Here's another little Yonah story I wrote when there was a mix-up in Azeroth and most warlocks had their various demon pets swapped with unfamiliar faces. Things are back to normal now, but poor Piptog will never be the same again.
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“Where’s Burpy?”
The imp stared sullenly at the little girl across the room. The eyes of his new master glowed with a dull yellow light and her jaw, attached to her skull with makeshift metal hooks, swung precariously at the bottom of her face.
“You are not Burpy. He’s not Burpy, is he, Frederick?” She spoke to the jelly jar in her lap. A bee that would buzz no more lay still in the bottom. Yonah lifted the jar and peered at the insect. “Oh dear. More’s the pity. I loved you best, Frederick #39.”
The little warlock carelessly tossed the jar over her shoulder. It bounced off her narrow bed and fell to the floor with a loud THUNK, but, by some miracle, didn’t break. She lifted her raw, peeled-looking chin and, with a regal air, bored look-holes into the demon’s hateful face (not Rupqua’s hateful face, she could never mistake another imp’s face for his, the rage-induced tilt of his pointed black chin and the especially putrid fire of hate in his adorable orange eyes).
The imp said nothing.
“Well, if you are not Burpy, you must have a name of your very own.”
She bored more look-holes into the scruffy black minion. He continued to stare with his stare-y eyes, sulky and silent.
“I shall give you a name, then.”
A flicker of alarm animated the imp’s face for a moment, and he licked his lips with a slithery, darting black tongue. He spoke in a voice that was reminiscent of nails on chalkboards, of the shrieks of the dying, of asthmatic banshees being tickled to death. “Piptog. I am Piptog.” He paused, then continued with a grudging “...Mistress.”
She clapped her hands together with delight and grinned an awful little half-grin; only the top portion of her mouth flexed upward, the loose appendage of her jaw swaying slightly and not quite meeting the ruined row of her upper teeth.
“Do you like bees, Pitfog? No? That’s quite all right, I’m sure we will get on swimmingly anyway.”
Yonah stood, reaching for the broom at her side. Even at her not-quite-pubescent height, she towered over the imp. Limp, dirty hair fell into her face and obscured her eyes, but did nothing to cover that terrible grin..In her right hand, the broom slowly swiveled into the On position.
“It’s time for your sweeping, Pit.”
The imp stared sullenly at the little girl across the room. The eyes of his new master glowed with a dull yellow light and her jaw, attached to her skull with makeshift metal hooks, swung precariously at the bottom of her face.
“You are not Burpy. He’s not Burpy, is he, Frederick?” She spoke to the jelly jar in her lap. A bee that would buzz no more lay still in the bottom. Yonah lifted the jar and peered at the insect. “Oh dear. More’s the pity. I loved you best, Frederick #39.”
The little warlock carelessly tossed the jar over her shoulder. It bounced off her narrow bed and fell to the floor with a loud THUNK, but, by some miracle, didn’t break. She lifted her raw, peeled-looking chin and, with a regal air, bored look-holes into the demon’s hateful face (not Rupqua’s hateful face, she could never mistake another imp’s face for his, the rage-induced tilt of his pointed black chin and the especially putrid fire of hate in his adorable orange eyes).
The imp said nothing.
“Well, if you are not Burpy, you must have a name of your very own.”
She bored more look-holes into the scruffy black minion. He continued to stare with his stare-y eyes, sulky and silent.
“I shall give you a name, then.”
A flicker of alarm animated the imp’s face for a moment, and he licked his lips with a slithery, darting black tongue. He spoke in a voice that was reminiscent of nails on chalkboards, of the shrieks of the dying, of asthmatic banshees being tickled to death. “Piptog. I am Piptog.” He paused, then continued with a grudging “...Mistress.”
She clapped her hands together with delight and grinned an awful little half-grin; only the top portion of her mouth flexed upward, the loose appendage of her jaw swaying slightly and not quite meeting the ruined row of her upper teeth.
“Do you like bees, Pitfog? No? That’s quite all right, I’m sure we will get on swimmingly anyway.”
Yonah stood, reaching for the broom at her side. Even at her not-quite-pubescent height, she towered over the imp. Limp, dirty hair fell into her face and obscured her eyes, but did nothing to cover that terrible grin..In her right hand, the broom slowly swiveled into the On position.
“It’s time for your sweeping, Pit.”
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