The Tale of the Candid Coiffure

~ As told by Granny Picklenose of Larkroot Bend, who swears she once tasted a dumpling that turned her house invisible. ~
 
Long ago—but not too long, mind you, else the oil would’ve gone rancid—there was a goblin named Gweebin who could cook a meal so spicy it made volcanoes blush and old curses hiccup.
 
Now Gweebin wasn’t like other goblins. Where they liked to smash and bite and set things on fire for fun, he set things on fire for flavor. He wore pots as pants, used forks for throwing weapons, and never went anywhere without his grumbly, grumpy cauldron friend strapped to his back.
 
This cauldron had a name: Grumblepot. It complained. Constantly. About seasoning, temperature, the texture of frogs. But it never complained about Gweebin’s mustache.
 
Why?
 
Because the mustache could not lie.
 
You see, it twitched when he fibbed. It curled when he boasted. It drooped when he despaired. And if Gweebin told you your stew was “a little salty” when it tasted like shovelwater, that mustache would writhe like a snake in a pickle jar.
 
One day, a fey queen asked him to judge her soup. A single spoonful, she said, made warriors weep and ghosts remember their names.
 
He tasted it. He nodded. He smiled.
 
But the mustache curled backward, poked him in the eye, and slapped the spoon from his hand.
 
The queen gasped.
 
Gweebin burped.
 
“I’d suggest more thyme,” said the mustache.
 
And so Gweebin and Grumblepot were chased from her garden by vineknights and flying ladles, but not before planting a basil seed in the fountain that, to this day, only grows leaves shaped like hearts.
 
And the children say: if you stir your stew with a chicken bone and it smells faintly of paprika and shame, Gweebin’s been there… probably judging you.