[ +- ] Puff's back story
Fire, embers, crumbling trees, and the smell of charred flesh. That is what Puff last saw of Puddlebrook – or The Pud as his folks would call their village most of the time.
Once a peaceful, hidden village at the northern edge of the Reaching Woods, this village hosted a dozen tree hovels disposed around a clearing. Across the clearing, the shallow Puddle Brook provided water, fish, refreshment during the hot summer days, and a name for the small community. The Pud hosted probably the only true Daergels west of the Sea of the Fallen Stars – that is, those who had not flocked to Hardbuckler and other cities forgetting the old ways of the Dale.
True to their nature, the Puddlebrookians, or Puds as they would jokingly call themselves, spent most of their life simply, living off the thriving nature that surrounded the burrow, gathering berries, hunting game. Once a year, the day after Midsummer celebrations, a small delegation would leave The Pud for Hardbuckler, in order to trade those few goods that were not easily found in the Woods. Being a delegate was an honour: the delegates, three adult gnomes chosen among the most valiant hunters, would ride the best ponies, raised for this sole purpose, and spend a week in the city signing deals on which the whole community depended.
Yaryin, the youngest son of Flúmin of Urihim of the Daergel Clan, and of Varda "Rosewater" Ningel, never aspired to be a delegate. A remarkably quiet chap even for a gnome, he was at his happiest alone, in the deep of the forest. In fact, as soon as he could feel the cracking leaves under his feet and the smell of the autumn undergrowth, he would start and running around and hopping out of sheer joy, raising puffs of dirt and dry leaves at each hop – which earned him the nickname "Puff".
Two days had passed since the 112th delegation, made up of "Dill" the Nackle, Wrenn of Sindri and Alvyn "Mockingbird" (both of the Garrick Clan), had left The Pud. Puff was barely 17, a child for gnome’s standards, but old enough to wander on his own.
On that fateful day, Puff had set off at dawn to go "hunting" in the dense thickets south of the village. He would often do that, set up the traps in the morning, then wander around, and check them at dusk. Not that he was looking for preys – his traps were set to avoid hurting the animals, according to the Wildwanderer’s teaching to defend and protect the creatures of the forest. He looked for winged friends to converse with, furry companions of future explorations; only the old and sick among them, who would have been claimed by Nature anyways, would become food.
Having deployed all the traps, Puff was wandering and enjoying the nature when, around noon, he reached the shores of a lake that he’d never seen before. The lake was quiet, the weather warm, and the sky blue and clear. Puff decided to lay down. He dozed off.
One, two, maybe three hours passed, when a thunder woke him up. The clear, blue sky was now covered in dark clouds, revolving and whirling around a point to the North. The air is chilly. A dark column of rain now forms at the horizon, followed by more lightnings, with deep thunders resounding on the still quiet water of the lake. The column of rain at the horizon becomes darker, while an icy wind starts blowing, creating ripples on the surface of the lake.
As the wind grows stronger, Puff tries to seek shelter back in the thickets. Yet, before he can reach the trees only a few feet ahead, the wind stops. The sky is now bright blue, again. The ripples on the water slowly die down as they hit the shore. Only a faint column of black smoke, up north, seems to mark what had just happened. The quiet warmth of the day now seems a travesty – and that black smoke the only real thing. The son of Flúmin now runs, stumbles, the brambles and twigs scratch his legs and face. The closer he gets to his village, the stronger he can smell the burnt wood. Running is now impossible, the terrain is soaked and muddy, in some places the puddles are as deep as ponds, a gnome could easily drown in them. And finally, there it is. Puddlebrook, or what is left of it. Fire, embers, crumbling trees, and the smell of charred flesh. The rain contained the fires, some of which were still burning, consuming what once were mighty trees hosting entire families. The ashes had mostly been blown away by the wind, but you could still see piles of them scattered around the place. Here and there, a darkened bone, a charred stump, what used to be Sindiri of Zook, Breena the Fair, Gimble "Dumb", the son of Seebo… everyone he had known in the word. He was alone.
What happened afterwards, he could not remember exactly. He might have heard a noise, seen someone, but his recollections are blurry, mixed with nightmares. He started wandering, aimlessly. He remembers he saw the night sky turn red and flicker like burning fire, then turn into blood and drip down, covering everything in a bloody rain. He remembers hunger, thirst. He remembers crying, screaming, laughing. Walking again. He thinks – but he can’t be sure of that – that in a fit of rage he chopped down a century-old oak and cried all night over the downed mighty trunk.
Then, the memories become steadier. A caravan picking him up along the trade way to Scornubel. How, in the underworld of the Caravan City, he found other people like him: wretched, feeble-minded, with a past to forget. They were cripples, beggars, thieves, fugitives, exiled – yet they adopted him as one of their own. They fed him and kept him warm, until he eventually recovered his forces and a likeness of sanity.
Six years have passed since then, and Puff now leads an almost comfortable life. Having found a family – however twisted – in the cities’ rascals, he found an employer in them, too. The stealthy demeanour of the forest gnomes, as well as his own quietness, make a perfect spy of him. In a city of trade, someone who can hide in the shadows – or in plain sight – and uncover all kind of secrets is a precious source of information. At first, highwaymen and thieves came to him, hoping he could provide information about vulnerable caravans, rich shipments and hidden loots. Little by little, more "respectable" customers started showing up, merchants wanting intelligence on their trade rivals, Trail Lords spying on Red Shields, jealous husbands wanting to check on their wife, Red Shields spying on Trail Lords. While not making a fortune, a clever gnome could comfortably eke out a living in this way. And clever, Yeryin, he was. In his early years as a survivor, when nightmares of fire and blood would keep him up all night, he had taken up reading. His first teachers were charlatans and forgers, whose profession required them to be skilled with letters. He even started accepting payments in books. His efforts soon became known amongst the lowlife of the city, and burglars and robbers that came across a common book during a "job" would take it and bring it to good ol’ Puff.
Throughout the years, Puff amassed a sizeable – although random – collection of books in the attic that he had taken as home. Yet, none of those books would contain the only answer he was desperately looking for: what happened to his village, to his people? That was clearly no work of Nature. Earthly being or fiend, someone must have been behind it.
He knew that at least some of his folks – the delegates – were in Hardbuckler when hell got loose on the village. What happened to them? Did they survive the downfall of Puddlebrook? The delegates might know something. He should have looked for them immediately, if only his mind hadn’t failed him back then!
But his distress led him to Scornubel, and a new lifeless life kept him there for six long years. What folly to perdure in this state of numb survival, while his folks lie in ashes, and the perpetrators walk this world! Why are they dead? Why is he, Yeryn, still living?
And one night, while a book on the Folk Tales of Far Reach laid open on his lap and his mind was lost in his life’s regrets, a sudden echo of the overflowing life that used to be his resounds in him, and, with it, clarity. No more! He must leave, go North, investigate. The merchants he worked for, they always look for skilled folks to scout ahead of their caravans, don’t they?
It’s the middle of the night but he does not care. He closes the book and thrusts it in a backpack. Jumping on his feet, he grabs whatever he can, in a rush. He says goodbye to the blackbird that used to perch on one of the beams, Seer – but Seer won’t leave him alone, and starts following him around. Now he’s outside, headed towards the home of a good customer of his, a Tethyrian who – he knows – trades with the North. He’s suddenly taken by an insuppressible euphory, not unlike the one he used to feel in the old days, when he would raise puffs of dirt and leaves in the autumn forest. He wakes up the merchant, asks him bluntly to hire him as a scout for the first northbound caravan. The bewildered and yawning merchant agrees, if only to get rid of the annoying gnome and go back to sleep. Puff receives an allowance to upgrade his equipment and is told to report at the Dusty Hoof Inn one hour before noon. He will accompany a caravan of Amnian spices to Boareskyr Bridge – after which, he will be left to his own devices.
Tell me what you think, and if I need to do anything else or I'm good to go!
