Who is FRED COBBLEWICK, from Chronicles of a Hero?
The Man, The Myth, The Moron, The Garden Ornament
Never insult a mägo.
When the chronicles of this era are finally compiled and sorted into appropriate bins…Heroic, Tragic, Gruesomely Hilarious, and “Please Don’t Let This Happen Again”…you will undoubtedly find the tale of Fred Cobblewick filed under the latter.
Because if history teaches us anything, I’ll say it again:
Never insult a mägo.
Never.
Especially not Morphiophelius “Smith.”
Especially not repeatedly.
And especially not when you’re already unpopular, unskilled, and chronically incapable of recognizing social danger.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
This story begins in the Black Market—the Gypsies’ legendary crossroads of commerce, culture, controlled chaos, and innovation. A place where almost anything can be bought, sold, traded, bartered, repaired, improved, or broken spectacularly with witnesses cheering.
And into this rich tapestry waddled a man named Fred Cobblewick.
Who Was Fred Cobblewick?
Fred was a tinkerer by trade and a nuisance by nature. Not malicious—just profoundly unaware of how the world works and even less aware of how he works within it.
He possessed:
A toolbox full of mismatched parts
A dangerous level of self-confidence
A voice that carried
A sense of humor only he found funny
And a complete inability to read the room
Fred modified everything.
It didn’t matter if the device was magical, mechanical, delicate, dangerous, or older than the founding of Andilain…Fred believed he could “improve it.” More often than not, he couldn’t. But he tried anyway, which made him just useful enough to keep around and just irritating enough to avoid.
Still, the Gypsies tolerated Fred.
He wasn’t cruel, nor criminal by intent.
Just… ambitious beyond ability.
And in the Black Market, ambition…however misguided…is still currency.
The Black Market and the Gentre
Now, to understand the depth of Fred’s miscalculation, you must understand the Black Market’s unique relationship with my people, the Gentre.
Gypsies respect technology.
They respect creation.
They respect ingenuity and innovation, even when it borders on madness.
They allow us Gentre into their halls not because they trust our devices…many don’t…but because they value what we represent.
We are thinkers. Builders. Tinkerers.
Problem-solvers.
But we also have rules…strict ones:
No cybernetics
No techno-mägo dimension-folding devices
No high-tier computing cores
And absolutely no time anomalies before noon
We bring clever things. Safe things. Useful things.
The Gypsies, in turn, give us a safe haven to retreat to when the world hates us…and allow us to practice our craft.
Fred Cobblewick, had no such rules. He desperately wanted the prestige of the top Gentre inventors. He mimicked our mannerisms. He adopted our jargon. He attempted our craft—with predictably disastrous results.
And then he made the mistake that would define his existence.
Enter Chuck
Morphiophelius Smith…known by most as “Chuck”…is a mägo of power so profound that the air around him hesitates before moving. He is kind beyond measure, wise beyond compare, and patient to a degree only reached by saints, old librarians, and parents of fourteen-year-olds.
I have known Chuck all my life.
He is gentle. Thoughtful. Compassionate.
A friend to the lost, the weak, the wounded, and the foolish.
But even he has limits.
And Fred sprinted past those limits with the determination of a man who had never once considered consequences.
The Incident
Chuck arrived in the Black Market on private business…quiet business…the sort where a mägo should be left alone unless the sky is literally falling or someone is on fire.
Fred was neither aflame nor in danger.
But he believed he was entitled to comment on Chuck’s presence.
Eyewitness accounts vary slightly in detail but remain unified in tone: Fred began by insulting Chuck’s robe, then his beard, then his age, then his profession, then his beard again, then the nature of mägo work in general.
Chuck endured. He tried to walk away.
Fred followed.
He heckled, muttered, sneered, and peppered the mägo with questions ranging from “Why are you here?” to “If you’re so powerful, prove it.”
Dax, who was present during the altercation, later summarized:
“Fred never had survival instincts. Not even the basic ones goats have.”
Eventually, Fred made the mistake that sealed his fate:
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