Memory Archive G032: The Belligerent Gnome

 Memory Archive G032: The Belligerent Gnome

Jack Conelly’s tavern was as busy that night as it was every other night of the year, barring of course the Solstice. It was named the Wailing Banshee, on account of the wailing banshee that took residency there for the first five years of the tavern’s existence. A wandering party (under the employ of the F.B.E.C) removed the dastardly fiend one evening after it kept interrupting their revelries and Conelly’s grandfather felt it a fitting homage to name the establishment after her. Nobody remembers what it was called beforehand, but given that the tavern only really became popular after the name change, that's probably for the best.

The Banshee’s local clientele occupied the dingiest corners of the place, just looking to spend their evenings getting drunk in solitude before they roamed the streets of Ravenscar in pursuit of a reasonably priced escort. Such delightful goings-on are, of course, commonplace in a big city like this. The rest of the tavern was occupied with a variety of loud and colourful folk, ranging from old blacksmiths in search of reprieve after a hard days work- or young rangers putting all their feathers on display in hopes of finding someone attractive and likeminded to brag about to their friends in the morning. There was even a bard or two wandering the place, exchanging hearty songs about wyverns and wyrms for a gold coin or casket of ale. None, however, was louder or more obnoxious than the young Gnome who had taken it upon himself to dance a very poorly rehearsed jig atop every table in the establishment. He was rather tall, for a Gnome. Standing at two feet and five inches tall, he had long grey hair that flowed down to his back and a beard that reached the tip of his waist. Some could even say he was attractive. For a Gnome, at least.

“Get down from those tables before I throw you out to the street, you pointy little shoe-goblin!” Jack Conelly roared from behind the bar, somehow making himself audible amidst a sea of ambient cheers and songs.

“What did you just call me? Jack Conelly, famously the ugliest tavern keeper in all of Balmorris, dares to call me a shoe-goblin?” the Gnome retorted with a twisted grin plastered beneath his rosy cheeks.

“Right. That’s it. That’s the last time you insult me, Grinkle Gronkle. I’m tossing you out of here myself.”

“You’re going to have to catch me first. May the arbiter of good-fortune smile upon you, fatso.”

Naturally, a chase of profoundly comic proportions began to take place around the tavern. The Gnome, whose name was apparently Grinkle Gronkle, darted from table to table without spilling a single drop from his cask. Grinkle continued to leap from table-top to table-top, whilst Conelly struggled to keep up. The barman’s face contorted even further with every passing second of this debacle - altering in shades of red from a polite scarlet to a jilted vermillion, then an impossibly irritated crimson before settling on a furious carmine. Meanwhile, Grinkle couldn’t be happier. The wicked smile rested below his eerily cherry cheeks only grew stronger, as if the Gnome was fueled by chaos. It almost seemed as if he were a being of pure energy, feeding on the growing discontent of the Tavern’s proprietor. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Gronkle’s antics soon started to annoy the other guests too, and some of the sterner men assisted Conelly in his chase. They were clearly excited at the prospect of being able to enjoy their night without the pestering of a travelling Gnome mercenary- who simply insists you listen to his obviously falsified tales of legendary battle, at that. Much to Grinkle Gronkle’s dismay, not a single person at the tavern believed the stories of his legendary conquests. It is practically unheard of for a gnome to be a warrior, after all. Even less so a great one. 

Before the band of Gnome hunters could complete their task, an eerie chill overtook the tavern. The candles briefly blew out, only to come alive again- stronger. The flames burnt so powerfully he anticipated the table cloths to catch ablaze, except they didn’t. This was the first evidence of dark magic that night. This evidence was corroborated further by the man who proceeded to saunter through the door. Man, was perhaps a misnomer. From the waist down, they were definitely a man. Albeit one with an odd sense of fashion. They donned a suit made entirely of leather as dark as the night. In fact, it almost looked as if it were made of the night sky itself. An emerald green cape flowed from its shoulders also, one that looked as if it were a million leaves sewn together. Plant roots had seemingly taken residence from the neck, however. And where a head should be - a pumpkin. Grand, orange, holes for eyes and a mouth. The ridges were deep and pronounced and it gave the distinct impression of being coarse to the touch. It’s fair to say not a soul in Balmorris had ever seen a pumpkin like this in their lives, nor a man who had one in place of a head.

“Oh, let’s not go kicking anybody out, gentlemen. The more the merrier, I always say.” The man spoke in an eerily elegant Southern-Balmorrisian accent as if he hailed from one of the kingdom’s snootier noble families. 

The bar was rendered completely silent the moment he entered. It was as if fear had entirely possessed them all. Except for, of course, Grinkle Gronkle. He was as chipper as he ever was.

“Now that’s hospitality,” Grinkle started, “You could learn a thing or two from this fella, Jack. Say, buddy what’s your name? Mr Pumpkin? Fire-for-eyes McGee?”

“Oh, I’m not really sure. Don’t suppose I’ve ever had much need for one. You could call me ‘Jack’ though, for now. I like the sound of that.”

“I wouldn’t go getting all inspired by old Jackie over here, my friend. His name’s just about the only decent thing he’s got going for him.” Grinkle stopped to stare at the barman, as if to goad a response out of him, “Say, frogman got your throat Conelly? It’s been like 3 insults and you haven’t so much as threatened my life.”

“He won’t be doing much of anything right now, Grinkle Gronkle the Gnomish warrior. Frozen in time, I’m afraid.”

“Huh. Odd stuff. Sooo… why have you frozen time? And why aren’t I frozen? And who are you really? And how do you know who I am?” For the first time in a long time, it was clear that Grinkle Gronkle was nervous. The Gnome had obviously gotten used to thriving on the chaos he sowed in social situations, and the lack of control presented to him at this moment clearly unnerved him. 

“I shall answer your questions.” Jack started, “But you may not like the answers. I have frozen time because I find it easiest to complete my work without tedious mortal distractions. You aren’t frozen because you are next on my list, and I cannot claim you whilst you are frozen in time. I am Death. I know all.” 

“Well. That’s not good for me. I have one more question if you don’t mind?” Grinkle asked, oddly politely. 

“But of course. It is the least I can do, given what I am about to do.” Jack responded. Before Grinkle continued, he picked a scabbard off the back of the seat at the head of the table where he stood and drew the sword. It was at least twice as big as him, forged with rare Gnomish steel and soaked in the blood of many vanquished foes. 

“Can Death die?” He asked, confidently.

“No, I cannot.” Death answered, plainly.

“Shit. Never mind then.” Grinkle threw his sword to the ground, sulking. “Why am I even on your list anyway? What could I have possibly done?”

“So you are accepting that I am, in fact, Death? Odd. Most mortals spend quite a while in denial.”

“Well, I mean, if you’re not Death - I’m not a Gnome. You’re dark and mysterious, an aura of misery consumes the world around you and you have a giant, terrifying pumpkin for a head. You sort of seem like the entire encapsulation of Death.” Grinkle reasoned.

“That is… fair enough. And Grinkle, you cannot hide behind lies with me, like I said- I know all. We are both well aware that the list of things you have done to earn a visit from me is quite long. Was the time you slept with that villagers wife and daughter before robbing him blind not worthy of my punishment? Or when you burned down the house of a farmer who disrespected you one night at a tavern?”

“I suppose, but surely it’s fairly standard for a mercenary like me to have a bit of a spotty past. Are you telling me you visit us all like this?”

“Pretty much, yes. However, it should be noted I do tend to visit them a lot older than you are. As it stands, I am not here as retribution for a life you have taken. I am here because you cheated me. Two months ago you slew a wyvern whose existence I was personally responsible for. You should not have won that fight,  so your soul is mine to claim.”

Grinkle thought back to this day, although he had slew so many monsters it proved rather difficult to recall. In fact, the only reason he could remember was because he was prompted. The atmosphere in that cave felt exactly like it did in the tavern right now- dire, a little sad and undeniably ominous.

“Wait. I’m dying because I was a more capable warrior than that lousy wyvern?” Grinkle protested, getting infuriated, “That is grossly unfair. I want my life back.”

“That Wyvern was from lousy. It slew scores of warriors before crossing paths with you. It was single-handedly responsible for keeping me fed for months. Payment is due. Your soul will be mine. There is no getting out of this, Grinkle Gronkle.” Death asserted whilst his eyes began to burn brighter. He was clearly growing impatient with this endeavour.

Grinkle Gronkle chose to respond to imminent doom with an expression he was all too familiar with- a devious grin. It was obvious a plan had formed in his maniacal little mind. He had cheated Death once, why not again?

“So, you’re out a Wyvern. A very murderous Wyvern. You need something to fill the void left by its lack of murder. I sympathise, I really do. So how about a gnome with a penchant for ending lives? I mean, after all, what is one itty bitty Gnome to the appetite of a primordial being like you?” Grinkle suggested, all of his hopes clinging to this last-ditch effort.

“You mean to enter into a contract with Death himself? You must understand, boy. There is no being devious enough to escape me. I come for all, in the end. Are you prepared to face a life of slaughter and mayhem, equipped with the knowledge that no matter what- your fate remains the same?”

“Does it mean I don’t die right now?” Grinkle asked.

“It does.” Death responded.

“Let’s do it.” Grinkle answered, confidently.

Death reached out to Grinkle with his jet-black hand. It proceeded to engulf itself in searing blue flames, although when Grinkle reached out to meet him they seemed almost cool to the touch. These flames were also magical in nature, burning a blue so bright it was as if they were embers from the Great Hearth itself. As their hands met, a contract between an almost completely insane Gnome adventurer and the primordial Father of the End was born. A piercing pain enthralled Gronkle, forcing him to the floor. He arose with a small symbol branded into the top of his palm- a small black crow.

“My symbol,” Death began, “so you never forget who your master is. Now go forth into the world, my vassal. Reap what you have sown, or I shall come for you after all.” Death turned to leave the tavern before stopping to toss a satchel to Grinkle.

“Take this with you on your journeys. You look ridiculous carrying a blade twice your size.”

The door slammed behind him as Jack Conelly and the other men chasing Grinkle began to look around in sheer confusion, completely unaware as to how the gnome they were chasing had ended up standing in the tavern’s doorway. Grinkle left the Wailing Banshee before they could throw him out, however. He wandered through the streets of Ravenscar until the early hours, experimenting with the satchel his new lord had gifted him. It had seemingly infinite storage capacities, although he somehow always retrieved exactly what he wanted when he reached inside. It was clearly an immensely potent magical artefact, although as much is to be expected when Death himself gives you a present. The Gnome then wandered towards the local adventurers guild, in pursuit of a bounty to chase. He had death to supply and of course, his own pockets to fill. 

Even with that crow branded to his palm, resting eternally below his thumb to remind him of his burden, Grinkle Gronkle met the world with his trademark devious grin. He knew he’d figure out a way to cheat death again, even if he didn’t realise he did it the first time around. But for now, Grinkle had no qualms with taking a life to benefit his own. He hoped that didn’t change anytime soon, or else he may have to sit through a performance review meeting.

Memory covertly extracted from Guild Member Grinkle Gronkle for F.B.E.C archival purposes by Head Librarian Eudora Woods- with the operational approval of F.B.E.C Covert Operations Head Fraldarius Lancaster.