Gnomes 
Without doubt, gnomes are the wisest
of the races of New Moon and their longevity
is surpassed only by the elves. Inquisitive by nature,
gnomes are great hoarders
of information and are steeped in the history and lore of
New Moon. The majority
of gnomes reside deep underground in the natural
subterranean caverns of New Moon
and in the intricate tunnel and cave complexes carved out
by their master rocksmiths.
A few gnomes have ventured above the surface to set up
small towns and villages among
the "big people" but usually they shy away from
the aggression of the "bigger folk".
Small, weak and fragile, gnomes aren't much use in a
fight, but their exceptional
wisdom and above-average intelligence means they are
powerful wielders of magic and faith.
The
Deep Dwellers
Tinker tink, and splatter and
splink
crash bash, tatter and trash
many sounds fourth did comes from
the gnomes
inventing and creation they did in
there homes
for throughout there many
years
the gnomes thought up of many
ideas
technology was to there liking you
see
just as watching tv was to you and
to me
-Elvish song of the Gnomes
In
the darkness of Erth, after the
death of the Foundation, a stout group of Taern humans
hid in the mountainous southlands, in what the Taerns and
gnomes called the Andes. In a world torn by the wars of
the two great races of Orc and Taern, the land they chose
was at least untouched by the direct effects of the
battle. No battles were fought over uninhabitable ice and
rock. Only slowly did the poisons of war creep into their
bones and bloodlines, and they survived.
The
gnomish race was born of ice and darkness, and of
fire and rock. In the southern mountains, they survived
only by dint of careful maintainance of the resources
they had, and by hiding in the cracks in the rock and
glaciers that warped over the millenia. As other races
headed south, the gnomes headed deep; into rock and ice,
building life around the geothermal ventings of an earth
rent by war, and cultivating the few living things that
survived in and under the ice, fungi, fish, and the
occasional hardy alpine plant all became grist for the
gnomish mill.
They were aided by
their heritance, for those who went south went armed with
the latest technology of the Foundation days, which wore
out only slowly. And the survival of this southern race
depended on its maintainence. They lost the robust height
of their Foundation forefathers, being compressed by the
dual demands of their tiny living space and minimal
resources. The poisons of the great war helped, and the
end product was a race much smaller and lighter than
humans or dwarves, designed for living a life constantly
on the edge of starvation, supported only by the
production of their feverish, technological minds. In
those quiet, dead times in the north, they had much time
to work and think, and the gnomish race become one of
manipulators of ideas. They kept a compact strength,
necessary for tunneling through the constantly shifting
and twisting ice and rock.
In the slow
millenia that followed, technology began to fail, and
populations pushed to the limits. Other forces began to
appear; first the Valar, providing sustenance and light
as the sustaining fragments of technology began to fail.
It is said that even the Valar did not know the gnomes
existed, until Mayflon, the Laughing One, found himself
bedeviled by small humans while hiding in the northlands
(as his tricks often forced him to do). He took them as
his own, these little tricksters, and gave them access to
the clerical powers. His bretherns soon found out about
these new humans, but Mayflon, for obvious reasons,
remained chief in their hearts. The long dark had refined
the practical joke to a fine art amongst the gnomes. The
strangely reticient Taern religion, weakened by time and
the long night gave ground to the more visible Haruchai
pantheon, and other Valars and Maiars found their ways
into the gnomish life. Camber's healing touch was high in
their pantheon, whereas the need for Haekar's trackers
was minimal. A gnomish criminal had few places to run.
The communities were tightly knit and small spaces, and
to leave them was often to die.
Of course, crime
was a relative thing. Much could be (and had to be)
forgiven in the gnomish holds. Property was common,
necessities were shared where needed, while luxuries
changed hands with a rapidity governed only by the
gentleness of gnomish hearts. A loaf of bread would never
be stolen, but might be freely given between three
families. But gemwork and other products of idle hands
would be stolen repeatedly in the dark night, only
restricted by the elaborateness of the guarding traps and
the sentiment attached to ownership. An old lady might
keep her husband's last work, but her heirs would soon
find it taking wing in the night, unless they contrived
an elaborate plan to protect it; usually an alarm crafted
from the sparse resources of the hold and family.
Causing harm to
the hold was the only true crime. One who caused the
injury or death of another would soon be hunted out of
the hold. It is said that some of these formed holds of
their own in the lowlands, becoming the races of goblins
and kobolds, detested by gnomish kind to this day. Of
these warped races gnomes speak little. Their heritage is
twisted by their background, by their exposure to the
poisons of the lowlands, and possibly by affiliation with
the Orcish folk.
Within the holds
another force made itself known. Living close to the
rock, and spending long nights in close company and deep
thought, the gnomes were amongst the first to discovery
the coursing flow of magic through the rock and earth
beneath them. They quickly realized and mastered this
strange new form of power, although by this time their
minds had twisted enough that they best mastered the
sorcerous arts of illusion and deception. Such trickery
lent itself to the convolutions of their dark and and
twisty passages.
It was many years
before the humans found their far southern brethren.
Their first encounters were with the twisted valley
rabble of goblinoid and kobold races. The battles between
invading humans and the resident goblinoid races waged
for many years, as the first exploratory groups of humans
began heading south, looking for new sources of minerals.
These forays were largely doomed to failure, the
goblinoids and gnomes had been mining and fighting in
these peaks for millenia before the humans arrived, but
man did not know that.
First contact
occured after almost a decade of running battles between
heavily armed prospectors and the goblinoids. A group of
humans manged to penetrate the lowland ring of rabble,
only to be pinned in a cul-de-sac against the looming
blue-ice foot of a glacier. They faced an overwhelming
force of kobolds who seemed strangely reticent to attack.
That fear was soon explained when the second attack on
the faltering human forces was greeted with a blazing
show of pyrotechnics, both technological and sorcerous,
that effectively eliminated the attacking kobolds.
That night, humans
and gnomes met again for the first time in millenia. The
former were slow to accept the gnomish folk, fearing that
they were another of the small and vicious races that
they had been fighting so recently. The gnomes, for their
part, were fascinated by their new allies. A heavily
guarded combined caravan, loaded with years of wealth
accumulated from the gnomish mines, soon began wending
its way north. It returned intact, aided by a few kind
humans, and laden with the riches of the northern races.
Gnome-human
relations proceded apace. The avarice of the humans was
stilled somewhat by the hostility of the intervening
forces and by the incredible treachery of the gnomish
homelands. The gnomes learned enough about their new
neighbors to recognize their danger quickly, and humans
seeking the legendary wealth of the gnomish folk soon
found only miles of twisted glacier ice and rock tunnels,
too small to move comfortably through, and replete with
traps designed to drive even the sanest human wild with
claustrophobia and frustration. Centuries of fighting the
wiry little kobolds and goblins made defending the holds
against much larger humans a relatively simple matter.
A stable and
comfortable relationship soon developed. The gnomes
maintained their mountainous holds, dispatching heavily
armed and guarded caravans to trade with the humans. A
few hardy gnomes headed out, mxing slowly with the human
races, and sending a steady stream of information back,
but assimiliating well with the other races. Most races
quickly saw the futility of messing with the gnomes in
their holds, and maintained a fairly polite diplomatic
relationship.
Before long, small
groups of the technologically oriented gnomes began to
set up outside the human towns, trading their skills. A
few humans, fascinated by the vestiges of technology
still held by the gnomes, began to venture south to live
amongst them. And the two races grew to know each other.
A gnome, while an unusual sight amongst humans, was
typically more of a curiousity than anything else, while
a human amongst the gnomes was typically bombarded
endlessly with questions about the southern races.
The loss of a
caravan in Thurdis, and the intransigence of the
government in dealing with that crime, has made the
visitation of gnomish folk a rare event indeed. Only a
few loners now walk the streets of Thurdis, and the race
has pretty much faded from the public mind, except as an
idle curiousity. Those who know more of the events
leading up to that day typically do not speak of it, for
it is mixed up in large part with the present politics of
Thurdis, never a pleasant subject.
Gnome Legends
Three
Wishes
In
a small house in the middle of a dark, sprawling forest
lived a poor woodsman.
He
had a wife, six children, and a black cat with one eye
who kept the rats and mice at bay. The children had to
walk two hours to get to school. Beside the little house
was a vegetable garden and even a little flower garden;
in the barn were two skinny goats and a pig.
But
the family could hardly manage on the meager earnings of
a woodsman, even though the father left the house before
dawn and arrived home--exhausted--long after sunset.
Though they had plenty of firewood and a clear stream
nearby, the wife often sighed to her husband:
"How
can we possibly bring up all our children?" And the
woodsman would shrug his shoulders and say he couldn't
work any harder than he already did, and this was true.
One
day as he was arriving home in the twilight he saw in the
distance the cat leaving the woods with a rat in its
mouth. But something was strange: the rat had no tail.
Filled with curiosity, the woodsman approached the cat
who was sitting under a bush. She hissed malevolently as
he came closer, but the woodsman wasn't afraid. He
grabbed the cat by the base of her tail with one hand and
with the other pressed against her jaws until she opened
her mouth and let the thing fall.
"Well,
I'll be," said the woodsman. Because what he had
picked up was not a rat, but a gnome woman. She was dead.
The
woodsman had seen a gnome once, but never a female one.
He took her inside and wiped away a few drops of blood on
her cheeks and legs. His wife and children stroked the
doll-like little being and laid her on the window seat in
the living room while they ate their meal of potatoes and
bacon fat in the kitchen. When they came back, the little
gnome woman was gone.
"Maybe
the cat has got her again," the wife said, but the
cat still sat sulking under the bush outside, showing one
angry eye. The family gave up searching and went to bed,
as everyone had to be up early in the morning.
The
woodsman woke up in the middle of the night. Something
was tugging gently at his ear. Beside his head stood a
gnome. "You saved my wife," he said. "What
can I do to reward you? .... But she was dead, wasn't
she?" the woodsman asked, sleepily. "She was
only pretending to be dead. Luckily, she's still full of
life oh, a scratch here, a few black-and-blue marks there--but
she'll get over it. Just tell me what you want as a
reward. Here is a little flute. When you blow on it, I'll
return." And just like that--he disappeared!
The
woodsman and his wife discussed the matter the rest of
the night. They finally decided to ask if they might have
three wishes, just as in the fairy tales.
The
following evening the woodsman blew on the flute, and
shortly thereafter the gnome appeared. "I'd like to
have three wishes," said the woodsman, somewhat
timidly, while his wife poked at the fire behind him.
The
gnome looked a little glum but finally said: "Well,
go on then--what is your first wish?" "I want a
nugget of gold so I won't have money worries anymore."
The
gnome shook his head. "You can have it, but gold
seldom brings happiness."
"I
don't care," said the woodsman. "And the other
two wishes?" "We haven't decided yet."
"Well, just blow on the flute when you want me
again," said the gnome with a sigh.
Next
morning, there on the front steps of the little house lay
a gold nugget as big as an orange, sparkling in the sun.
The woodsman grabbed it up and yelled, "We're rich,
we're rich!" And then he carried the nugget to the
village to exchange it for money. But no one in the
village had ever seen a gold nugget before and no one
knew what it was worth. The blacksmith advised the
woodsman to take it to a jeweler in the city. The
woodsman set off at once; but instead of going the long
way he took a shortcut through the swamps that he
remembered from the days of his youth. As he danced along
the way, admiring his gold nugget, he slipped off the
path and plunged into a quagmire and immediately began to
sink. He tried to reach out for firm ground, but couldn't
make it. In one hand he clutched the gold nugget, and
with the other he struggled to get the flute out of his
pocket so that he could signal the gnome. He was barely
able to reach it and blow a shrill blast.
He
had sunk up to his neck in mud when the gnome appeared.
"Get me out of here," cried the woodsman.
"That is your second wish," said the gnome. He
then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly--and
in a few minutes he was surrounded by six other gnomes.
Using their little axes, the gnomes chopped down a nearby
tree so that it fell across the quagmire right next to
the woodsman. He was able to hoist himself up onto it and
get back to the path from which he had fallen. When he
looked around, the gnomes had disappeared.
But
still he had the gold nugget in his hand. He went on his
way, muddy and shivering; eventually, his clothes dried
and his courage returned. He found a jeweler in the city
and entered his shop. The jeweler was a distinguished-looking
man in a white smock; he wore gold-rimmed glasses:
Frowning at the enormous nugget of gold and at the
woodsman's bedraggled appearance, shop through the back
door to notify the police. A half hour later the woodsman
found himself in the police station.
"And
now tell us where you stole this gold," said a fat
police sergeant in a fatherly fashion. The commissioner
of police asked the same question an hour later--but in a
less fatherly fashion. "I didn't steal it,"
cried the woodsman in despair, "I got it from a
gnome." "Of course, from a gnome," said
the commissioner, who had never seen a gnome---and would
never, because he was such an unpleasant person. "Not
even one grain of gold has ever been found in this
country in a thousand years--but that doesn't occur to
this gentleman, does it? Lock him up!"
During
the days that followed, the woodsman was questioned again
and again--and threatened with dire consequences if he
did not reveal the source of the gold. Finally, he was
examined by a doctor, but even he could cast no light on
the matter except to report that the woodsman kept
babbling away about gnomes.
None
of these people had ever seen a gnome because they all
had ugly souls. Meanwhile, the gold nugget was kept in
the vault of the city council. After a week went by, the
woodsman became so miserable that, one night, he blew the
flute. After two hours, the gnome appeared. "My wife
and children are starving," the woodsman said.
"I want to get out."
"That
is your third wish," replied the gnome, "but I
have already taken care of your wife and children."
The gnome went that same night to consult a lawyer in the
city who had a house gnome. Next day, the lawyer visited
the police and succeeded in having the woodsman freed,
owing to lack of evidence. But the gold remained behind
for safekeeping until its theft could be verified.
The
woodsman gladly went back to his work. The forest had
never seemed so spacious and free as it did after his
stay in the stuffy cell in the city; he was happy and
satisfied even though he often thought of the gold.
From
that time on, things improved for him in all sorts of
ways. First, a rich foreigner bought all the logs the
woodsman had cut for twice the usual price. Next, the
same man asked if the woodsman would become his overseer.
The
happy woodsman was given a cheerful house at the edge of
a village, and close to the school. He earned much more
than before and his troubles were over. A few months
later he came across the gnome in the woods. "And?"
the gnome asked, "Have you got your gold back yet?"
"Not yet," the woodsman said, "It seems to
be a criminal act in this country to possess gold. But
even without it, my troubles are over."
"So,
there you are," the gnome said--and disappeared into
the bushes.
Weeping
Willow
The
old writer sensed that his death was approaching. He
lived in Norway, in a low cabin with book-lined walls in
the neighborhood of Lillehammer, beside a mountain slope.
Next
to the window, overlooking the valley, was a large table
bearing paper, magazines, volumes of verse, inkpots,
pens, candles, and more books, carelessly stacked.
One
evening, just at sunset, the writer left his bed and went
to sit at the table. He looked out over the peaceful
valley with its lake in the distance, and recalled how he
had lived here quietly for many years, and thought of how
many books he had written and that soon it would all be
over. Suddenly, a gnome jumped onto the table, seated
himself opposite the writer, and crossed his legs. The
writer greeted him happily.
"Tell
me another story," he asked the aged gnome, who was
holding his silver watch against his ear. "I can't
think of any more, I've become too old."
"I
don't know any more," the gnome said. "You've
already written all the stories about this country.
You've become rich from them."
"Just
tell me one more. My hands are so tired, I can hardly
write anymore," sighed the writer. (Nevertheless he
placed pencil and notebook within reach.)
"All
right then," the gnome said. He changed his position
and stared outside. "Do you see that big weeping
willow in the distance at the edge of the lake? The ends
of its branches always hang in the water. I'll tell you
why.
"Long
ago, one dark night, mountain trolls switched their
infant daughter with the daughter of a rich farmer,
kidnapping her when everyone was asleep. Next day, the
poor parents couldn't understand why their daughter's
skin had suddenly become so dark or why her eyes looked
like black currants. But deep in the forest the trolls
exulted over the blue eyes, blond hair, and soft skin of
the stolen child--and they performed a joyful, thumping
dance in a circle.
"The
troll child grew up to be a dark, wild tomboy and did
only naughty and ugly things; she loved no one and no one
loved her. One day she disappeared and was never seen
again.
"But
in the forest, the farmer's daughter became sweeter and
lovelier every year despite all the crude and rough
things she saw about her. When she was seventeen she was
discovered by Olav, a strong farm laborer. (Olav slept
below me in the stable of a farmhouse in the valley.) He
was bringing in a few lost cows from the high mountain
meadow for the winter when he saw the farmer's daughter.
She was sweeping the ground in front of the troll cave
under the watchful eyes of the old troll mother. It was
dusk, but Olav thought he had never seen anything so fair
and beautiful. He immediately fell in love. As he
attempted to approach, the troll mother pulled the girl
inside and locked the door.
"Back
in the stable, Olav asked if I would help him, and we set
off that same night. Reaching the troll hill, we saw a
stream flowing from it. (Water flows through the middle
of every troll hill; they use it for drinking.) Using a
divining rod, I found the spring on the other side of the
hill from which the water flowed. We dug a hole, and when
we reached water, Olav put me into a wooden shoe and I
floated into the stuffy troll cave.
"I
hid myself and the wooden shoe in a dark corner of the
cave and waited until the trolls left to perform their
nightly crimes in the forest. Before leaving they shut
the girl in a side alcove and finally locked the main
door behind them. Only the girl and I remained in the
somber, stinking lair. As soon as it was safe, I released
the girl and said to her: 'You're not a troll girl!
Outside there's someone who will suit you much better
than a troll.
"She
looked quite astonished and hesitated, but finally came
along with me. Outside she saw the blond giant of a man
Olav; at once she fell in love with him, as he had with
her.
"The
three of us ran for home. But we were still deep in the
forest, and before we could make our getaway the trolls
learned that we had stolen their prize. They caught up
with us, beat Olav until he was black and blue, and took
the girl back. I couldn't do a thing.
"A
week later, we tried again. This time Olav took along a
horse that he had borrowed from the farmer he worked for.
For the second time, I drifted along on the underground
stream into the trolls' domain. But this time the trolls
had left their old mother to stand guard. When the old
mother troll turned away from a bowl of porridge she was
making, I quickly tossed a good dash of sleeping potion
into it. Ten minutes later she was snoring away". (I
had signaled the girl not to eat the porridge.)
"Again
the three of us raced through the forest for home. It was
much quicker this time, on a horse. But in spite of it,
the trolls caught up with us, just as we were almost out
of the forest. Again they beat Olav until he was half
dead, then took the girl back with them--and the horse,
too, of course. There was nothing we could do; no matter
how strong Olav was, the trolls were stronger.
"Three
weeks later it snowed. This time I managed to get two
reindeer to help us. In the trolls' cave I had to wait
half the night, because not only was the troll mother on
the lookout but the troll father as well! Eventually I
was at able to sneak enough sleeping potion into their
porridge to put them fast asleep.
"The
reindeer transported us quickly on a small sleigh along
little-known paths in the direction of the lake. The
trolls pursued us, but in the snowstorm we were lucky
enough to reach the edge of the lake. I knew where alt
old fishing boat was moored and we got to it quickly. We
cut the sleigh loose, thanked the reindeer, and sent them
back to their herd. The lake was still not entirely
frozen. Olav and the girl climbed aboard the boat and
began rowing; I skied homeward along the bank of the lake.
Nothing could happen to me. Trolls have no power over us
once they leave their cave. It was almost sunrise. The
last snowflakes fell; the sky opened up and, in the east,
took on a yellow and red hue.
"When
the boat was already a good distance across the lake, the
trolls finally reached the dock. They ranted and raved,
but Olav rowed with big strokes toward the other side,
and the trolls couldn't reach them. The trolls didn't
have much time left: when the sun shines on them, they
turn to stone. Suddenly, the strongest troll seized a
gigantic boulder and hurled it at the fleeing pair. The
boulder did not hit the boat, but it fell so close to it
that the boat capsized. The suction dragged the girl down
to the depths of the lake and she drowned. For hours,
Olav dived in search of her, but he had no luck. Deeply
depressed, he finally swam to the bank of the lake.
"After
this, Olav was inconsolable. Every day he went to the
edge of the lake and stood in one spot, staring at the
water. He never looked at another girl. And when he
became so old that he couldn't work any more, he
continued to return daily to the same spot. In the end,
he stood there the whole day long. Branches grew out of
his head and roots from his feet. And then he stood there
forever. He is that weeping willow you see there at the
lake's edge. Even now its branches feel about in the
water in an attempt to find the drowned girl."
The
gnome looked around. The old writer had grown still. His
snow-white head lay upon the notebook on the table. He
was dead. The gnome smiled and went over to him. He
closed the writer's eyes and read what was on the paper.
The last words were, "And then he stood there
forever."
And
the gnome pulled the notebook out from under the dead
writer' s head, carefully loosened the pencil from his
stiff fingers, and wrote the remaining sentences of the
story.
PLAYER BLURBS.
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