A long way from... Gnome?

[Admiral Rags]

Mirabar was a good place to look for a new road to travel. The gnome whistled as she went - she could not help it. Trade caravans lined the road, perhaps one of those would be promising? Aramath, Linodril and Exigo. What an odd name. Perhaps they would be willing to take on an adventurer?

"We are bound for Sundren, lass" said the burly human running the caravan. "Pay is food, shelter and a silver a day"
This road is as good as any she thought, "Sign me up!"

Several days later, the caravan stopped at an inn. "We rest here for the night" said the caravan master. Elyore wandered into the tavern thinking, there's usually a way to get a free drink or two for a song. Alas, it was not to be. The tavern was enveloped in the biggest brawl she had ever seen. A towering elf was busily thrashing several humans, though what had caused the fight was no longer apparent. A hulking man stepped forward, throwing a massive right hook. The elf dodged, weaved and smacked him in stomach, causing him to double over. The man's face turned sour, and suddenly the fight got serious. One of the other humans circled behind the elf, drawing a long blade, menacing it at the elf, who dodged away.

That's not sporting, Elyore thought, time to even the odds.
She quickly incanted a spell, and before the blade could find a mark, the floor was covered in thick grease. The humans went slip-sliding everywhere, while the elf nimbly navigated the chaos.
"My thanks gnome, you may have saved my life" the elf said "My name is Caldor and I am in your debt."

They made a hasty escape to the caravan, before the humans could emerge. "I'm afraid I must leave your service" Elyore said to the caravan master. "Things just became a little more... interesting." She swiftly grabbed her gear, and they set off on the road to the vale of Sundren.

[Admiral Rags]

They sat in the second wind tavern, after what had been a bewildering week of intense adventuring. Caldor sat opposite to her, drinking the hard stuff – spring water, and eating every roast chicken in the room. Elyore ran through lines in her head, reflecting on recent events. One day she would tell this as a tale, and she had to organise it all before it became a jumble of lost notes, discordant amongst the song of life.
“The gate was impressive, wasn’t it, Caldor?” she asked, and he replied agreeably through his rampant munching. Her mind wandered through possible lines.

The gate of the Sunderer towering proud,
minarets high as mountain cloud.
What e’er they seek to keep within
A glory new or deepest sin?

She grimaced at her initial attempt. Not the best lines, but they’ll help me remember it. “We had to deal with the unpleasant chap with the papers next… hardly worthy of a tale.” Caldor almost spat out a mouthful of chicken, face growing an angry red at the memory. Some quick fast talking got us out of there quicker than most though she thought. “Then ‘twas off to the hills and the horrible goblins. You bashed down a door or two didn’t you?” she queried Caldor. He put down his chicken a moment, sparing a fond thought for the doors he had smote into ruin.

On greenest hills and tepid cave
Hid spittle-kind bent and depraved
Cowering ‘neath a darkwood door
Outward come to raid once more

Her next memory gave her a fond pause. Ah, the Second Wind Inn, now almost a second home. “Then came the Viridale forest didn’t it Caldor?” she looked up, barely pausing to catch his nod. “That’s where we met Droga and Lanathas, and saw his flaming bow.” The ballad of Lanathas Firebow (sorry Lanathas, I know it’s really Hawksong) has really caught on in the local taverns. At least that’ll be easier to remember she thought, softly chanting the opening lines.

There upon a hilltop crowned, the orcish camp stood dark and proud
Its wooden piles ward the sky, the tallest trees they must defy
While I wandered, surely seeking, through the forest softly creeping
I saw the glow upon the hill, streaks of fire, fast then still
A shooting star my quickest thought, my eyes confused by what was wrought
On Grimaxe hill at nights first call

“Our forays into the forest were numerous back then, weren’t they.” she looked up at Caldor, who had returned to munching on another chicken.“Though we met a lot of friends along the way and in this here inn. Araman, Adram, Farah.” She paused a moment, a warm smile lighting her face. “I guess we will have to leave some tales for another time.”

[Admiral Rags]

3. Fungal Fiends and Failure to Find Them

The beast charged, a shambling mass of greenwoven fungal filaments, surrounded by an almost tangible aura of tiny spores. Mindlessly and furiously it ran, a wall of fury ready to slam against its foes. Why are they always so much bigger than me she had time to think. And then it slammed into Caldor’s claymore, fell into pieces as if it was nothing, and then flew into the air on his mighty upstroke. All little folk need a Caldor.

“Disappointing,” was all he said.

“Well Caldor, there was a rumour of some sort of new fungus-beast. I guess we’ve found one, not that it’s in any state for us to prove it to anyone.” Elyore gently scuffed at the ruined pile of mushroom material. He looked at her worriedly.

“You are going to want to find more of them now, aren’t you?” She looked a little abashed.
“Nooooooo… well, okay. Yes. Now I’m curious. There might be a song in it?” Her voice sounded a little pleading.
“Fine,” said Caldor without inflection. “Where to now?”
Off they went, Elyore full of excitement, Caldor stoically dealing with the bubbly gnome’s fizzing mood. Days wore by, and they had travelled long. Pioneers way, crossroads, each of the four major cities, even the necropolis itself. Curiosity was turning slowly to frustration.
“Viridale then, our last shot before a good inn,” said Elyore.

They passed the boundaries of the forest, heading towards the bridge before Mossclaw Meet...
and
there
it
was.

“I KNEW IT” said the gnome emphatically, “I can always tell when our luck is up.” Caldor snorted, drew his sword, and promptly chopped it into seven spore-soaked segments. Not much evidence again, thought Elyore, though he is hardly a surgeon. They took what they could back to the inn.

The eyepatched alchemist sat at the bar, and Elyore irrepressibly told him of all of their searching. Araman told them that he needed one intact to make a counter – and that the spores were spreading. Only alchemists fire may stop the spores. Great, now we have to find another one, she thought, and somehow knock it out without killing it or chopping it to bits. “Much harder,” said Caldor as if answering her thought. “Perhaps I could wrestle it,” he pronounced with a little too much eagerness. That might just work, Elyore thought, or I could try sing it to sleep with a little lullaby. The thought made her grin uncontrollably.

Off then to round two. Viridale – searched, Pioneers Way, the Necropolis… A terrible tale when you have to repeat yourself, how am I supposed to make a story from that?! One last thing – they ran into Araman again who thinks they may grow on a weekly cycle. The search continues…

[Admiral Rags]

4. On the finding of the Blightsickle

The necropolis was a horrible place… all who have been there know of such. BUT IT WAS SO FULL OF CURIOUS PUZZLES! The thought of them had trapped her every imagining. Was it a code? Was it a piece of lore? Was it some wizardry or other? We simply MUST return there.
“Caldor!” she said “It’s time to go adventuring again… I have thought of something to try!”
His look was sullen and begrudging – but he shouldered his greatsword anyway. A loyal friend that one.
“Where do we go now, gnome?” he said as if he already knew the answer.

A few hours later they found themselves in the necropolis. Snapping sounds seemed to scream from everywhere as her companion laid about himself with the sword. The chant of Falman, bane of the dead resounded in the background, as her tiny gnome lungs produced more volume than expected. Sadly, singing in a haunted graveyard is guaranteed to produce necromantic results.
“This one is half see-through!” she exclaimed in dismay. Caldor’s sword promptly bit it in half anyway. I guess that isn’t such a problem as it looked then, Elyore thought as she picked the lock on a spectacular sarcophagi.

Then, suddenly. There it was. A wonderful, shiny sickle. Filaments of black void seemed to etch the shininess into her eyeballs.
“Elyore, don’t touch that, it is clearly evil!” Caldor’s scolding voice rang out. Far too late for that. She was already twirling it about.
“Look at it! Such an excellent contrast of silver-and-void. I’m keeping it FOREVER!”

They argued all the way back to the Second Wind.
“It is clearly going to attempt to work its evil on you Elyore.” Caldor was becoming frustrated.
“Oh you worry too much, friend. It will try to corrupt me, and itself become corrupted by gnomish humour.”

“And that my friends, is the story of the Blightsickle” she said, twirling her new favourite in front of an enraptured audience of village children.
A chorus of ooooooooooo echoed from them all, and the bard went merrily back to the inn. Her duty as a storyteller done.

[Admiral Rags]

5. Succubi, Shrubbery and Supperware

“Caldor?” she said tremulously. She looked over her shoulder to find him fighting three possessed villagers, one of which has a large scythe. I guess this is on me then she thought with grim determination. A possessed shrubbery advanced menacingly, flanked by a wedge formation of demonic poultry. Poultrygheists? She thought - Not now muse, for goodness sake.
She drew the Blightsickle, the black-red void splatter shrieking menacingly around her before condensing in filaments around the ever-silver blade. The demon-plant drew back in horror for the sickle was a bane to such creatures.

Her darksteel shortsword smote the head of a demon-chicken, which ran frantically around, yellow eyes staring aggressively into the ground before fading. The plant advanced, twigs whispering aggressively as it took advantage of her momentary distraction. Elyore narrowly saw its advance and performed a backwards summersault, landing to the side of the plant. The void-sickle came crashing down on the hellshrub sundering stem and twig alike. The void filaments weaved into the plant and the leaves yellowed, blackened and died.

Caldor, having finished his own fight long since, looked on appalled. The plant finished decaying, seemingly before his eyes.
“Elyore, I have told you about that…” she cut him off mid sentence
“Yes, I know Caldor. It is simply MAGNIFICENT. See how it does the service of good already?”
She grinned, looking at her work.
“A demon shrub has been slain. The blade will be put to wholesome uses.”

They moved deeper into the village, coming to a houseful of bedevilled villagers. A spellsong, a chant, the whistling of Caldor’s blade. The battle-moments flashed before her, and the lower floor was suddenly quiet.
“Oh look! There is an UPSTAIRS Caldor” she uttered the words before he had even had time to finish panting from the exertion of the fight. Her fingers flew to the lock on the door. Remember to always search for traps flashed into her mind, moments before the trigger mechanism touched her fingers.
Oh no!
She rolled backwards, narrowly avoiding a blazing pot of flaming fire that came down from the ceiling and set an ornate carpet ablaze.
“I seem to have found a trap Caldor!” she said.
“I can see that” he said grimly, checking his face for remaining eyebrows.
“Lucky I was standing back a way.”

This time, she thought, singing the song of Cavidan Lightfingers, greatest amongst gnome locksmiths. The trap and lock disengaged at once.
“Now we can go upstairs!” she pronounced with a grin. They marched onward, stopping only to add some layers of magic to their mundane armours. The usual horde of demon-villagers swept at them and was swiftly dispatched by Caldor.
“Oh… another locked door! How fun!” She moved to open it up, hearing strange movements on the other side. Rather like the flapping of – click - the door opened – wings.
Giant. Demonic. Wings.
She rolled backwards, bouncing sideways off the wall and narrowly missing an advancing Caldor. It seemed his time had come. Calling upon his god Mielikki he strode forth, divine power infused him and channelled down his firebranded blade. The succubus swung, taloned claws raking at his face, bouncing off polished plates instead. It paused, staring seductively into Caldor’s eyes.
“Fool” Caldor said calmly “Seek not to tempt a Paladin of Mielikki with such childish tricks.”
Taking advantage of the demon’s momentary confusion he lunged forward with his blade. The succubus was run through, yet made one final attempt at Caldor’s face. His helm deflected it with a shrieking sound, and the beast was still. He stood proudly, face alight at having done holy work, as the demon dropped in a heap at his feet. As it fell a small shiny object clattered from its belt onto the floor.

Elyore’s honed gnome reflexes kicked in and she rolled gracefully, sweeping it up off the floor.
“So SHINY,” she said holding aloft a tiny spoon. A tiny, she cocked her head and examined it more closely, mithril… spoon?
“Who the heck makes a spoon out of mithril, Caldor?” she said, slowly translating the golden lettering on the side of the spoon.
He took a few moments to reply, lost momentarily in the glory of having slain a real demon. An evil out of legend, a terror out of song, a beast out of …

“What’s all this about a spoon!?” he grumped, irritated at being jolted from his momentary reverie.
“It’s all sparkle-shine and magic!” She gently rolled the mouth-sounds of its golden lettering. “In fact the inscription seems to say...”

Several words of magical power seemed almost to incant themselves and the gnome was gone in a cluster of flame that streaked across the room. She reappeared seconds later staring bemusedly at the wall she was now right in front of.
“I LOVE IT!” she cried, ignoring the startled worry of Caldor.
Oh Mielikki, he thought, not another way for her to get into trouble.
“Perhaps you can use it to flee some of the dangers we face, before they seriously wound you.” He said slightly irritably. “Or at least use it to get behind me quickly.”
“Or we could explore further, Caldor!” she retorted gleefully
Caldor sighed. Some things would never change, gnomes chief amongst them.

“First we got the magic Blightsickle, now a dimensional spoon! Everything is wonderful.” The gnome cried blissfully, lost in the joys of discovery.
Caldor watched the gnome, evil-looking sickle in one hand, alarmingly fizzing spoon in the other, and an expression of rapture on her face. He decided he should buy some more bandages.