🖋 The Thorned Quill
From the Ink & Thorn Studio, somewhere in Grimmveil
The Magic of Oz - Retelling
Written by L. Frank Baum, 1919
↪ A Grimmveil Fairytale
Ahhh, The Magic of Oz. Finally, we reach the story that whispers in your ear: magic is not cute. Magic is a drug. An addiction. A temptation. A polite but lethal game that will have you smiling while it rearranges your life entirely. Dorothy, bless her persistent soul, returns—of course she does. Someone has to wander into the belly of Oz, survive the glittered chaos, and still manage to look annoyed enough to make you sympathize.
This time, the stakes are… well, let’s just call them Oz-level absurd. Kiki Aru, a young man with ambitions too big for his own good, discovers a magic belt. Not the fashion kind, oh no. The “I can bend the world with a flick of this leather strap” kind. He becomes powerful. Instantaneously. Casually. And he quickly learns what Oz refuses to teach politely: consequences are merely suggestions.
Dorothy rolls her eyes. She is tired. She has been here before. But she still sighs and gets on with it, because someone has to. Alongside her are familiar faces: the Tin Woodman, who still frets about emotions and steel alike; the Scarecrow, endlessly clever; Tik-Tok, ticking in rhythm with the rising tension; and a cast of new misfits who survive purely because they are useful, dramatic, and entertaining to read about.
The journey is a parade of magic run amok. Objects vanish, reappear, and occasionally behave in ways that make you question whether Oz is sentient, sadistic, or just bored. Kiki Aru experiments. He tests limits. He learns quickly that power is delicious, intoxicating, and occasionally fatal. People and creatures bend to his will. Wars are averted with a flick. Doors open themselves. Rivers obey commands. Mountains shift politely. And yes, Dorothy sighs again, rolling her eyes so hard it might actually make the Tin Woodman dizzy.
But Oz, of course, is never truly docile. Mischief lurks in every shimmer, and consequences—cosmetic as they are—make themselves known at the worst possible moment. Tricks turn back on their caster. Allies reveal hidden agendas. Entire kingdoms blink and vanish, only to reappear a heartbeat later, politely reminding everyone that survival in Oz is less about intelligence and more about stubbornness, timing, and a refusal to be erased.
Dorothy, Kiki Aru, and the party traverse lands full of whimsical cruelty: creatures that bow, then snap, then apologize; forests that shift politely but trap intruders anyway; rivers that whisper secrets in the wrong ear. Everything in Oz moves at the rhythm of drama. You cannot hurry. You cannot pause. You survive by wit, charm, and occasionally yelling at people until they do what you actually want.
And of course, there is magic. Everywhere. Casual. Infinite. Barely regulated. You would think someone would intervene. Oz allows it all. Dorothy observes, comments, sighs, sometimes laughs, and always survives. She keeps the narrative grounded, because without her, Oz would devour the reader and call it a lesson.
Finally, Kiki Aru learns. He discovers the truth of power: that it is fleeting, intoxicating, and far more dangerous when wielded carelessly. Dorothy and her companions survive. They leave. Naturally. Oz continues humming in the background, perfect, polite, and endlessly dangerous, waiting for the next ambitious fool who believes they can bend its laws without consequence.
Side Notes from the Thorned Quill
- Magic is intoxicating. Casual. Addictive. Dangerous even when polite.
- Dorothy is the only constant in a land that changes its own rules for sport.
- Consequences are cosmetic, but the lessons are lethal if ignored.
- Oz is endlessly entertaining if you survive it.
- Leaving is not cowardice. It is wisdom with style.
