Born
to the Nackle clan in the village of Willowil, Nim had always been uncommonly
mischievous, even by gnomish standards. He cherished nothing in the world so
much as he did his little practical jokes and there was scarcely a Nackle, a
Knobhobben, or a Floom in the entire village who didn’t sleep with a wary eye
open. That was hardly surprising, though. For most of them, the memory of a
certain summer festival was still vividly fresh within their minds. By the end
of that day’s festivities, the sweet, balmy evening of food and merriment had
taken a bizarre turn, filled with visions of melting trees and strawberry-flavored
sunsets. Of course, Nim had only offered his neighbors that salad during the
great feast; they didn’t have to eat it… and what self-respecting forest gnome doesn’t
recognize the Daymare Mushroom, anyway?
One
fateful night, one of Nim’s pranks had gone terribly awry and the village was
awoken by the hiss of angry violet flames spewing from the windows of Dreeble
Knobhobben’s hut. The village elder, himself, was soon spotted erupting through
a mountainous plume of black smoke, howling in agony as he attempted to snuff out
the blaze that had engulfed his treasured beard. Miraculously, the aftermath of
the fire had found the elder mostly unharmed but the shameful young Nim was
punished with permanent exile from Willowil for his reckless and destructive behavior.
Morgo, village druid and the patriarch of the Nackle clan, had taken pity on
his disgraced son. He had imparted unto Nim a weatherworn tome containing the
ancient teachings of forest druids, in hope that it would calm his son’s reckless
spirit and teach him to survive in the untamed wilds.
Alone
for the first time in his life, Nim had paid little mind to his father’s
offering but had instead set his sights on adventure, leaving the great forests
of Eradas behind and wandering into one of its seediest villages, the harbor
town of Wydale. Bombarded by the underhanded promises and phony smiles of the pirates
and brigands, who had made that moldy port their home, Nim had found the pleasures
of excess amongst the big folk. Barely had he time to shake the pine needles
from his coat before he had become enamored with generous plates of exotic
foods, overflowing casks of spiced rum, and the beguiling wiles of shameless women
who were twice his size. However, two or three back alley attacks and a run-in
with a cutthroat gang from the docks had quickly convinced Nim that Wydale was
no place for a gnome and so his journey had continued, deep within the solitude
of the Western Woods.
Hiding
away in a simple hut in the quiet forest, Nim had reached for the dusty text,
he had previously ignored, and had learned to open his heart to the natural
world in ways he had never before imagined. He learned how to see the spark of
life within a single leaf and how to feel the fury of a coming storm upon the
breeze. And he had realized that the forest wasn’t quiet at all but teemed with
all manner of beast. He found he could speak with them and they soon became his
dearest friends. Through decades of practice, he had also learned to unlock the
magic hidden within the natural elements until he was able to create fire in
the palm of his hand, make plants bloom and blossom by his will, or cure the
sick and dying with a single touch. Nim had breathed a sincere thanks to his father
for such an important gift as he had honored Morgo’s generosity by acting as
healer and protector to that small corner of forest.
Still,
while Nim had grown into a wise and peaceful druid, his youthful restlessness
had remained a smoldering ember in the depths of his heart. Over time, his
longing for excitement and for the companionship of peers had grown stronger
and stronger until Nim had seen it as his destiny to close the door on his
little wooden shanti and venture off back to the world of men. Night fell on
the fifth day of his travels and he wandered into the tavern in the village of
Stowick. As the enchantingly familiar aroma of pipe smoke and sweet mead ensnared
his senses, the temptation in his soul had compelled him to stop for the night.
“You
never know,” he thought, smacking his lips as he stepped up to the bar. “Perhaps
someone around here is in need of a druid…”
