Flashback—The Making of a Keeper

Now, don’t go thinking I was always the expert I am today! Oh no, I was just a young goblin back then—grew up in a swampy little warren, where we goblins aren’t exactly known for being “neat and tidy.” Our clan? Well, we were… less about traditional goblin life and more about experimenting with things we probably shouldn’t have been messing with. And by “things,” I mean curses, ancient relics, and things with way too many teeth.

I remember the day that changed everything for me.

It was a typical, muggy afternoon in the Swamp of Woe—real gloomy place, where the trees groan with every gust of wind, and the frogs gossip about things I’d rather not know. The warren was tucked under a gnarled oak tree, with mud walls that reeked of mold and mystery. And like most things in life, curiosity got the better of me.

“RollForSnacks!” I heard my mama’s voice, sharp as a steel blade, calling from the back of the den. “If you break one more thing with that blasted wand of yours, you’re gonna be living with the bats!”

I didn’t answer her—I was too busy studying a peculiar object I’d found earlier that day in the bog. It was a tiny chest, all crooked and damp, as if the earth itself had tried to swallow it whole. The lock was rusted, but I could tell it wasn’t your typical ‘throwaway’ trinket. Oh no, this was special. I could feel it in the tips of my ears. The thing was alive somehow—maybe not in the “gonna start singing opera” way, but it was definitely more than just an old piece of junk.

I tried to pick the lock with a stick, but that didn’t work too well. So, like any good goblin, I decided to lick the keyhole to see if I could taste its magic. That’s when things went sideways.

The chest opened with a creak—not an ordinary creak, mind you, but one that seemed to echo across the swamp. The air went still, like everything was holding its breath. Inside the chest was a single, glowing shard of obsidian, pulsing with dark energy. It practically hummed under my fingertips as I touched it. Curiosity kills, they say, but in my case, curiosity’s what put me on the map.

I didn’t know then that the shard was cursed—naturally, I had no idea it was part of an ancient artifact used by long-dead sorcerers to trap souls. In the grand tradition of “being a goblin,” I picked it up like it was the most normal thing in the world. But the moment my fingers made contact, everything around me changed.

A voice, deep and ominous, rang in my skull: “Only the Keeper of Curses may hold the shard. You must pass the test.”

Well, I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge! Tests? Oh, I loved a good test. Especially when it meant getting my hands on something shiny and totally cursed.

“Pass the test? Ha! What test? Bring it on!” I yelled, waving the shard like a banner of victory. That’s when the swamp decided to make its displeasure known.

The ground beneath me began to rumble, and a great, gurgling sound came from the muck. Before I could run, something big shot out of the swamp’s edge—big and sticky. A giant, oozing slug, nearly the size of a house, lunged for me. It had glistening slime dripping from its back, and what looked like a hundred eyes scattered across its bulbous form. The thing oozed curses like a leaky barrel!

I screamed, of course, and ran. Slime dripping in my fur, I dodged around the trees, my feet slipping on the soggy ground. The slug pursued, slow but steady, and every time it touched the ground, it left a trail of bad luck behind. I could feel it—the flood of misfortune surging through the air like a tidal wave.

And then came the voice again, the deep, unyielding voice of the curse: “Only the Keeper of Curses can survive. Prove your worth.”

By the time I had managed to scramble up a tree, my clothes were drenched in swamp water, and my heart was pounding in my chest. I didn’t know what to do next, but, as I often do, I resorted to the one thing I’m best at: talking.

“Hey! Slug-thing!” I yelled, dangling from the tree’s lowest branch. “You think you can scare me? I’ve got more curses than a rat’s got fleas!”

The slug paused, as if confused. I saw the opening. The shard still pulsed in my hand, so I raised it high and shouted, “I’m the Keeper of Curses now!”

Something in the air shifted—like the swamp itself exhaled. The slug stopped, its many eyes locking onto me. Then, slowly, it turned around and slithered back into the muck.

The voice returned, this time with an undertone of approval: “You have proven yourself worthy. The curse is now yours to wield.”

And just like that, I was the Keeper of Curses—fancy title, isn’t it? But with it came a lot more responsibility than I expected. Not only did I have to keep track of every cursed trinket I found, but I also had to deal with the unfortunate consequences of others finding them. So, from that day on, I made it my business to collect cursed things, break curses, and, when I could, make a tidy profit off of them.

In fact, it was that very shard that led me to Wyrmhollow all those years ago—the market, the chaos, the screaming… and of course, the constant supply of unsuspecting adventurers.

And that, my friend, is how the Keeper of Curses was born. So, the next time you pick up a cursed ring or a slightly off lantern, remember: You’re not just dealing with some goblin. Oh no. You’re dealing with someone who earned their title. And probably gave the swamp a permanent stain while doing it.