From burrow to broad horizon - an introduction of Wrener Wiclasp

[Womlin]

In a wide and spacious burrow, over a dozen gnomes sat in high-backed chairs on a raised dais. Despite being underground, the space was well-lit, and hovering arcane lamps gently caromed about above the heads of those in attendance. The high ceiling glittered with immaculately cut gems set into shapes of constellations. Concentric circles and elliptical shapes glistened with piped filigree interconnecting the jewels, making the entire surface above the gathering an academic treatise on astrogation, and a prime example of the ingenuity and inventive nature of this curious race. An audience of nearly two-hundred clansgnomes, just under half of the settlement, looked on from a cushioned floor as raised voices echoed sharply from the platformed front of the hall. Only one gnome stood, rigidly, before this apparent council, enunciating his own words loudly with candor and resolve.

“… waystones, ring-gates, and even the binding of oneself to an anchor of Divine planar interference all display the potential of my invention, while lacking the ridiculous constraints and demands for incalculable precision that you have levied onto me!”

“Wrener Wiclasp, Sir, do not bring up the non-sense of the ring-gate in this prodigious gathering. Even if such items exist, the purported dire consequences of their use hardly support your cause!” Responded the gnome seated dead-center of the council.

Another member, several seats to his right, spoke up next, “And possibilities aside, your proposition may very well leave all of our holdings in extreme peril! What you’re talking about is a complete dissolution of our defenses, and for what!? A kinder, gentler war against goblins!?”

Many voices from the gallery of on-lookers immediately rose up then. It was a cacophony of angry shouts. All of it was silenced, however, when a wizened gnomish woman from the left-most seat of the stage flung an orb of coruscating energy into the mass of bodies. A panoply of brilliant color and clanging bells erupted where it landed, and the throng collectively moaned before hushing themselves, and turning their attention back to the proceedings.

“We’ll have order here! This isn’t some Stout-folk runk, nor a Hin pie-eating contest! Behave yourselves!” The old woman chided. Many younger faces in the overseeing panel blushed noticeably at her blatant racism, but non-dared offer reproach.

With a sigh, the head of the gnomish nobles spoke once more from his center seat, his tone much cooler than before, “Uncle, you have ever been a proponent for peace. How many of your inventions have already led to a significant decrease in the bloodshed between us and our voracious neighbors? Non-lethal ammunitions, and trap-and-release utilities? Isn’t it enough? What you’re bringing to us here… this… trans-planar tripwire? Portals and gateways require such stability that even arcanists of legendary ability take countless precautions. Imagine the catastrophe if we begin translocating raiding monsters, not back into the wilds as you predict, but to some wildly random location? Other settlements, or worse, mayhaps even deeper inside our protected perimeter?”

Wrener shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, fiddling in one of the many pouches at his belt. Small springs and cogs overflowed from the effort, and fell with a gentle tinkling around his booted feet. A quiet calm stretched for moments then. With a little nod, he closed the flap of the container at his belt, and looked up with watery eyes.

"When I was young, before my mustaches came in, we had a long system of underground whistles attached to bellows. When the goblins came we’d jump on them with all our weight, and off they’d go! The tones had been calibrated to just the right pitch that both their spiders and boars perceived the sounds to be mating calls of sorts.” He chuckled then, as did the old spell-flinging woman, and others aged enough to remembers such events in audience. As the laughter faded, he continued, “For every one of my non-lethal contraptions, this council has completed many more of terrible design. The penchant for violence displayed in the past century has left our outskirts littered with the fetid bodies of everything from beetle to bugbear. It’s unsightly and unnatural, and by my calculations has attracted far more frightening threats -Please let me finish!”

Several mouths had opened to offer counter-point, but they closed with his request. Wrener continued, “You are right to have your doubts… Garl Glittergold himself knows that I do… which is why I will not complete my work here.” There were many gasps then, and whispers began around the room.

The center-seat spoke up once more. “Uncle, you are aged. Your wanderlust has come and gone! It’s your time to man the tinkersmiths here, for us! You still do good work, despite these near-constant distractions and side projects.”

Wrener furrowed his brow at the bold-faced patronization, and stuck up his chin as he responded, “I intend to continue work for this place and my gnome-kin! In fact, I intend to save you all from yourselves! My only hope is to find such a resolution before your love of destructive energies summons forth a dragon onto our heads!”

An eruption of cries occurred then from the crowd. Calls to order were wholly ineffective. Gnomes began to shuffle out of the hall clutching their children to their chests in worry. Wrener’s nephew stood from his seat, pounding the arm of his chair repeatedly, and shouting above the din of the mass movement.

"Go then, you old simple-whiskered buffoon! Go to wherever and see that your work takes you a long time to complete, too! Be glad I don’t call for the trouser-pants ritual and proper exile!”

Wrener turned briskly and stalked into the crowd of those pushing out of the gathering burrow. He hid his face as best he could, not wanting to show the tears streaming freely down his cheeks. When he returned to his workstation, he gathered what small belongings he deemed necessary into a traveling pack, sheathed a keen short-sword to his hip, and then sat. Wrener Wiclasp breathed deep and closed his eyes. He was comforted by the smells of oiled metal. His ears twitched at the fluctuating hum of arcane mechanisms, and the flutter of fey energies that were attracted to them... He was going to miss home.

He opened his eyes again and exhaled. Standing, he grabbed a large and weathered looking book, and opened it to a far page. His decades of research on planar stability had led him to the knowledge of a strange and distant land beyond the isles of Moonshae. It was there that he knew he could find answers to his questions, and perhaps even hope for his wayward settlement in the western Dalelands…

Glittergold and Steelskin preserve him in his quest to a distant shore. To Arelith, and adventure.