without that, he won't ever become the grand poet that all of us have adored."

The Aishas gasped in unison.

The Eyrie nodded. Alstaf inwardly thought that he was putting up a brilliant act, like a shining star. "Most unfortunately, it has been taken away by a powerful witch by the name of Edna. It is paramount that Alstaf get it back or else..." He left his sentence hanging.

"We can help you!" said the gypsies at the same time.

"Will you?" the Storyteller flapped his wings gleefully. His face beamed as bright as a shining beacon. "Would you possibly know the location of Edna's castle?"

"We do," one of the Aishas replied with a grin, "we can lead you there."

As Alstaf followed the gypsies, he noticed that the paper in the Storyteller's claw began to fill itself up with the same loopy font as his muse's." He nudged the Eyrie and pointed at the paper. Together, they read the message:

Trust, must you know, is not easily got
Random strangers, follow you must not
Allies with the witch, dangers lurk
Possible ones await, it is no perk

Alstaf knew by now that this was another acrostic. "It's a trap..." he muttered. "We must not follow them."

"But they can bring us there," the Eyrie said, "we'll think about what to do later."

And so they followed the gypsies up the spiral staircase to Edna's tower...

"Fellow gypsies call me 'The Storyteller'," started the Red Aisha. "But in your presence, my actual name might be preferred." She giggled and shook the paws of the Poogle, then Eyrie. "Maria."

"And I'm Rene," replied the yellow Aisha before a similar exchange of paw-shaking pleasantries.

"You know," said Rene, "we've been up here a lot. Traveling about the Woods, Edna's tower tends to be on our stops." She grinned mischievously.

Alstaf cast an uneasy glance at The Storyteller.

"We're quick on our feet. We like to taunt her, move around her things, etcetera," Maria finished.

"That's... good," Alstaf said hesitantly.

Their feet made echoey, almost distant clicks as they continued their climb. The atmosphere made even The Storyteller nervous.

The Aishas turned around to face the artists they were guiding. "You two look so uncertain," Maria started, concerned. "Would you like us to take your paws?"

"Er, that won't be necessary," the Eyrie replied quickly. And then, noticing a small custodial door about 15 steps up -- an escape route -- The Storyteller formed an idea. "Hey," he continued, "how about... well, how about you tell us a story?"

"Gladly," Maria replied with a huge smile. "One day, in Neovia, Bart couldn't find his stock of apples -- you see, he places about 10 new apples in his bin every hour -- and naturally he was in a frenzy..."

The Storyteller, meanwhile, lightly tapped the shoulder of his poetic counterpart.

"Hm?"

The Eyrie pointed at the fastly approaching door.

Alstaf understood and nodded.

The paces of the two Catacombers slowed in comparison to that of their Aisha guides, and when the gypsies had their backs turned Alstaf and the Storyteller quickly opened the door and locked it behind them.

"And so Sophie--Hey!" came Maria's muffled voice from the other side of the heavy wood door. "Why'd you guys go in there? Come out!"

"No, go away!" Alstaf shouted back at them.

And then came the jingling of keys. The two were going to open the door.

The Storyteller and Alstaf the Poogle ran fast as they could away from the Aisha TRAP and toward the other side of the long, dimly-lit, curving corridor.

Alstaf noticed something, however. "Storyteller, the floor seems to be sloping."

Indeed it was. "Indeed it is," the Eyrie replied.

And then the corridor abruptly ended, with a single closed door.

Hearing footsteps behind them -- the Aishas -- the two knew they had no other choice, and entered, closing the door behind them.

They appeared to be in... Edna's study. There was a neat little leather chair, a cauldron-table with a single melted green candle beside it; and tons of books lined the shelves lining the wall. Naturally, the two were interested in the lattermost and scanned the tomes.

They were mostly books of magic, but also the odd book of poetry and prose, which Alstaf and The Storyteller were extremely surprised to see.

Alstaf read the titles aloud as he brushed over them with his paw. "'Compilation of Tuskaninny Day Poems Vol. III', 'Storytelling Competition Weeks 500 through 599', 'Turning Neopets into Toads for Beginners'..."

The Eyrie shrugged. "Well, where there's turning Neopets into toads, there's--"

"EDNA!" the witch cackled as she jumped out from behind her chair.

"EDNA!" Alstaf exclaimed with a start. "Unhand my muse!"

The Zafara grinned widely just before the corridor door burst open, two rather unamused-appearing Aishas emerging.

The Storyteller spun around. "I think we have greater problems to deal with..."

"And why did YOU two run off like that?!" Maria shouted while still keeping her body composed, which impressed Alstaf.

Alstaf then noted that, while he and his longtime friend were surrounded, neither the Aishas nor Edna were encroaching closer towards them.

The seconds ticked awkwardly until Alstaf could take it no longer. "OK, who's in cahtoos with who here?"

"I work alone," Edna returned, staring at her reflection in her fingernails.

"And we two gypsies are together and we thought we were going to help you sneak up on Edna," Rene replied, her irritancy softening.

"But how did you have the keys to open the door?" The Storyteller asked.

"I told you," Rene continued, "we like to mess with Edna. We've swiped her keys on more than one occasion."

"I should turn you two into Mortogs," Edna rebutted. "But here I thought I was getting forgetful," the witch mused with a light chuckle.

"Speaking of muse," interjected the storyteller, "there's a task at hand here." He gently pushed Alstaf forward.

Alstaf swallowed and mustered the courage. "Edna..." He paused to regain his composure. "I would like my muse back."

"You and what army?" She narrowed her eyes.

The poet kind of looked around. "Er... isn't it obvious?"

A thin smile spread out over Edna's lips. "Much as I'd love to give you back your muse Alstaf honey it's hard to give what one doesn't have."

"You sold my muse?" the Poogle said, gaping.

"Are you kidding I never stole it in the first place," the Zafara retorted. "I don't even have the power to, that's more of a Fyora thing." She frowned spitefully.

"But... but..." Alstaf was at a loss for words.

"All I wanted was something genuine written about me to add to my library -- Neopians write about me all the time, but always such vicious things." She folder her arms.

"After being turned down by the green guy over there, I commissioned you, Alstaf, to write about to me." She pointed to him. "Reading back the epic -- if you can even call such condescending drivel as that you penned an epic -- I realized your judgements of me were so over-the-top and blunt that there's no way you could have believed me to be any sort of literary critic in any way whatsoever, that there's no way you could have believed me to have any appreciation of the written word whatsoever, that you thus must pass similar judgements about others you believe are beneath you, and that maybe you needed to be taught a lesson as a result."

Alstaf paused and attempted to absorb this. "So where's my muse?"

"You've had it the whole time you dunderbrain!" she scowled, throwing her arms in the air. "All I did was put a spell on you, a simple writer's block spell. It should have worn off after two weeks."

"But I've had writer's block for a month!" the Poogle pleaded.

Edna grinned mischievously. "Then it's your lack of confidence that's preventing you from writing, nothing I did... except for, of course, pretending to be your muse." A sort of condescending innocence spread over her face. "I did a pretty good job, eh, Alstaf? Tricked you something good."

This realization dawned on the poet. Had he been so caught up in not writing poetry, not writing poetry came to consume his being? Had he spent his entire poetic career as of late trying to be better than all other possible poets, and thus the knowledge he might not all the time be destroyed his power to writer? Where had the young, carefree, free-flowing Alstaf gone, who wrote for the sake of writing? Poeticized for poetry itself.

"And come on, think about it," Edna interjected, cutting off the Poogle's train of thought. "You know no magic at all. Do you really think the side of you whose job it is to write words could have figured out how to perform any spells?"

"She speaks with strands of truth," The Storyteller agreed. "To assume your muse could do magic would be a poor plot point. It also assumes the readers aren't the brightest to even go along with it."

"Not helping," Alstaf replied, shooting his friend a dirty look.

"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson, Alstaf. Take every opportunity to write not as an obligation, but as a treasure." She smiled almost kindheartedly, sagely.

And then she cackled, "And now that that's over and done with... BEGONE! BEFORE I TURN YE ALL TO TOADS!"

The four left Edna's study pretty quickly.

"Well, now that that's over and done with," Maria said, mimicking the witch, as they all walked through the corridor and down the Tower steps, "Shall I continue my story?"

"I'd love if you do," the Eyrie replied.

"I on the other hand, should probably return home," Alstaf said. "She calls to me, long-forgotten refuge as I stand, cold, in the darkest of woods, darkest of places... darkest of times my soul has seen."

Rene smiled and shook the Poogle's paw. "Good to have you back Mr. Alstaf."

The Poet... yes, that's what he was, smiled. "It's good to be back."

The Aishas and The Storyteller walked toward the gypsy camp.

Alstaf walked the other way. He'd get home, make some Earl Grey Tea, and write some poetry.

A perfect Friday night.

THE END.