Thirteen

Wyrtt turned to see a hunched over goblin with skin stained the color of coagulated blood. His crimson hue appeared permanently dyed by some ancient ritual, a testament to the violent ways of his kin. 

"New blood, eh?" the goblin croaked in a voice like boots crushing gravel. He extended a gnarled hand clutching a glowing test tube, electric blue liquid swirling within as if alive. His jagged yellow nails looked ready to pierce the glass.

Wyrtt took it hesitantly, holding the chilled vessel up to inspect its contents. Strange fumes rose from the opening, smelling sickly sweet, almost metallic. "What am I to do with this?" Wyrtt asked.

"Drink up!" the goblin insisted, flashing a grin full of crooked yellow daggers. 

Steeling his courage, Wyrtt tipped the test tube back and downed the mystery potion in one gulp. It tasted cloyingly sweet and fizzy, with an undercurrent of something foreign and metallic - not quite unpleasant, but not natural either. The bubbles danced on his tongue before he swallowed. He loosed a thunderous belch that echoed through the cave, shaking pebbles loose from the ceiling. 

"Urp! What's it supposed to do?" Wyrtt asked, smacking his lips.

"It's just for fun! I call it pop, on account of all the bubbles popping as you drink," the goblin said, chest swelling with pride. "The name's Fizzle. Glad to meet another of our kind! What tribe do you hail from?" 

"I'm Wyrtt, and I don't care to name my old tribe," he replied solemnly, shadows crossing his face. "I left that life behind. They judged me as weak for daring to walk a different path."

Fizzle nodded knowingly, his blood-red skin seeming to darken at the mention of past judgements. "I understand, friend. In my youth, I too faced scorn from kin. I was born of the Red Skulls, a most vicious tribe, even for goblins." He stared down at his clawed hands as if seeing the stains of his past.

"From birth they coat us in enchanted blood-red mud, cursing us with this haunting sanguine complexion." He sighed heavily. "Every day I see their mark upon me, a reminder of the bloody ways of my people. The crimson hue stands for the lifeblood of our defeated enemies."

Wyrtt's Ruby eyes went wide with recognition. He had thought his tribe alone in their depraved cruelty. But most goblin tribes reveled in violence and suffering. 

"I was of the Bloody Fangs," Wyrtt confessed after a thoughtful pause. "We ride giant wolves into battle, slaughtering all in our path. Any survivors face the jaws of our beasts, bones left to decorate our lairs as trophies."

He shook his head bitterly. "I refused my first commanded raid killing. For this act of mercy, they saw me as weak. I fled into exile, now hunted even by those I once called family."

Before Fizzle could respond, a voice called out from the shadows. "The past brings pain, but you must look ahead!" 

Wyrtt turned to see a goblin with wild orange hair sticking out at odd angles, as if he stuck his finger in an electrical socket. His forest green skin seemed darkest around his eyepatch. "The name's Squee! Lore and legends are my specialty," he proclaimed with a dramatic bow.

Fizzle fetched more of the glowing blue potion and passed flasks around. Wyrtt sipped his slowly, savoring the sweetness before letting loose another small belch. 

"So brother, what skills do you possess?" Squee inquired.

"Bombs," Wyrtt grunted in reply.

"Ha! How very goblin of you! We do so love our explosions and chaos," Squee said with a mischievous wink.

At this, Wyrtt frowned, his ears drooping slightly. "Are we monsters?" he asked softly.

Heavy silence fell over the trio.

"More potions!" Fizzle suddenly exclaimed, jumping up to busy himself at the bubbling vats and jars along the cave wall, glass clinking and liquid gurgling.

Squee put a reassuring hand on Wyrtt's shoulder, meeting his gaze. "Friend, others may see us as monsters. Our fangs are sharp, our laughter wild, and violence forever tempts us." His one good eye stared intently. "But good and evil reside within all souls. Each day you choose to resist the shadows makes you heroic."

Wyrtt nodded slowly, contemplating this wisdom as Fizzle returned with more fluorescent drinks. The fizzy potion perked up his spirits. The three goblins sat in amiable silence for a time, sipping their elixirs.

Abruptly, Squee let rip a noxious goblin fart that rattled the glass vials along the walls. "Pee-yew! Who let the hobgoblin in here?" Squee cackled. 

The three descended into raucous laughter that echoed throughout the cave system, their camaraderie overcoming any lingering sadness—at least for today.

Later, alone in his makeshift lab, Wyrtt combined various odd ingredients, seeking new alchemical formulas. He added a vial of clear liquid to a beaker, but instead of the expected pink hue, it turned a vivid violet, nearly glowing. Strange fumes rose from the new concoction, smelling of electricity and cinnamon. Wyrtt wafted the scent toward his nose and inhaled before tentatively tasting the potion.

Sweetness greeted his tongue, but something was different—reality itself seemed to shift. The cave walls blurred as the room spun. Wyrtt's head felt inflated to ten times its size while his feet sank miles away. He giggled uncontrollably, his voice sounding distorted and far away. 

"This must be how gangly humans feel, so tall," he thought. His balloon head bobbed against the ceiling while his body floated weightlessly. 

As Wyrtt drifted upward, the crystalline cave walls began to hum with celestial music. The minerals sang an angelic choir to his senses, audible beauty given form. Enraptured by the heavenly sound, Wyrtt floated along without a care, savoring the all-consuming euphoria. 

Too soon, the music faded as Wyrtt felt himself return to normal goblin size and weight. Back in his alchemy lab, he sniffed the empty vial—cinnamon. Consulting his tomes revealed it as Wyrmwood mushroom, a powerful psychedelic herb granting visions and mystical insight when properly prepared. 

Euphoria tingled through Wyrtt as he recalled those transcendent moments beyond body and time. He yearned to revisit that realm of unity and boundless wisdom. With renewed passion, he set to work crafting the perfect alchemical formula to open his mind and soul to the mystical truths beyond the veil. The visions called to him from beyond, and he would answer.

Over the following weeks, Wyrtt tirelessly sought the ideal combination of rare herbs, minerals, and enchanted waters to distill the elusive Wyrmwood potion. He collaborated with his newfound friends, Fizzle and Squee, who provided ingredients and offered wisdom. 

"To glimpse beyond, you must leave preconceptions behind," advised Squee. 

Fizzle nodded. "What you seek cannot be found, only revealed when the mind is still."

Wyrtt took their words to heart as he slowly assembled the components from across the realms. His lab now overflowing with bubbling vials, mystical powders, and bundles of flora dangling from the ceiling, he set to work on the final formula.

Adding blackroot, grell's vice, sundrop, and dream flake, Wyrtt combined the ingredients over a low flame. After reducing the mixture down to a glowing purple elixir, he carefully decanted it into a crystal vial. It was time.

Squee and Fizzle joined Wyrtt in the ritual chamber, a small cave adorned with glyphs and runes etched into every surface. The three sat in a triangle on the cool stone floor, just large enough for goblin legs to cross. Each held their vial of shimmering liquid.

Without a word, the alchemists locked eyes and downed the contents in unison. The potion tasted electric and warm, reality shifting before it even reached their bellies. As Wyrtt's eyes slid shut, his mind expanded, unbound by flesh. Vivid colors and patterns swirled through the darkness, accompanied by otherworldly music. He felt connected to something vast, a web linking all beings throughout time.

"Let go and look within," whispered a voice.

Wyrtt's spirit floated through non-physical landscapes rich with symbolism. He witnessed the primordial duality, light and dark entwined, giving rise to all creation. Love poured from the source, though some resisted and diverged on paths of isolation. Through all, an intricate order shone.

Wyrtt saw that the bloodthirsty ways of his people arose from past pain, fear propagating fear. But the light remained within them, awaiting awakening. To heal his tribe's wounds, he must tend the wounds within himself first. 

As Wyrtt's journey neared its end, visions of his true calling arose. He saw himself not as a destroyer, but as a mender, using his gifts to heal rather than harm. All matter contained sacred potential. He would help others see this truth.

Gradually, Wyrtt's senses returned in a state of serene clarity. Opening his eyes, he saw Fizzle and Squee, their faces belying a similar sense of peace.  Without words, the goblins embraced, brothers on the path.

Wyrtt emerged from his ancient lair, ready to begin anew. He set off for lands unknown, his alchemy now devoted to healing and hope. Such was the gift of Wyrmwood.