Writer's Jam 2025 Entry: The Mudnych's Offering
Word Count:2452
This is my first time entering a writer's jam, so feedback is much appreciated.
A tiny pair of red furred paws shot out of the refuse pile, clutching the most intact bottle they had found all day. The excited red and grey furred snout of a Mudnych followed suit, sniffing and probing the bottle for any irregularities. But there were none to be found; the green curved glass free of scratches and cracks as if it had only just thrown away. It was exactly what he was looking for.
Shaking vigorously to free his stubby legs and absurdly long tail from the pile of rubbish, he clamoured over to the basement door, grabbing the lit candle he had precariously propped it open with and threw himself out into the landing. The tiny creature scrambled up the steps, bottle under one arm and candle held aloft.
He burst into the tavern’s dining hall at the top of the stairs; the air moistened with the food and festivities of its many occupants. Townsfolk filled tables to relax after a day’s labour, visitors crowded the bar to get their share of drink. Humans made up the bulk of the crowd but dwarves and the elvish did punctuate some groups, with a Lycan sat at a trestle table that no one dared share with her.
The Mudnych dodged and weaved under the feet of both patrons and staff. He made sure to keep an eye out for the bronze buckled boots of Edwin, knowing he would have a book’s worth of jobs for him if he were caught. Having squeezed both himself and his prize between the legs of the crowd at the counter, he rounded the bar and made for the backroom door.
“Rug!” His name being uttered by the stern female elf tending the bar rather than the pebble-dashed bellow of Edwin was almost a relief. Still a distraction from what was important but still a minor relief. Rug darted the bottle behind himself, hoping for once his miniscule frame could conceal his find.
“Yessssss, pretty and wise Deverine, what could you be wanting from Rug?” Rug straightened his tunic and bared his teeth into what could probably be seen as a smile if you looked at it from far enough away. Deverine turned away from the counter and adjusted her fallen hair back in the bun on her head.
“We’re rammed tonight, Rug. I hope the fact that you’re back upstairs means that the rubbish has been organised.” Arms folded and eyebrow raised she addressed him.
“Whaaat? Yes, of course, yes, good. It’s the best. All put away ready for taking. Rug made sure of it.” He fumbled words, as he fumbled with the door to the backroom.
“Good. Edwin’s got you down to takeover the bar until Wilhem gets here, then you’ll be getting the beds set for the…” The tasks for the rest of the evening rattled from Derevine’s tongue and were lost upon Rug’s unfocused ears. He desperately tried to think of a way out of this conversation, knowing every moment out in the open left him vulnerable to more responsibilities.
“Oh, um, ACTUALLY, bold and brash Edwin asked Rug to sort backroom before Rug do any of those things.” Rug struggled against the weight of the door, pushing as he talked.
“But he had you tidying the backroom this morning. We talked about that cheapskate who skipped out on paying last night while you did, remember?”
Feeling both his arms and his lie about to give way, Rug snapped back “He wants me to doublecheck, make sure Rug makes no mistakes.”
Knowing that is exactly what Edwin would do, Derevine’s scepticism subsided, along with her shoulders. She walked over and held the door open with one hand for Rug. Feeling alleviated from the pressure of the door and the conversation, Rug managed to get out a “Thank you”, as he ran down the hall and disappeared around the corner. Derevine managed to catch a glint of green as he went, before she shrugged and stopped tuning out the demands of the crowd behind her and went back to the bar.
The floor of the backroom was usually strewn with a combination of outdated invoices and all bottles and barrels that couldn’t be fit into the basement, leaving the air heavy with must and rum. But today was probably the tidiest the space had ever been: papers filled into boxes at the side of the room in an almost coherent fashion, barrels appropriately shelved, and bottles stacked by the door for quick access. If Edwin was the kind of person that ever gave out compliments, Rug’s working in cleaning up the backroom may have netted him one.
“Shame Edwin wouldn’t even compliment a nun for having a hat that matched her dress.” Rug thought aloud to no one in particular.
But Rug’s dedication to cleanliness would never be for his boss’ sake. No, as he sped through the stacked shelves to his purpose-made clearing in the back of the room he came across his labour of the last three weeks. Shielded from prying eyes by two tightly stacked shelves of barrels was a large circle, composed of flour swiped from the kitchen and chalk bargained for from the town’s schoolchildren. Several smaller circles lay inside, with a ribbon of carefully laid out patterns snaking between them. Rug had never constructed an offering circle as large or complex as this one before but today held a special place in his heart. It was three years ago today that he learned her name, made his first offering and he began to thrive.
He had deliberately stopped tracking the number of offerings he had made over the years, the count never mattered. Her work made his life in this squalid place bearable, and for that he would make offerings for the rest of his days. Holding both the bottle and his tail above his head he tiptoed through the circles, careful not to displace a grain or smudge a line. At the centre, he placed the bottle with precision in the exact middle of the offering circle before adding the finishing touch. Three small pieces of obsidian, carved with the symbols he had memorized over the years. It took him saving for half a year to be able to afford these stones from one of the many merchants that passed through the tavern. But if the ritual stated that obsidian would strengthen the connection, then it was worth it.
With the stones placed concentrically around the bottle, Rug took a seat on the floor. Paws on his knees and eyes closed, he began to recite the Calling Vow. Hums, pops and clicks that made him feel giddy every time, like a child that’s just found a new favourite nursery rhyme.
Externally, nothing changed when the Vow was finished, but inside, Rug knew she was listening. With the final hum sung so deep he could feel it in his belly, he shuffled forward, eyes remaining shut and he held the bottle high.
“O, Veshrateen. Mother of Highest Lands, Scholar Superior, Holder of the Lowest Hearts. Rug offers this piece, shiny like new, for your love and, maybe perhaps, your favour.” Whether it was divine adoration or just the oil lanterns that lit the room, a warmth permeated the young Mudnych’s fur. Familiar, known to him. Once provided by his mother and then again after he had begun his cycle of offerings. Comfort and assuredness swaddled him, a sense that there are better times ahead. If he could keep this feeling, take it with him through his day and hold it close at night, then his arms would never tire of holding this bott-
“The hells is going on here?!” The voice swung like an unsharpened axe into Rug’s moment of peace, tearing his eyes open and causing all strength to leave him. He recoiled at the sight of the bald, bearded, burly man staring, mouth agape at the pseudo-demonic display going on in his establishment. The bottle clattered to the ground between the two of them, momentarily drawing the man’s gaze, before shifting it to Rug with a furrowed brow and frothing lips.
“Edwin! I was-“ Edwin stormed out from between the shelves, destroying the circle and inadvertently kicking the bottle under one of the shelves. Rug instinctively crawled backwards until he felt the wall behind him cut off his escape. His quick movement meant that when Edwin swung a backhand at him, his knuckles only partially sandwiched Rug’s face between the wall and the fist. It didn’t even draw blood this time. Although the force was enough to send Rug to the floor, where he stared up, lips quivering.
“Is it demons, now?! I give ya a roof and paid labour and your bringin’ demons to my establishment?!” The force and spittle in Edwin’s voice was almost enough to push Rug back to his feet.
“I-ack- not demon” Rug blinked away a tear. “I-it’s for- Vesh…”
“By the lords, it’s that BLOODY BOOK AGAIN!!” Edwin stamped away. “I never shoulda let that poncy wizard pay off his tab with it.” He wheeled around, dragging Rug back to his feet by his ears and jabbing a finger deep enough into his chest to make him gasp. “And I never shoulda let you anywhere near it.”
“But she’s real! It was in the book!” Rug managed to say between heaves. “She helps people… like us… Like me.” Rug spat on the floor before craning his neck to match Edwin’s gaze “She’s a god-owl-lady. She gives boons. She likes getting containers!”
“Look, just ‘cause some hoity toity ass wizard gave us a book about ‘old gods’ to pay for his ale with it, it don’t mean any of the stuff in there is real!”
“B-but she took my other offerings.” Rug gestured with the arm he wasn’t clutching his chest with to the empty barrel at the other end of the room that had been made his bedroom. “The cigar box, the-the match box…”
“ALL OF THAT STUFF WENT IN THE RUBBISH!” Edwin pinched the bridge of his nose and hung his head. “What will the town think if they saw this, I’d never sell a pint again. Lords, what would the church think if they found out the rat I took in was talking to pretend gods in my backroom.”
Rug hated rats. Almost every home he’s ever had had them, and their clawing, biting ways made him miserable. And for the briefest of moments, his likening to a rat turned his fear and desperation into anger.
“Least my god ain’t pretending to be a dad to a barmaid ‘cause they messed up their real kid.” Almost as quickly as anger had overtaken his fear, fear bound to the front of the pack yet again.
Both Rug and Edwin’s mouths hung open. Edwin’s twisted into a grimace while Rug’s struggled for words.
“RIGHT THEN!” Edwin dove for Rug’s arm, yanking it hard enough that his back and other arm would now lean towards that arm permanently. Rug hung from Edwin’s grip as he strode towards the door. “Good of you to volunteer for outhouse and chamber pot cleaning for the rest of the summer!”
Rug glanced back at his ruined works, eyes desperately trying to find which shelf the bottle had rolled under, but it was nowhere to be seen. He winced as Edwin used him to push open the door. He let himself have the rest of those tears.
High above the Inkatyl, far above the Yellow Fields (or at least higher than any of its constantly-partying inhabitants were prepared to look) sits a grand library, floating on high. Polished marble and mahogany forms its grandeur, with arches and pillars permeating a sea of shelves. Books, scrolls and all manner of record line its halls, a fountain of knowledge that its keeper would gladly offer to any mortal that seeks it.
Too bad so very few seek it. If any at all, Veshrateen thought to herself. Her form towered over the shelves clad in her orange and red robes. But as she looked out upon her collected works, her life learnings condensed into digestible formats, she could feel nothing but hopelessness.
Faced with a fate that many gods dread, she had been forgotten. Those who had once offered praise and sought favour from her had all been killed or converted in the many wars that rocked the Inkatyl. Loneliness clung to her every waking moment, knowing she may be confined to this fa-
Her spiralling thoughts of depression were suddenly interrupted by a small flash inches away from her beak and the feeling of a small object falling down the front of her robes. With a clawed hand, she fished around in her robe for the intrusion, eventually finding it and holding it up to eye level. There, between her thumb and index finger, was a tiny green bottle.
As if some heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Veshrateen felt herself take in a deep breath and smile. Another offering from her last dedicated follower. She went to her desk and placed the bottle amongst a myriad of other offerings: a cigar box, a milk crate, several small parcels.
She had always favoured mortals that offered her methods of containing her knowledge. She had memories of chests crafted of the finest silks and sturdiest oaks from kings, of thick, weighty steel safes from dwarves. She was even once sent a fine carved coffin from a vampire that sought her knowledge.
But these tiny, fragile things. They mattered to her just as much, especially as she knew their origin. She drew a circle in the air and whispered an incomprehensible language into it. The air sparkled and shifted, turning into a view of an alleyway in the middle of the night, jovial chanting can be heard from behind a door nearby, while a miserable-looking Mudnych sat on the cobblestone, cleaning a very large pot with a very short brush.
Veshrateen glanced back and forth between the green bottle on her desk and Rug as he sat and cleaned. Unfortunately, her influence in the mortal world had long since fizzled away, held up only by those meagre offerings that now lay on her desk. She noticed how Rug’s arm and shoulder were listing to the right as he sat. She could at the very least speed up his recovery from that injury, and maybe keep his aggressor off his back for a while.
She gazed longingly in the portal, lamenting that she couldn’t do more for her single believer. But in recent years, she found herself doing something she had only ever seen mortals do; she had faith.