It all began when Milo opened his herb cabinet and screamed like someone had stolen his last cookie.
"WE'RE OUT OF FLUFFROOT?!"
Alma poked her head in, a slice of jam toast halfway in her mouth. "Is that bad?"
"Bad?! Alma, it's a key ingredient for calming potions, de-frazzlers, and my personal favorite—sleepy cream puffs!"
Luca strolled in with a mug labeled 'Barely Awake' and raised a brow. "What's a sleepy cream puff?"
"It's a pastry that naps for you," Milo replied seriously.
Luca blinked. "...I have never needed something more in my life."
Alma flipped open her notebook. "Fluffroot only grows on Mount Piffle. Grandma Willow used to gather it once every five winters."
"Isn't that the mountain with the whispering goats?" Milo asked, already rubbing his temples.
"Yes! Aren't they adorable?" Alma beamed.
"They once tried to marry my boot," Luca muttered.
Still, supplies were low, and someone had to go. And since "someone" usually meant "Milo and company," they were soon trudging up a winding path to Mount Piffle, bundled in scarves, carrying thermos flasks, and dragging a sled labeled "Herb Emergency Squad."
---
Mount Piffle was a postcard come to life—snow-blanketed trees, twinkling icicles, and the distinct scent of peppermint pine. Snowflakes drifted down like lazy feathers, and the whole world felt like a peppermint cookie about to sneeze.
"I forgot how beautiful it was up here," Alma whispered, stuffing snow into her pockets for 'scientific reasons.'
Luca made a snow angel that suspiciously looked like a croissant. "I forgot how cold it was up here. My nose is retreating into my face."
Milo squinted at his notes. "Fluffroot grows in clusters near the top ridge, usually beside Hot Cough Bushes and Sneeze Ferns."
"I love how you say that like it's normal," Luca replied, already licking frost off his lips like it was seasoning.
---
Two hours in, they finally found the Fluffroot.
It shimmered with a soft golden glow beneath a crooked pine tree, nestled between two steaming Sneeze Ferns.
Milo dropped to his knees like a man reunited with a long-lost sock. "It's… it's beautiful."
Alma quickly began collecting samples, humming with joy. Luca stood guard, sipping warm cider.
That's when the whispering started.
"Heehee… visitors… sniff sniff… sparkly socks…"
"Did anyone hear that?" Milo froze.
More whispering drifted in.
"Baaaaaaaaa… snowball… time…!"
Alma turned around just as a snowball nailed her in the forehead.
"AMBUSH!" Luca shouted, diving into the snowbank.
And from the trees emerged the legendary Whispering Snow Goats.
---
Unlike normal goats, these wore tiny scarves, walked on their hind legs when feeling dramatic, and whispered gossip like forest grandmas.
"That one smells like syrup…"
"The small one is collecting dirt again… how precious…"
"Throw the snowball, Eustace! Get him behind the kneecaps!"
Milo stared in shock. "They're organizing formations."
Luca ducked a snowball and rolled behind a tree. "I told you! These goats are strategic!"
Alma, eyes shining with joy (and snow), stood up dramatically. "We have no choice. We must engage in diplomatic snow combat!"
Milo blinked. "What even is that?"
Alma was already scooping snow into a bucket and chanting, "For science and slightly soggy socks!"
---
The Great Mountain Snowball War began with a volley of well-packed snowballs from both sides.
The goats bleated in harmony as they formed intricate formations—one even did a cartwheel before launching a high-speed snowball that smacked Luca's hat off.
"THEY'RE TARGETING HEADWEAR!" he yelled.
Milo returned fire, but his snowball veered and hit a squirrel, who angrily joined the goat ranks.
Soon the air was filled with whirling snowballs, laughter, goat giggles, and Alma shouting things like "DODGE WITH YOUR SPINE!" and "SNOW SHIELD FORMATION ALPHA!"
At one point, Luca constructed a pastry-shaped fort and declared himself "Lord Croissnow."
The goats built a ramp and performed synchronized snow slides.
Milo, meanwhile, accidentally discovered that when Fluffroot is crushed and rubbed on mittens, it creates static electricity.
"Electro-snowball!" he yelled, hurling a sparkly ball that zapped a goat's scarf clean off.
"SCANDAL!" the goat gasped and retreated behind a pine tree.
---
Hours passed in a flurry of snow, giggles, minor bruises, and increasingly dramatic commentary.
"Luca! Behind you! Goat with a grudge!"
"I named him Terrance! He fights dirty!"
"I think this one's trying to recruit me!" Alma shouted, pinned under a particularly fluffy goat who was whispering "Join the fluff side… we have herbal tea…"
Finally, as the sun dipped behind the ridge and everyone (goats included) lay sprawled in the snow, breathing hard and licking icicles, the lead goat stepped forward.
He was old, his beard frosted with wisdom and possibly hot cocoa crumbs.
"You… have fought well…" he whispered. "And not insulted our sweaters."
"Uh… thank you?" Milo offered.
The goat bowed. "Take your Fluffroot, potion child. And tell the village… we shall return… during sled season…"
With that, the goats melted back into the snowy trees, leaving only tiny scarf trails and the faint sound of gentle bleating.
---
The trip down was filled with quiet chuckles and stories.
Alma clutched her herb pouch with pride. "We did it! And no one lost a limb!"
Luca had a snowball balanced on his head. "Speak for yourself. I lost my pastry dignity."
Milo grinned. "Well, I think this counts as a successful harvest… and a mild goat brawl."
They returned to Luminvale with fresh herbs, wild stories, and enough snow in their boots to start a small puddle farm.
Mayor Flanagan met them at the village gate wearing ski goggles and holding a sled.
"Did someone say sled season?"
---
That night, Milo placed the Fluffroot carefully into jars and labeled them with a shaky hand: "Handle with Care. Also, Possibly Goat Approved."
Luca lounged nearby, a steaming pie on his stomach. "Next time, let's just grow herbs in the backyard."
Alma flopped into a pile of laundry (hopefully not the aggressive kind) and sighed contentedly. "No way. That was amazing. I want to meet their tea goat."
Milo smiled at his friends.
Potion disasters. Squirrel weddings. Dance festivals. And now, goat snowball diplomacy.
It wasn't the life he planned.
But it was definitely the life he'd choose again.