Gnome Cleric of Gond


Gnome Cleric of Gond

“My Life Recounted” or “Gnomenclature”

Entry #3,650

I guess I’m leaving today. After ten years of semi-faithful service to this semi-sane institution, I’ve been asked to leave—asked to leave in a very demanding, very ultimatumy sort of way.

Well, since I’m definitely not taking these 11 volumes with me on my journey, I guess this makes the following(and the previous) my final entry. And I can’t think of a better way to end this story of my life, than at it’s beginning.

I was born a seemingly unexceptional Gnome to a very un-unexceptional family of celebrated warriors. Yes, everyone standing around me, starring at me, on my first day of life not only shared the same blood; but with it, a shared sense of civic duty. For not only were these people my kin, but also the entire roster of the Rockfish City Guard. And if it wasn’t already obvious what and who they expected me to be, the naming process really nailed it home.

“Becker,” said my aunt sternly “Becker after his Uncle (and not coincidentally her husband). Captain of the Guard.”

“Bron,” my cousin asserted, “After Bron the Bull, founder of the Guard.”

“Bastion,” said my grandfather. He felt no need to explain his suggestion, for his name is Bastion, and if he had his druthers, it would be one more thing everyone in that room shared.

So Becker Bron Bastion I became, a name that suited me as illy as the family that gave it to me and the town that I am inclined, unfortunately, to call home. But the misfortune didn’t end there. No, I quickly earned new names from my family as I displayed little talent for the warrior arts and even less inclination. That isn’t to say I was unambitious, I’m un-alot of things, but that isn’t one of them. In fact, at a very early age I showed an exceptionally unique interest and understanding of everything mechanical. This interest went unnoticed by my family for many years though, for an eleven year old child showing an interest in mechanics, to them, didn’t seem uncommon; and quite honestly, it wasn’t. But, then again, it was(I’ll get into this a little later). So they soon called me “Click” after the sound most often heard coming from my direction, then “Lily Toad” after I unintentionally personified one in every Sunday morning family skirmish. That one stuck. That one stuck for a while. I actually haven’t written much about those years of my life thus far, and I guess that’s because these are the years I least enjoyed.

BUT THEN! Providence. Lucky for me, my family and the safety and solidarity of the Rockfish City Guard, I was allowed to leave my post and start an apprenticeship under Cleatus, Chief Tinker of not only Rockfish; but all of Creekstone County.

He hated me.

At first I thought the problem was that he was a devout follower of Gond, and my family aligned themselves with Mysteria for, oh I don’t know, probably a stupid reason. So I hastily converted, but to my chagrinny chagrin, my situation was no better for it. Apparently a 29 year old Gnome changing his faith in a day, inspite of several generations of family history, seemed disingenuous.

I later thought that his hatred for me must of come from his simply never meeting anyone like me, perhaps he was threatened by my inconceivably inconceivable technical savvy and the uncanny way in which I unlock a word’s true potential. But looking back on it now, I think it was because he hated how often I broke his machines. He used to say that a lot. Actually, a lot of people said that then. And now.

It’s a shame though, because that isn’t the problem. I have an uncommon way of looking at machines, I can’t see them for what they are, I see them for what they could be. My passion is to unlock a machines true potential, but oft times the machines owner interrupts me before I can finish or fails to appreciate their machines new utilities when I do. That’s when they accuse me of breaking it, and express their hatred of me. It’s odd behavior—behavior I’ve often considered during the time, but never persue. I don’t see any potential in it.

But back to Cleatus. We had our differences, sure, but I learned a lot from him. Every day infact, every day until he died suddenly in that unfortunate “hydrofluxuater” incident when… Actually, I don’t want to talk about that…

… Okay listen, anyone standing that close to a hydrofluxuater is asking to be… okay well maybe not killed, but at least maimed. Alright, I’ll take some blame for the maiming, but he died of his own accord. You weren’t even there.

Well anyways, it was Cleatus’s wish to be buried in the First Cleric’s Church of Gond in Etural, and after a swift discussion(that I wasn’t apart of) it was decided that I would be the one to see this through. Along with my gear and the remains of my former Master, the newly appointed Chief Tinker handed me a letter that he instructed I give to the High Artificer of the Church. He also called me Jynx. So did his apprentice come to think of it. I didn’t ask why. I simply did as I was told, and shortly after the burial, and even more shortly after I handed the High Artificer the letter, it was explained to me that I would remain here in his service. (To read more about this see entries 1-3649)

That pretty much covers it, the more important bits of my life until I started keeping this journal, but in case you’re reading this section, the last page of this 11 volume text, without reading any entries that came before it, I’ll summarize.

The High Artificer was an old—an extremely old man named Ian McHolder, but everyone called him Immortal Ian. The story goes that he wandered into Elturel on a quest that he subsequently forgot, and then built a small Church while he attempted to remember it. That was over 50 years ago, and the people say that, even then, he looked to be a week from death.

He delivered the news of my conscription with a noticeable degree of resignation but I, on the other hand, was unbelievably over-joyed. You see, the Church was in a terrible part of town, a place some of the locals called Mire. That’s it, Mire. Not Mire Street, not Mire’s End, simply Mire, and if you spent more than five minutes there, you could smell why. The Church itself wasn’t an impressive structure to behold, it was essentially a stone box, but the inside—the inside had machinations galore! That truly was something to behold. Which I did, for as long as I could stand it, right before I set on a mission to change it. Every last Gond damned bit of it.

And that’s what I’ve been doing the last ten years, unlocking the true potential of the largest mechanized structure I’ve ever known. It hasn’t been easy, many of the Clergymen here don’t appreciate my efforts, and insist on impeding me in my currently ultimate goal. My clerical duties get in the way too as do my frequent penances. Oh the penances.

But, like I mentioned in the beginning of this entry, I’m leaving today. I’m leaving with a half-naked Half-Orc and a half-sane librarian that was recently a sack of coins. That probably warrants more explanation, but I choose to digress. There is a rather old looking Cleric straining to hold the door that I’ll be exiting ajar, and I’m afraid if I go on any longer, he’ll perish. I’d probably be blamed for that too.

I will mention this though, a rather peculiar exchange I had with my new half-orc comrade just after the High Artificer exchanged the service of reconstituting the bag of coins he called friend into a bag of crazy that called itself librarian; he asked me a simple question. A simple ordinary question. But, this was no simple ordinary question, for this question has never been asked of me in my entire life. “What’s your name?” Up until this moment, for the last ten years infact, he has called me “Soup Gnome,” a very clever name he devised after he noticed me ladling soup into his bowl at one of the various Church events I was forced to service. He simply gave me a name, just like everyone else has done my entire life. But he explained that given the circumstances, of us traveling, fighting, and possibly dying together, he wanted to know my real name. And at that moment, for the first time, I did too.

“Eh… You can call me Supe.”


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