My name is Brokk Dimble Nackle Oneshoe Dreamer Inkdrinker…I could go on ad nauseum; we gnomes receive many names from family members and even friends. Father called me “Dreamer” because, unlike most forest gnomes, I didn’t engage in frolicking, pranking, joking or general mischief, unlike my brother, my twin brother. Twinning is uncommon among gnomes, but here we are. I was first, by less than three minutes, but I definitely feel like the older brother. Zook has already experimented with several adventuring professions, while I had yet to choose one. Mother jokingly called me “Inkdrinker” because I loved to read books and write journals and scientific theories, using so much ink that I must have been “drinking” it. (No, that was Zook one time. He was coughing out the awful taste for hours. He learned his lesson.) That’s the name that stuck, but it was shortened to “Inky”. It’s fine with me.

I did behave as the stereotypical forest gnome by my love of animals. If you just listen, they have so much to tell you. I love all our pets, but we must be careful of our emotions. Even humans must watch their beloved pets wither and die while they themselves are relatively young, but gnomes can live for 500 years, so we undergo this acquisition and mourning cycle repeatedly. Allowing for that, I enjoy communing with dogs, cats, birds, and anything else that will listen and “talk”. It’s amazing how much I’ve learned from passing crows and bluejays.

Mother and father were always kind and patient, and my brother and I share a strong bond, but I also overheard my parents talking about how “worried” they are about me, that I didn’t develop the way Zook did. Uncle Gimbles tried to reassure them that I was fine, but they continued to express fear that I would not be able to live on my own one day, and that I would need supervision because of my stunted height and weak physiognomy. Even today, as a legal adult, I stand only two feet, nine inches, short even for a gnome, and I can barely lift about 40 pounds. I especially enjoy Uncle Gimbles’ visits. Everyone calls him “Ducky” because of the duck toys he builds to entertain children. He’s not blood-related; he is a rock gnome. It doesn’t matter to us. Gnomes “adopt” any compatible person into our large extended family. We have a family of circus performers, the Ropewalkers, as extended family, too. I get on especially well with Thorn. Even though he’s more like my brother in behavior, he is also very intelligent and clever, making remarkable use of his innate illusion power. Alas, that power, shared by all forest gnomes, is weak in me. I can only use it once a day, at least not without suffering massive headaches as feedback. I will explain my theory about magic later.

My family comprises a guild in and of itself, an organization dedicated to keeping magic in this dreary little town despite the demands of our king, Myrrikan III. The human hates magic. Maybe he forgot that our town, once called Xynnar, now Oceanus because of construction that took place 47 years ago that put us on the map, belongs to the gnomes. We didn’t object when humans populated the town, but to force us to be subject to their regulations is unthinkable. Still, what can a band of gnomes do against a population of humans?

When I turned 15, I stole a bit of my brother’s impulsivity. I decided to prove to my family that they had nothing to worry about where I was concerned. I would journey out of town, gather scraps and herbs for our magic item creations, and show that despite my physical deficiencies, I would be just fine. For the first time in my life, I left the confines of our small town and walked into the huge world. At first, it was fine. I even saw a huge owlbear during my trip, but it ignored me. Sometimes being so small is an advantage.

Another time, I encountered a lone goblin; strange, since goblins prefer to roam in packs. I didn’t want to fight, so I ducked behind a tree and cast an illusion of myself walking away. He was fooled long enough to pursue the phantom, leaving me free to escape. Thankfully, that first use of my weak magical ability didn’t cause a headache this time. My new friend Hussst, a sapphire dragonborn sorcerer, does not know about my headaches. I do not want to be a liability to him.

All went well until, perhaps because of fatigue and simple carelessness, I did not hear the footsteps approaching me, and I found myself in the mighty grip of what I can only describe as a seven-foot-tall humanoid male cow. I later learned that this creature’s species is called “minotaur”. I can speculate that the suffix “taur” refers to hybrid creatures with human features mixed with those of an animal. Think of centaurs, “horse-men.”

I lack the magical abilities of the rest of my family, biological and extended alike. But I have to wonder whether I have some kind of luck power instead. Minotaurs rarely take prisoners; they kill and or eat them. They are savage brutes, period. But this one told me I would live if I became a teacher to their young “calves” and transcribed the tribe’s oral traditions into written form. I had no choice. Even if I could cast another illusion without severe pain, my hands were bound in his grip, so I couldn’t make the required gestures anyway. I agreed.

Not all the minotaurs of this tribe, a tribe of about 25 adults (seven cows and eighteen bulls) and 75 calves (almost an equal gender mix), believed I should be kept around. “Too small for a good meal,” one of them declared, “just get rid of the worthless thing!” But the chief commanded silence and explained that it was time for the tribe to advance in the name of “Baphomet”, the “god” they worshipped. Through the tribe’s arguing, I gleaned that Baphomet is not a deity but a demon prince, savagery incarnate yet possessing a keen scientific mind. I have heard of the tales of complex labyrinths constructed by minotaurs to confine victims while they hunted them, themselves able to navigate even the most circuitous routes with ease.

Locked in a huge ball-and-chain (typical; minotaurs are not very intelligent, but no genius is needed to acquire such simple traps), I began my work, some of the bulls constantly tormenting me just for the fun of it. One even released me from my chain, but I could discern that he wanted me to try to escape so he and a friend or two could hunt me down. I stayed put. Disappointed, he put the chain back on and ripped part of my beard off, then dripped sweet tree sap on what was left and placed fire ants on it. The pain was terrible, yet the bull didn’t laugh; he was angry. He hated me for being so small and weak, I guess. I vowed never to wear a beard again, and I haven’t to this day.

I couldn’t tell how much time elapsed, but the seasons changed several times, so I calculated that I was a prisoner for approximately three years. I love to teach, but not to “students” who do not want to learn! I should say, the adults did not want to learn. The calves were a different matter. The desire was there, but the ability to use what they learned was lacking. One of the older ones possessed more self-awareness than most of the others. Smaller than most of his fellow young bulls, he lamented that, while he had memorized everything I had said (that shocked me; apparently, minotaurs remember everything they hear. It is just that their lack of intelligence prevents them from using the knowledge except to hunt and fight), it made no sense to him.

I have read many books in my short lifetime, so I kept myself sane by reviewing those works mentally. I, too, have a nearly eidetic memory. This is where my theory concerning magic takes place. I have the dexterity and skill of an artificer, yet I cannot empower my creations with arcane power. I can read and memorize a spellbook, yet I cannot cast anything other than the simple illusions innate to all forest gnomes, and even those are weak and cause me pain. Now and then, a small animal would appear, giving me comfort for a short time, but I had to persuade each to leave, lest they get caught and murdered. I tried using a spell I’d learned from my studies, but nothing happened. I certainly have not manifested sorcerous ability, and I would never sign a pact with some unknown and possibly malevolent creature just for power, so I have no chance of being a sorcerer or warlock. Most people know about Mystra, the goddess who created and maintains The Weave, the force that drives magic. My theory is that the Weave itself is sentient. You don’t choose magic, it chooses you. My friend Hussst’s sorcery, for instance, likely comes from his draconic heritage, although he told me that it was a magical fire that activated his power. Maybe the Weave at work?

One thing I have noticed is that the summers have blunted of late. In fact, since I was freed, I have learned that temperatures have been dropping for decades. How was I freed? That same self-aware minotaur, Khroton Sharphorn by name, ripped my chain off, hauled me onto his shoulders, healed the dent in my leg (he was a paladin, unheard of among minotaurs), apologized for not having understood that I was a prisoner, and asked me where I wanted to go. At first, I thought it was another sadistic trick. Instead, he explained that he had acquired a strange magical device that granted him intelligence. In fact, I realized that he was now a literal genius!

The trip took months. I include that time in the calculation of the three years I have counted as a prisoner. He wanted to take me to my home, but I declined once I realized that he was sincere. “My family likely thinks I am dead,” I explained. “They have mourned and moved on. I cannot reopen those all-too-recent wounds.” I asked him to use his new intelligence and innate directional sense to try to triangulate the source of the obviously abnormal cooling phenomenon. He replied that he couldn’t, explaining that his hide didn’t allow him to notice “minor” temperature changes. He soon changed his mind, exclaiming that he DID now notice that it is colder than it should be during this time of the year. There could be only one explanation: “Magic!” we cried simultaneously. Using his senses, he and I eventually arrived in Dragonmere, the apparent source of the trouble. Although I hate minotaurs, I could make an exception for this one; him and maybe his tribe’s shaman, who was always at least civil to me. I was actually sad to see him go. The shaman had even asked my advice on how to make Khroton smarter. It turned out that he was the one who had procured the Headband of Intellect the young bull now wore. I wonder if Khroton knows that the shaman is his father. It only makes sense. He also has a brother, who fled to avoid a terrible ritual. Why he and his son(s) are so different, I will likely never know. Thankfully, the rest of that tribe, the nasty adults, has been neutralized, thanks in part to Khroton and the shaman themselves, mutilating and exiling their now ex-chief, leaving the calves to grow up unmolested by the evil power of Baphomet. (In their tribe at least, that “power” is not innate to the minotaur, it is bestowed by horrible rituals, the calves terrified of having to undergo them when they reached adulthood.)

Alone at last, I did not bother to rent a hotel room. Khroton had even given me some gold, but I was now used to living off the land. Since I love animals, I stuck with a vegetarian diet, but finding edible plants and produce was simple. Instead, I lived in nearby forests, perusing books at any available library to try to find the source of the cooling. Would it get worse? Are we headed for a new Ice Age? One time, my attention was diverted as I was hunting up some savory berries…

There was a commotion nearby. A passing woodpecker warned me of trouble. This is a pattern with me. I possess decent intuition, but when I get into research, I lose all other focus. I saw a small band of humans and a strange blueish creature being harried by orcs. While I may not possess magic, in the time I was held prisoner, I discovered my physical side. I was nimble, small and dexterous. Maybe non-magical “Weaves” exist, for it was obvious that a profession had been chosen for me: rogue. I don’t like that word. I prefer “scout” or “investigator.” I don’t steal. I don’t pick pockets. I study. Well, this time, stealth came in handy. I cannot claim to have saved the group alone, but I did create enough diversions to help them save themselves, via simple tricks (e.g. tying ropes together to trip an orc) or the liberal, excruciatingly painful, use of my illusions.

The humans did not notice me, but the blue creature did. He wouldn’t let me slink away, instead proffering his gratitude. I stammered a fast response until I noticed that he was now speaking to me telepathically! We formed as much of a rapport as I was capable of, and I relaxed just a bit, His name is Hussst, a sapphire dragonborn. Fascinating. I had heard of gem dragons but believed that they were but a myth. Obviously not! That is when I noticed something else: my throbbing headache had abated. Later experimentation revealed that Hussst’s communications with me not only did not harm me but soothed my headaches. I also noticed something else: some kind of bond beyond our nascent friendship. It was as if something was calling me through him. Only a few tennights ago, many beings of all species arrived in this town, apparently on the same mission as my new friend and I are: to find the source of the cooling. All had received letters, explaining that each had dragon blood. Hussst thinks I, too, may be so endowed. That is what drew me here. (As much as Khroton had provided the means, I, too, sensed where I needed to go.)

A word about Hussst: he is not what humans would call a “hero”. He is a bandit; someone I should never trust under normal circumstances. His motivations are power and wealth, not the good of the people. He constantly speaks of “tribute” that he and his band expect from the people they “protect”. However, I notice loyalty, adherence to rules, and a strength of character one would never expect from a criminal. He clearly has his own code of conduct, and I do not claim to be of good alignment myself. I term myself neutral. Knowledge is a tool, nothing more. Knowledge is as “good” as a tree branch; it can provide shade, or it can be used as a weapon. Still, this cooling phenomenon could endanger the world, so it needs to be resolved. Hussst might be a bandit, although he has mentioned becoming a warlord one day, has declared that he is just as committed to finding out what is going on as I am. His motivation, he claims, is that his band’s “tributes” are being affected, but he can’t fool me. There’s a heart of at least polished bronze in that tough exterior!