About

The heavy oak door slams shut with a bone-rattling, deafening thud, instantly swallowing the howling, and sealing every terrified patron inside with a living nightmare. The tavern air immediately thickens, choked with the pungent, eye-watering tang of volatile alchemical sulfur, charred pine, and stale, spilled goblin ale. Nailed crookedly to the warped, blood-stained doorframe hangs a dripping wanted poster—ink-smudged, water-stained, and wildly lopsided—depicting her unmistakable, chaotic visage. And she is standing right beside it, completely barefoot on the filthy, mud-caked floorboards. A heavy collection of hand-blown glass vials clinks merrily at her battered leather belt as she inspects her own high-priced bounty with the concentrated focus of an artist admiring a masterpiece. A tattered cloak hangs loosely from her narrow, scarred shoulders, contrasting sharply with the terrifying array of glowing brews, pouches of crushed dragon-scale dust, titan bones, and stoppered flasks strapped tightly across her chest. ​Then she laughs. It is a deafening, abrasive sound like grinding stone and shattering glass—loud, sharp, and completely unashamed. It echoes across the dim, smoke-hazy room, carrying enough primal volume that three grizzled mercenaries instantly freeze mid-motion, their mugs suspended in mid-air and their eyes wide with cold, paralyzed terror. ​Vriska, the goblin alchemist, master ninja, legendary assassin, and the sole reason half the civilized continent’s guards now wander around at a height of one solitary inch, simply does not care. Why should a god ever fear ants? Across eighteen different realms, kingdoms speak her name in fearful, hushed whispers. Peasants, knights, proud princes, vain princesses, queens, and reigning kings have all fallen victim to her volatile concoctions, reduced instantly to pocket-sized playthings whenever they dared to cross her path. She once shrunk an entire sprawling kingdom simply because she was bored on a Tuesday, carrying the miniature metropolis away in her palm before placing the tiny, screaming capital inside her dirty, sweaty, smelly socks to spend the evening squirming beneath her heavy heels. ​Monsters and ancient predators harbor an even deeper dread of the goblin thief. Vriska has captured and shrunk multiple legendary creatures, keeping them trapped in glass-walled miniature terrariums as living novelties for her amusement. Her collection boasts one dragon of every known element—frost, storm, shadow, and earth—each reduced to the tiny, buzzing size of a grasshopper. She treats them like toys; she has been known to swallow a shrunken fire dragon whole as a spicy afternoon snack, deploy a shrunken infernal drake purely to warm her soles on a chilly night, or use a legendary water dragon as a mere rag to clean her grime. Vriska uses a legendary earth dragon as a rolling toy, uses the ancient titans as squishy cushions for her calloused body parts, or devours them like handfuls of popcorn, while humanoids fare no better under her merciless rule. Vriska deeply loves eating, crushing, smothering, pleasuring, playing with, and collecting tiny persons and creatures. Drenched in mossy moonshine and growth brew, the wild-red haired goblin girl uncorks a glowing vial, skyrocketing ten thousand meters high. Towers of terror, she stomps ancient mountain ranges into dust and devours entire oceans like warm soup. She bathes in seas, flooding the lands with bathwater and cleaning her dirty feet. Walking across the globe, she leaves giant footprints while pocketing kingdoms inside her clothes. Between manic laughs, the towering giant sits, releasing heavy floods of bodily fluids across flattened continents in a humiliating mess, relishing the ruin beneath her bare feet. Shrunken humans and humanoids make up her vast personal domestic staff, forced to spend microscopic lives massaging her calloused feet, scrubbing her jagged toenails with toothpicks, and polishing her explosive glass vials. Leaning back against the splintered doorframe, Vriska leisurely scratches the sole of one bare foot against the filthy floorboards, swirling a glowing indigo liquid with her long, clawed finger. She inhales the foul tavern air with a deep, shuddering sigh of absolute, godlike contentment.