The Tourmaline Visulka

It is said that good things come in small packages, but often it is forgotten that not all small packages are good things. As was true in the little village of Slaughtaverty long ago. For it was ruled by a harrowing dwarf-tyrant known as Abhartach.

Stature and size were much prized in ancient Ireland, as well they might be for a tall warrior or strong farmer will have an easier time of it than a short one, and more likely to win glory for his people. To be born into such a society as a dwarf as Abhartach was it is no wonder how this dark tale came to be. Growing up, Abhartach was often slighted for his size and given undesirable jobs to complete.

But he managed to put himself at the service of a Druid who knew much of ancient lore, twisting and strange incantations, sorcery old when the hills were mountains and purple dragons ruled from their cities of bronze high above. Scut work and pot cleaning he did with great vigor, cooking and washing and ingratiating himself to the Druid who indulged his interests as one might teach a pet a few tricks.

But Abhartach had a trick up his sleeve that the Druid didn’t see coming! And so one rainswept day the Druid went missing and the dwarf along with him, as well as his many scrolls and texts. After some time a new terror began to walk the earth, the dwarf had returned and was strangely changed in appearance, with eyes of green that could be seen from afar and a stench that could be smelled from even farther.

Abhartach began his revenge on those he felt had given him short shrift, whether justly or otherwise, and he demanded and took whatever he wanted from the people of the area. Those who defied him were struck with blight and illness, crushed by great stones, or found in the morning with ghastly looks upon their faces, stone-cold dead.

The people cried out under the lash of this diminutive demon whose powers made him safe in his stack, from where smokes and broils often emanated, until the fae goddess by the name of Aine heard their pleas and rode out on her red mare with her many destined to tackle the tyrant.

After a quick battle, the dwarf was slain, and local folk held a fheis or céilí to celebrate their new liberation, pouring out mead upon the mound where Abhartach was buried in a standing position, as was their custom. Sated they slept, little knowing the wrath they had unwittingly unleashed upon themselves!

For Abhartach’s masters in the otherworld were not content to let him lie, nor was he done with his vengeance-taking, as the very next night the tribes heard a fearsome battering at their doors, which they opened to reveal none other than the dwarf himself, made more horrible yet by his sojourn through the veil!

A new terror began, the red nights, when the dwarf would rend his way back from where he lay with iron claws and take not cattle or young women but instead demand blood, and blood he got! Again the people called out, but too late did the goddess hear. As she was awoken with the served heads of her many destined thrust into her bed and Abhartachs gazing upon her. With little time to react, she was slain by the tyrant king and he was left to rule as he see fit. Or so he thought!

For her magic was strong and was never able to be fully slain but rather reincarnated. It was said no being would be able to tell it was her not even herself. The only recognizable feature would be a tourmaline visulka hung from her neck. Only when one of her destined lovers identified the necklace would they be able to take it off of her and uncover her true identity and their destiny.