Unboring gnomes: more than tiny goofballs
Spot the odd one out:
“I’m Vengeance Flameburst, an outcast who lost the only people I considered family.”
“I’m Silus Northwood, torn between the high ideals of my faith and my mortal temptations.”
“And I’m Flexo Sparklepants, and I’m just here to have fun and learn things.”
Don’t mistake me - I’m not above such saccharine in my campaigns, even (especially?) in grimdark settings.
Making the whole gnomish race carry all that sugar, though?
I don’t know. I think we can make it more interesting.
There’s no value in stripping the “tiddle-dee-hee!” factor from the gnomes. Not everything needs a gritty rebook.
But I have to wonder - what purpose does that serve?
Individuals can be, shall we say, eccentric. But whole cultures don’t do something unless it serves a purpose. Or used to serve a purpose. Or they think it serves a purpose.
So why would the gnomes act like drunken leprechauns, all the time? In a world of orcs, dire wolves, zombies and even humans, what’s the point?
The greasepaint façade
Pop psychology time:
Why would anyone take on the role of “class clown”?
Trick question! When spoken in the abstract like this, it’s impossible to say, because people can have strange and inscrutable reasons for anything.
Maybe they were an impressionable wee lad and saw someone drawing a crowd by goofing off.
Maybe they randomly associated acting like a goof with good feelings, like how I think about mortgages when I reach a certain street corner near the office.
Brains are weird.
Oh, right, this is supposed to be pop psychology, not real psychology. Let me correct that by saying some oversimplistic, questionable and sweeping statements here.
It’s a defensive mechanism.
Cracking wise attracts attention and makes them feel valuable to the rest of the class. The class clown probably isn’t the smartest, coolest or strongest kid, so they do what they need to for the sweet reward of social acceptance.
With me so far?
Because what if the class clown doesn’t want people to see the real them?
What if they are, in fact, the smartest in the room, but they don’t want anyone to know that?
Then playing at being goofy is a decent cover. Not a great one, because folks will know you’re smarter than you act. Or maybe that’s perfect because now it’s a complex double-bluff. The class clown is then pretending to be someone dumber than they are, pretending to be someone dumber than that.
Too complex?
Bah - people tell themselves twistier lies than that every day. Two layers of deception, both trending in the same way, is not difficult to maintain.
Which brings us to gnomes.
What if the conventional wisdom is that gnomish culture, by design, appeals to humans and elves? People pat themselves on the back for figuring it out. By themselves, gnomes are small, frail and vulnerable, so they offer good cheer in exchange for safety.
Like all good lies, there’s an element of truth. I’m sure gnomes really do appreciate having all that extra muscle around.
That’s a mask, though - a façade for how capable they really are.
Back to conventional wisdom. It says that gnomes must get lucky. After all, they spend their days chasing butterflies and racing toy boats down rivers.
So… why is gnomish tech some of the best around? They must just fiddle with stuff until they stumble on the answer.
The brains under the pointy hats
What if gnomes are more brilliant than they let on?
What if they’re smart enough to not let it on? It’s better for rivals to underestimate them, after all.
Every gnome is a tinkerer of sorts. Some tinker with gizmos, others with art, others with cuisine. The toys the tinkerers make are gimmicks to distract other races from what they can really do.
I like to think of gnomish society as being obsessed with mastery. Everyone masters something. The only ones who aren’t experts in some crafts are apprentices, who will become experts eventually.
But all of this is hidden.
It doesn’t take many generations of the tall poppies getting cut down before people learn to be subtle.
They seek mastery behind closed doors. Out in the world, they giggle and play. In private, they dedicate themselves to learning with a furious passion.
The gnomish adventurer
So… why would they ever leave their homes/labs/studios/workshops?
Not for the reasons they tell their non-gnomish party members. They get the acceptable answers.
Because I was bored!
Because you seem like fun!
The real answer?
Take your pick. They might need a rare ingredient, secret blueprints or access to another master craftsman. They might seek inspiration, knowing there’s nothing like risking death to get the brain working.
What they tell the human is they think that trinket would make a fine piece of art. What they really want it for is as a catalyst for their new engine prototype.
The gnomish homelife
Now, if you take all this as true, it raises a question:
If virtually every gnome is an artist (in the broadest sense of the term) and an engineer (ditto), then what would their societies look like?
Not the colourful façade, but the obsessive interior?
That’s a fun question to answer, especially if you can imagine living that way since birth.
How can you do that?
By reading Call of the Gods and reflecting on it: