Long ago, when me grandad's grandad was but a boy, he met with this travelin' trader who'd come over from the Far East to flog his wares. Among this merchant's stock was a bucket o' wrigglin' red worms that seemed aglow with heat. Naturally, the boy asked him what they were all about.
“Them's magma worms, my son,” the merchant said, or some such Far Eastern patter as makes no difference. “Back where I come from, the fisherfolk use 'em as bait. Hook 'em to a steel line and drop 'em in a volcano, an' ye'll pull up fish the like of which ye've never seen.”
“'Course,” he said, “it's a dangerous game, fishin' in a pool o' molten rock. One false move an' yer comin' up crispy. Still, there's many back in the east who risk life and limb to make it their business─we call 'em the famous hellfishers!” Or so my great-great-grandad was told...
- Invasion of the Supper Snatchers
