The bare walls of Nimble’s house held no maps, no tapestries, not even a single window to let in the night air. The space felt closed off, illuminated only by the strange glowing sphere on the table and the steady crackle of the fire.
Nimble himself did not live up to his name in the slightest. He was quite old and round, his short legs carrying him with a slow, deliberate gait, each step accompanied by a slight limp.
Without preamble, he raised an open hand toward the Elves. "The fruit?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of age but none of the patience.
Harmony pulled the yellow fruits from her side-sack and handed them to the old Gnome, watching as he rubbed the smooth yellow peels between his fingers.
"Ah, yes," he murmured, as if confirming their authenticity.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and hobbled toward an open doorway, disappearing into the back of the house.
The Elves and Fickle remained standing in the center of the room, exchanging uncertain glances. Was this an invitation to follow? Or were they simply expected to wait in awkward silence?
Nimble’s voice drifted from the next room.
"So, who was it ya were looking for?"
Elfson lifted his head slightly, his voice carrying with clear authority. "Willy the Wood-Gnome. From Spruce Mountain. Do you know him?"
A brief pause, then—
"I cannot hear you from there. Come in here."
The four guests hesitated for only a moment before following the direction Nimble had gone, stepping through the open doorway into whatever awaited them beyond.
The back room looked nothing like the cluttered, dimly lit front of the house.
It was alive.
Plants of countless varieties filled the space, thriving in wild abundance. Thick ivy sprawled across the walls, its vines weaving through hanging baskets, while moonflowers and morning glories bloomed side by side, their delicate petals unfurling under the soft glow of the room's enchanted air.
Pots of vegetables and fruit were scattered across the floor and shelves, some arranged neatly, others overflowing with greenery. Plump red fruits, green peppers, purple peppers, melons, squash, and an array of greenery—some familiar, some entirely unknown to the Elves—grew in great numbers, their colors vibrant and rich.
The walls and ceiling were made from solid glass, creating a sunroom effect, where the moonlight now shone through, casting an ethereal glow over the garden-like space.
In one corner, a large cauldron sat, its surface rippling with steam, though no fire burned beneath it. The air around it shimmered slightly, as if the heat came from something unseen.
Along one wall, a long wooden bench was covered in plant clippings, still fresh, with handwritten notes scrawled beside them. Bundles of drying herbs hung overhead, their scents blending into the earthy fragrance that filled the room.
In the opposite corner, stacks of empty pots and buckets stood in haphazard towers, and the floor was littered with dirt.
It was a room of life and growth, unlike anything they had expected to find inside the home of an old Wood-Gnome.
As Nimble’s four guests stepped into the room, a small head suddenly popped up from behind a thick bush. A Garden-Gnome, barely visible among the greenery, peered at them with wide, bright eyes. He held a pair of odd-looking clippers, their curved blades reflecting the soft glow of the room’s light.
"’Ello," he greeted, his voice casual, before immediately returning to his trimming without another word.
Nimble, now in a far better mood than before, turned to his guests with outstretched arms.
"Welcome to my garden. Yes, welcome!" he exclaimed, setting the yellow fruits down on the long wooden bench, his round face practically beaming.
The Garden-Gnome, having finished his task, walked over to the bench, his hands full of freshly cut clippings.
"We have plenty of clippings for the clones now," he said matter-of-factly, carefully arranging them alongside the other plant samples.
As the two Gnomes stood side by side, the differences between their races became unmistakable.
The Garden-Gnome was noticeably shorter, with softer, rounder features and a more symmetrical face than his Wood-Gnome counterpart. Where Nimble’s leathery skin bore deep wrinkles etched by age and expression, the Garden-Gnome’s complexion was smoother—though still rougher than that of an Elf or Imp. Like their Wood-Gnome cousins, Garden-Gnomes were mostly hairless. But they were shorter and thicker and their clothing usually set them apart: they favored colorful garments, often donning formal robes, tidy overalls, or even dresses stitched with care and flair.
It was no secret—Garden-Gnomes were generally considered much nicer to look at.
As legend tells, there was a time when all Gnomes were one folk, unified in both culture and purpose. They lived together in the Open Plains, thriving on their deep knowledge of the earth, craftsmanship, and boundless curiosity.
But then came The Gnome Wars.
What had once been a peaceful folk became divided, their differences growing too vast to reconcile. The conflict spread across the plains, lasting for centuries, shaping the very fabric of Gnomish society.
While most Gnomes chose a side, there were some who wanted no part of the war at all. These Gnomes, seeing the destruction unfold, chose to leave rather than fight. They fled northward, disappearing into the Thwarth Mountain Chain, hoping to escape the war entirely.
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But the mountains were no gentle refuge. The terrain was harsh, the winters unforgiving, and only the strongest could survive. The Gnomes who had once lived on the open plains had to adapt quickly. After thousands of years, they became hardier and stronger, their bodies growing broader to withstand the cold, their skin thickening from years of exposure to the elements.
With time, their old ways faded. Their love for invention and philosophy was replaced by a more primal existence, one focused on survival, craftsmanship, and self-reliance. They carved their homes into the mountainsides and abandoned the squabbles of the plains, cutting themselves off from their kin.
They became known as the Mountain-Gnomes, a folk who lived by their own laws and traditions. Many believed they had vanished entirely, though travelers spoke of Gnomes who could be found deep in the mountains, large beady eyes peeking from caves, their hands rough and calloused from shaping stone.
Meanwhile, in the Open Plains, the war raged on. The battle was not fought over land or riches, but over knowledge itself. The Gnomes had always been a curious folk, but curiosity had turned into ambition, and ambition into conflict.
One side hungered for discovery, believing that the Gnomes were meant for more than simple existence. These Gnomes sought to push the boundaries of science, engineering, and philosophy. They built strange machines and contraptions that had never been seen before. Some dared to suggest that the world was not flat, but round, and that it moved around the sun.
To the other side, these ideas were not just dangerous—they were blasphemous. The Gnomes had always looked to the land, the rivers, and the Great Gnome in the Sky for their wisdom. They saw no reason to question what had always been. The thought of leaving behind tradition to chase after the unknown was reckless, even arrogant.
Tensions rose, and soon words turned to violence. The war stretched across generations, filled with battles that no side truly won. Gnomes who had once been neighbors turned against one another. Invention and belief clashed in a struggle that neither side could claim victory over.
When at last both factions had grown tired of war, the Gnomes who had embraced discovery made their final decision.
They would leave.
Packing up their machines, books, and tools, they abandoned the Open Plains and set off toward the Poplar Woods in the south. There, surrounded by towering trees and deep rivers, they adapted to the forest life. Over thousands of years, they became known as the Wood-Gnomes.
Meanwhile, the Gnomes who had remained behind reclaimed their old ways. They tended their gardens, built small homes, and lived simple, peaceful lives. The war had only proven to them that change was dangerous. To them, the Wood-Gnomes had become something unnatural, tampering with forces that were never meant to be understood.
For tens of thousands of years, a deep divide remained between them. The Wood-Gnomes, surrounded by forests and new discoveries, rarely encountered the Gnomes of the plains. The Garden-Gnomes, as they came to be known, stayed far away from what they considered the foolishness of the past.
It was not until the time of the High Council that the two groups truly began to meet again. Now, Gnomes of every kind could be seen working together, though old habits remained. Even standing in the same room, a Garden-Gnome and a Wood-Gnome still looked at one another with an unspoken awareness of the past.
And now, as the four companions stood in Nimble’s home, they were looking at living proof of that history.
"Great job, Hortie," Nimble said, giving the Garden-Gnome a firm pat on the back.
Hortie nodded, carefully placing the fresh clippings on the wooden bench, then returned to his work, his odd-looking clippers snipping away at the overgrown plants.
Nimble turned toward his guests, his wrinkled arms waving dramatically in the air.
"Would you like to see what I am doing here?" he asked, his voice filled with an unusual energy.
The Elves glanced at one another, the strange, enclosed garden filling them with a sense of unease.
"Of course," Harmony said, forcing her voice to sound enthusiastic.
Elfson, gently took a single step forward. "Then, can you tell us where we can find Willy?"
Nimble blinked, as if he had almost forgotten the reason they were there. "Yes, yes. Uh, of course. Willy." He stammered slightly, then, as if suddenly struck by a brilliant thought, his expression changed entirely.
His grin stretched wide. "But first," he continued, rubbing his hands together, "I am sure that you would like to know what I am doing with this fruit."
Without waiting for a response, he threw his arms into the air like a lunatic.
"Life-scrolls!" he exclaimed.
Harmony blinked, shifting uneasily. "Life-scrolls?" She turned to Elfson, but his expression was still as ever.
Nimble nodded furiously, his round glasses slipping slightly down his nose.
“All life is made from life-scrolls—tiny, twisty lines of information that tell the whole tale. What color they’ll be, how tall they’ll grow, even how they laugh. Tiny symbols, packed inside each fiber like little secrets. Very tiny indeed.”
He turned toward Harmony and Harvest, his large, intelligent eyes gleaming.
"You two, obviously, have some of the same symbols."
Harvest’s eyes narrowed with intrigue. He leaned forward slightly, his scholarly instincts stirred.
"Symbols?" he repeated, the word turning slowly in his mouth. "What kind of symbols?"
"Yes, yes," Nimble continued, his voice gaining momentum as he spoke. "Life-scrolls contain traits in the form of symbols that hold the information necessary for creating life. Your symbols are different from his or his."
He pointed at the two male Elves, his wrinkled brow raised as if daring them to understand.
"And the Trolls are different as well."
Harvest and Harmony exchanged bewildered glances, but Nimble was too caught up in his explanation to notice.
He gestured to the table of plant clippings, his wrinkled fingers lightly brushing over the leaves.
"You see, all plants also have different symbols, just like we do. But these clippings here?" He tapped the delicate stems with a sense of reverence. "They all come from the same mother plant, which means each of them carries the exact same life-scroll symbols. When I re-root these clippings and plant them, I will not just have more plants—I will have exact copies of the original."
His eyes gleamed with triumph, clearly proud of his own brilliance. But as he glanced at his guests, his smile faltered.
The Elves looked utterly lost.
He let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. "This is why they are called echo-blooms."
He straightened his back, folding his hands behind him as he continued.
"We—meaning myself and my assistant here—" he motioned toward Hortie, who grinned at the acknowledgment, "are working on cross-breeding plants."
Hortie puffed out his chest proudly, but Nimble was already moving toward another set of clippings, his wrinkled hands hovering over them as if they were the most precious things in the world.
"By this, I mean putting the symbols of two different plants together to create one completely new plant." He looked up, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he gave a dramatic pause.
"Yes, spell-spliced—tied together from two scrolls.”
The Garden-Gnome poked his head out from behind the plants, his small hands still covered in dirt. "Like the gods!" he piped.
The room fell silent.
Nimble’s face darkened instantly, his wrinkled hands clenching at his sides.
"Just do your job!" he snapped.
Hortie flinched, his excitement fading in an instant. Without another word, he returned to his work, though his hands moved with less enthusiasm than before.
Nimble, shaking off his irritation, turned back to the Elves and Fickle. With a renewed grin, he lifted a yellow fruit in one hand and a red fruit in the other.
"Today," he announced, "I will take the life-scroll from this yellow fruit and cross them together with the life-scroll from this red fruit."
He held them out as if he were presenting a great discovery.
His grin widened.
"Soon, my friends, we will all be eating orange fruits, a woven-breed!" he exclaimed.
Harmony and Harvest exchanged a glance, their lips twitching as they fought the urge to laugh.
Elfson, who had listened patiently, gave a respectful nod before taking a small step forward.
"This is all very interesting," he said politely. "However, we must be on our way. If you could please tell us where to find Willy."
Nimble froze mid-thought, as if Elfson’s words had knocked him off track. He rubbed his bald head, muttering under his breath.
"Oh yes, Willy the Wood-Gnome…" He scratched harder, his brows knitting together.
The four companions leaned in slightly, waiting for his answer.
Nimble blinked, then shrugged.
"Never heard of him."
