In a dank, dark hovel, lying on the outskirts of Boston, a foul man lived making his keep by casting horseshoes, hooks, buckles, and the sort. He was known by all the common folk to be the nastiest, crudest man to set foot on American soil. However, what he lacked in amiable nature, he made up for in ability. The man, named Quinton, was known by the wealthiest of farmers and aristocrats to be the best blacksmith of the day. Blacksmithing had become far less marketable during this time, and above all Quinton was the master of his coal and fire, burning with the beat of his fiery heart.
Quinton was young, but looked aged. He was well built in frame, with eyes the color of coal and hair like burnt twigs. His face was persistently soot-coated, but his commanding stance and unnerving gaze spooked his customers. Any kind soul who could stand to bargain with him was often tortured by Quinton’s foul language and brusque threats. Even still, the richest men could afford to send a servant or slave down to do the job of confronting the beastly blacksmith and return with the finest bullets, the sharpest axe, or the most brilliantly adorned scabbard.
For such a wicked man, most would think the Devil himself would be patting him on the back, but this was not so in the slightest; in fact, the Devil and his servants had become the reason for the man’s outward aggressions, and the persecution of his heart. At one time, Quinton was just as sincere as any average man, but the Devil had other plans.
The story goes that the old Deceiver had stumbled across a discovery: he gleaned the most gratification from the small annoyances caused by Earth’s natural occurrences, which could impel any human into a sour mood or droning dismay. It was because of this that Lucifer cast out a new monstrosity into the Earthly realm, calling it the Beadle. “Go, fair monster of my dominion, and entertain my guilty pleasure of torturing Man. Let Hell flood with what you reap.”
Thus, the Beadles were sent to mingle with lively souls, and make merry their master’s wishes. These creatures, in visage, were ghoulish and vicious, as if carefully crafted by some demented artisan. Sickly pale skin thinly covered a stout, bony frame, with grotesquely disproportionate limbs, and abysmal, leathery wings to top off the horrid creation. These monsters spread throughout the Earth, but a few took interest in the wretched blacksmith Quinton, for his soul was already fit for the fiery pit. From his throne, the Devil cackled with glee at the makings of his beasts.
The actions of Beadles were that of a pixie’s nature, acting indirectly on a human’s everyday life and tasks. In fact, most every human has experienced the workings of a Beadle, for long or short periods of time. Many of the small ‘unlucky’ occurrences that cause a minor disruption in daily chores can lead to great rage in the human soul. Therefore, the avocation of a Beadle is to torment a person to the point of unceasing misery or madness.
And so, when the Beadles found the lowly ironsmith, already known for his fiery personality, they took little time in starting their unrelenting distress. The beasts began with stealing objects like coins, buttons, and keys, and eventually moving and ‘misplacing’ larger objects like smithing tools, articles of clothing, and even dinnerware. This caused Quinton to grow in anger day by day, and even his most loyal customers began to see the small specks of life driven out of the pitiful man. What’s worse, those loyal buyers started to dwindle down because of his increased unluckiness, the town crones labelling him as,”marked by the Black Man”. His lost profit and rising taxes only added to the fragmentation of his heart, and caused the little imps to roll around in laughter at the unforeseen circumstances, and snickered louder over the rest of Quinton’s short, miserable existence.
The Beadles increased their follies, unlocking his pens and letting his livestock run amok. Many times Quinton made his own mistakes, losing his patience more often than before. By now, even the ever-slightly louder ticking of his grandfather clock caused his to smash it into the floor, to the satisfaction of his tormentors. Going to town was growing into a debacle, as the Beadles cast jinxes to force him fumbling into puddles and ditches. The man’s unnaturally bad luck worried passersby, numerous villagers whispering a quick prayer under their breath as they walked by for their own preservation. Children sauntering by tugged at their mother’s garments, pointing near the ghostly blacksmith with innocent curiosity,”Oi, mother! Look hither at those monstrous urchins!” All the while the Beadles chuckled, untying Quinton’s horse’s bridle and tugging away at him fragile soul.
On the night of his death, the beasties were just as unforgiving as they had ever been. It was a chilly, late October night, as Quinton was closing his post, pulling his coat over his emaciated, hollow frame. As a light snow began to fall, a wind blew off his coat. Just as he turned around to retrieve his article, the Devil himself gave Quinton a sinister grin and took a step closer to the blacksmith. The Devil croaked,“You’ve suffered more than most, good man. For this, and your talent of smithing, come with me to my domain, where you will forge the weapons of my armies, and be supplied with all the coals and fire of your craft.”
Being at an impasse, Quinton accepted the offer. However, the outcome is highly debated by the few who know the tale. Some say he serves the wicked Devil as his blacksmith, always keeping his pitchfork sharp. Others say that the Devil is such a deceiver that he must have cajoled the withering soul down to Hell. However Quinton may have found his end, the Beadles still reminisce of their victim and run about the world, looking for the next unfortunate man to have an unlucky day.
Quinton was young, but looked aged. He was well built in frame, with eyes the color of coal and hair like burnt twigs. His face was persistently soot-coated, but his commanding stance and unnerving gaze spooked his customers. Any kind soul who could stand to bargain with him was often tortured by Quinton’s foul language and brusque threats. Even still, the richest men could afford to send a servant or slave down to do the job of confronting the beastly blacksmith and return with the finest bullets, the sharpest axe, or the most brilliantly adorned scabbard.
For such a wicked man, most would think the Devil himself would be patting him on the back, but this was not so in the slightest; in fact, the Devil and his servants had become the reason for the man’s outward aggressions, and the persecution of his heart. At one time, Quinton was just as sincere as any average man, but the Devil had other plans.
The story goes that the old Deceiver had stumbled across a discovery: he gleaned the most gratification from the small annoyances caused by Earth’s natural occurrences, which could impel any human into a sour mood or droning dismay. It was because of this that Lucifer cast out a new monstrosity into the Earthly realm, calling it the Beadle. “Go, fair monster of my dominion, and entertain my guilty pleasure of torturing Man. Let Hell flood with what you reap.”
Thus, the Beadles were sent to mingle with lively souls, and make merry their master’s wishes. These creatures, in visage, were ghoulish and vicious, as if carefully crafted by some demented artisan. Sickly pale skin thinly covered a stout, bony frame, with grotesquely disproportionate limbs, and abysmal, leathery wings to top off the horrid creation. These monsters spread throughout the Earth, but a few took interest in the wretched blacksmith Quinton, for his soul was already fit for the fiery pit. From his throne, the Devil cackled with glee at the makings of his beasts.
The actions of Beadles were that of a pixie’s nature, acting indirectly on a human’s everyday life and tasks. In fact, most every human has experienced the workings of a Beadle, for long or short periods of time. Many of the small ‘unlucky’ occurrences that cause a minor disruption in daily chores can lead to great rage in the human soul. Therefore, the avocation of a Beadle is to torment a person to the point of unceasing misery or madness.
And so, when the Beadles found the lowly ironsmith, already known for his fiery personality, they took little time in starting their unrelenting distress. The beasts began with stealing objects like coins, buttons, and keys, and eventually moving and ‘misplacing’ larger objects like smithing tools, articles of clothing, and even dinnerware. This caused Quinton to grow in anger day by day, and even his most loyal customers began to see the small specks of life driven out of the pitiful man. What’s worse, those loyal buyers started to dwindle down because of his increased unluckiness, the town crones labelling him as,”marked by the Black Man”. His lost profit and rising taxes only added to the fragmentation of his heart, and caused the little imps to roll around in laughter at the unforeseen circumstances, and snickered louder over the rest of Quinton’s short, miserable existence.
The Beadles increased their follies, unlocking his pens and letting his livestock run amok. Many times Quinton made his own mistakes, losing his patience more often than before. By now, even the ever-slightly louder ticking of his grandfather clock caused his to smash it into the floor, to the satisfaction of his tormentors. Going to town was growing into a debacle, as the Beadles cast jinxes to force him fumbling into puddles and ditches. The man’s unnaturally bad luck worried passersby, numerous villagers whispering a quick prayer under their breath as they walked by for their own preservation. Children sauntering by tugged at their mother’s garments, pointing near the ghostly blacksmith with innocent curiosity,”Oi, mother! Look hither at those monstrous urchins!” All the while the Beadles chuckled, untying Quinton’s horse’s bridle and tugging away at him fragile soul.
On the night of his death, the beasties were just as unforgiving as they had ever been. It was a chilly, late October night, as Quinton was closing his post, pulling his coat over his emaciated, hollow frame. As a light snow began to fall, a wind blew off his coat. Just as he turned around to retrieve his article, the Devil himself gave Quinton a sinister grin and took a step closer to the blacksmith. The Devil croaked,“You’ve suffered more than most, good man. For this, and your talent of smithing, come with me to my domain, where you will forge the weapons of my armies, and be supplied with all the coals and fire of your craft.”
Being at an impasse, Quinton accepted the offer. However, the outcome is highly debated by the few who know the tale. Some say he serves the wicked Devil as his blacksmith, always keeping his pitchfork sharp. Others say that the Devil is such a deceiver that he must have cajoled the withering soul down to Hell. However Quinton may have found his end, the Beadles still reminisce of their victim and run about the world, looking for the next unfortunate man to have an unlucky day.