Alas poor Grimcrack

Sitting cross-legged in the tent, Rifkin takes out the small, cloth-wrapped gnomish skull from his satchel, places it beside him and re-leafs through the tattered remnants of Grimcrack’s worn, torn and now spineless diary. He’s not sure what motivated him to take it while he was gathering up the small knight’s magical equipment. Perhaps the injustice of his death or the unsatisfactory ending of his failed quest. Whatever the reason though, the empathetic Rifkin feels the physically tangible weight of grief, push down on his sentimental heart.

The Thin-Needle family had been right about the dangers of keeping the demonic Hag imprisoned rather than executing it. Poor Grimcrack had lost his life in his attempt to rectify his people’s mistake and his statesman Father had lost a beloved son.

Although, the Gnome had died nearly fifty years ago… or possibly a hundred (depending on whichever world’s timespan you consider) but Gnomes are long lived. Not as long as Elves perhaps but still, Baron Gewgore Thin-Needle is most probably still alive, with only the accursed feeling of unknowing loss. Forever assuming the worst but never actually having the ‘comfort’ of being certain. A forlorn sort of hope that never truly lets you rest.

Rummaging deeper into his leather satchel, Rifkin pulls out a few sheets of paper, one of his small, magical golden feather tokens, his stylus and a small bottle of black ink before beginning to write…