gnomes

The corridor outside the Speedbarge's main power generator was unbearably hot and humid. The air was thick with moisture, and the walls were warm to the touch as Jizzy neared the generator room. Two gnomish techs walked quickly past him in the opposite direction, drenched in sweat and ashen-faced. Jizzy's grasp of Common wasn't perfect, but he thought he heard one of the gnomes say something about "Gnomeregan all over again."

In a perfect world, I would not have to fight.

I would be talented enough at thievery to elude even the keenest eyes.  I would face no competition from fellow bandits in the tenebrous corners of the city.

We shared a meal, you spoke in rhyme
And transformed in an hour's time
From two whose words had never mixed
To not a inch of space betwixt.

An enticing dish, but we shouldn't partake of something so sweet, no matter how hungry we might be.

Yielding to temptation, we allowed ourselves one bite.  Perhaps even that was too much, knowing we can't enjoy the rest.

In the interest of a healthy future, this is best decision for both of us.

They claim my methods are contradictory, yet dress themselves in expensive clothing.

They claim to do more for the needy, minus the same risks and sacrifices.

One might be a close friend; now she questions my motives.

One might be closer still; now she fears guilt by association.

One might break me in half, by all appearances.

All of this from defending the careless gnome who might have been my mentor.

Some residents bathe in small tubs, the water carried in from outside.  Others visit public swimming places, though clothes must stay on.  I'm told society's elite have indoor plumbing, even functional showers.

I rely on a small brook in Elwynn, too shallow to warrant much attention.

My heart races before every attempted theft.  To maintain focus, I remind myself why further failure is unacceptable.

It's not always about imprisonment or injury; my motivation depends on the situation.

No Sparklematic machine, no wash basin, no soap.  Agitation is done the old-fashioned way.

A bit of vinegar helps remove stains and odors; one jug lasts for a month.

Gnomish height has its advantages.  A grain crate makes a passable bunk.

The blanket is tattered, redolent of dirt and my own sweat, despite several washings in the pond.

Sometimes there are spiders.  Sometimes I oust a stray cat; when I fall asleep, she returns to share the space regardless.

Thieves require energy, energy requires health, health requires food.

Sometimes I accept free meals from Lorith and Noxxie.  Charity contravenes training, but going hungry is worse.

Sometimes I fish, though I am no Beisel; the pond is not always forthcoming.

As I struggle to teach myself the fundamentals of a career in which ineptitude leads to imprisonment or even death, you ask me why.

Why commit myself so stubbornly to a dangerous lifestyle, when it's patently obvious I haven't the knack?  Why not get out while I still can, and consider myself fortunate that the victims of my botched attempts at pickpocketing thought me too harmless to warrant reporting to the local guard?  Why spend my evenings lurking in dingy alleys and abandoned buildings, puzzling over how to score my next meal, when I could pick up a real job and live in reasonable comfort?

Stormwind City, Old Town, midnight.  A gnome clad in weather-beaten leather darts down a dimly lit alleyway.  She glances warily from side to side; her eyes narrow as she searches for movement in the darkness.  Assured of her solitude, she climbs into the packing crate serving as her temporary residence.

(( Been ages since I've felt the bug to write something for Mela and a recent discussion on Christmas in July spawned this. ))

"Why?"

The high pitch crack at the end of that simple word made me cringe.

"Humans far too curious about the wrong things," I thought to myself as I rummaged through the pack of "supplies" the kid brought me this week.

Dear Gnomes Everywhere,

(( The following thoughts were penned by Mary Jinkwicket in the early hours of the morning and subsequently left on her desk at the offices of Roseate Relic Recovery in the Hall of Explorers, Ironforge.  Any employee or visitor wishing to sneak a peek could do so, given a willingness to relocate the unclaimed pair of lacy lavender underthings resting atop the paper. ))

I've had better nights than tonight.

(( OOC Note: The format of this blog is a bit odd compared to my usual stuff, and it might not make much sense to anyone unfamiliar with the characters, so please accept my apologies in advance for that.  Rabbly is by far my oldest character, and sometimes I get questions from other grizzled server vets asking what she and her wife are up to these days ... so, I thought a basic "here's where they are right now" sort of post might be helpful. 

Incidentally, the blurb about Deathwing and Surwich actually happened during our RP.  It was far and away the most perfectly-timed coincidence I've experienced in six years of playing this game. ))

"I'm tired of the males," said I,
"They're useless, daft and rude!"
For dealing with a clueless guy
Had rather wrecked my mood.

I followed the path of the warrior, seeking to combat emergent threats against our slow recovery from the tragedy of Gnomeregan.  I stood with Alliance forces when the dread citadel Naxxramas darkened the skies above the Plaguelands, a festering tide of undead sweeping across the entirety of Azeroth.  Overconfident in my ability, I fell to an advancing line of Scourge footmen, thinking the brittle and mindless skeletons no match for my strength and technique.  While my prowess was insufficient to lead me to victory, it earned me consideration for the position of an elite Scourge soldier.

(( From the series of quests in Borean Tundra starting with "Finding Pilot Tailspin". ))

Food for herself. Food for Sandra. Double the food, double the risk.

Can't let her die. She needs food. She can't walk now, her leg is broken. But she'll heal. Jannaell can help. Will help.

Must help.

Drop into the hiding spot. Found some mold - edible. Barely. If you're hungry.

And they were hungry.

In the early morning hours of the tenth of February what quiet exists in the City of Stormwind was shattered by an explosion so powerful that the garrison initially thought an attack on the city had begun.

A rapid investigation showed only one building to have been affected.  It was a stylish two-story house occupied by five tenants.  Only one of them, a male gnome named Fessie Copperstock, was home at the time.  Emergency excavations found that he was killed in his bed along with another female gnome named Jozzie Kettlewagger, who was presumed to be his girlfriend.

Cheridy looked up from her welding at the knock on her door, turning off her torch and wandering over to open it, coming face-to-thighs with a green-haired Kal'dori. She pushed her welding mask off, then her gloves, offering her hand. "Arilyn, right? Nice ta finally meet ya. You'll be my first Elvish workshop assistant."

Arilyn bent down, shaking hands with the smiling gnome. "It's a pleasure, Miss Splitwasher. I look forward to learning more about engineering from someone so knowlegable."

Cheridy smirked at that. "Miss Splitwasher? Babe, we're not so formal around here. Call me Cheridy."

Six days out of the week I would walk a half a mile to the mailbox. As I made that walk down the dirt drive, I would drag my fingertips along the length of golden wheat strands that bordered my drive. My fingertips pinched against the neck of the ear of grain, and raised upwards strippin' the ear from thin body, like children do. Then, well, one day I simply didn't.

Mary laughed. "You know... there's something else we haven't discussed."

Cheridy blinked behind her goggles, looking away from the babbling brook feeding Crystal lake, swirling her wine in her long-stemmed glass. "Oh? What's that?"

The blonde-haired gnome leaned forward a bit, giggling as her dual ponytails blew in the breeze, an impish grin on her face. "What was your first time like?"

"I think the amount of meaning in our lives is contingent on the amount of fun we're having.  Call it an overly simplistic worldview if you must, but I don't see much value in sitting around and stressing over deeper truths that might not even exist, let alone be within the scope of our comprehension.  Start down that path and before you know it you've grown far too disenchanted to appreciate a memorable adventure in this magical world, too dispassionate to reciprocate the warmth of good company, too discombobulated to pull off the advanced variation of position 97-C in the Gnoma Sutra.  Is that a meaningful life?  Doesn't strike me as such."

- Talking philosophy with a human paladin at the moonwell in Stormwind Park