"We've got a gnome problem" A Sir Titanus Side Quest

Whilst playing the table top Dungeon World, another world was created. And in this world, a knight of aristocratic birth becomes a hero amongst a band of brigands and ne'er do wells...who also rise to the occasion. The whole story is too long to tell here. So here's a side quest.

Sir Thaddeus Titanus,  savior of Brekenruune, stepped outside onto the front of Mother’s estate. With his arms outstretched, breathing in the floral scent of the rose garden, he expelled a massive fart. He walked casually by the Fontaine du Blenenheim, a masterwork of stone craftsmanship built upon the entrance of the great estate by Thaddeus’ maternal great grandfather Marleton “Marty '' Blenenheim. Thaddeus paused and regarded the fountain, never having noticed the half-man, half-goat statue spouting water from his phallus. How could he have missed that all these years? 

“Heh. So old Marty had a sense of humor,” Titanus muttered to himself.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept the sleep of clear conscience.  He felt a sense of ease that had eluded him for weeks prior.  

By Lathander’s horizon, what did Uncle Rey just put us through? 

Titanus kept playing through the scenes of the past couple weeks in his head: Boghovel Penitentiary… goblins… a duergar… elven cultists…a purple worm bursting forth from a man’s anus… shady art supply sellers…possessed undead necromancers… cloned wizard chefs…a vague memory of a beautiful floating giantess head. 

“Heh. What a ride.”

Thaddeus Titanus scratched his ass and moseyed over to where he could see his mother tending to the apiary, the screen cloth from her hat obscuring her countenance, but protecting from stings.  She nurtured the hive and its children with her calm attention.

Her son approached from behind. 

“We’ve got a gnome problem, Thaddeus,” Meredith LaBouveux Titanus said with a sense of distracted urgency.

“Mother, you’re not going to believe the …a what?”

“Gnomes, dear, they’ve been eating the grapes in the vineyard, the apples in the orchard - they’re squatting by the stream on the far field that borders the Coyneborough wood.” Meredith Titanus was a woman who had little time for lengthy explanations or superfluous details as she had been the one to take on the responsibility of restoring the Titanus estate to its former illustrious glory. And this was no easy task. “There were small teeth marks on the apples. A clear sign of gnomes.” 

“Mother, can’t the groundskeeper handle this? Old  Jimbo Quimbly, ha, he can certainly rid us of some gnomes?”

“He died of the poxy weeks ago, Thaddeus. And besides, these aren’t your typical garden gnomes. Quite cunning.” 

“Wait - Quimbly died?”

“These gnomes are trouble, Thad. I would’ve written to your uncle, but Inana knows he’s had his hands full lately. As have I. When I saw some of the apples laying on the ground with their little teeth marks…ugh, I just can’t suffer this right now.”

“But…he looked healthy the last I saw him…” Titanus said with disbelief. Despite all the loss and death he’d witnessed in his recent trevails, the news of Quimby’s loss still stung.

“Yes, Thaddeus, Quimbly fell ill shortly after his return from Brekenrunne.” At this news Titanus turned away and fell silent. He felt all the fear and dread temporarily creep back into his mind. He shook his head and turned back to his mother.

“Very well, then. I shall attend to this matter right away, mother.” 

Titanus felt relaxed that morning, his first fresh sunrise back at the estate since his endeavors for Uncle Reynoldus. He’d enjoyed a fine breakfast of porridge, plum tarts, fried ham and ostrich egg. After a tankard of cider made from the family orchard, his mood was calm and reflective. Before strolling off towards the stream in his under garments, he’d thrown on his breast plate haphazardly, not a care in the world. He casually walked towards the stream to the southeast of the vast property, daydreaming of his youth and his love, Hilda Venton, whom he had planned on paying a visit during his time off.  He laughed out loud at how absurd he must look, shuffling lackadaisical in his skivvies, a breastplate and shoddy brown garden boots. His laughter faded away and Titanus fell abruptly to his knees, praying with all his spirit to Lathander, for he suddenly realized that he had forgotten to do so at dawn. 

“May Lathander look favorably upon me this day, and let His light cleanse my soul.” 

A potato came flying through the air and hit Titanus square between the eyes.

“Ahhhhh fuck! The fuck! Ahhhh!” Titanus was up and stumbling, eyes watering. He heard hysterical laughter, hidden away. “Aaaaargh… you…fuck…goddamn gnomes!”

Titanus tried to gather himself, grunting and cursing.  He had awakened from his daydreams. 

“Ohhhhh, now that’s it…I’m home…and let it be known…the gnomes are being EVICTED from Titanus estates!” 

As he stood tall and proud, his vision cleared. Titanus then pinched his forehead, opened his eyes wide and saw a barrelling figure smash through the near brush.  A gnome burst out of the wood mounted atop a wild boar, tusks gleaming. 

“Oh shit…”

“Yeeeeaaaahhhh!” The gnome and the wild brute hog both screeched in their respective ways, a terrible song. A small spear was launched at Titanus which he caught mid-air before it reached his now bloodshot eye. The mounted gnome abruptly turned the pig and fled back into the wood.  Upon the shaft of the spear was a note. Titanus removed the note and unfurled its contents. 

“Prithee, we seek an agreement as to rights of the land bequeathed unlawfully to the human Schillingfords, and most recently the Titanus’. Signed, David Knudsen.”

“A bit passive-aggressive,” Titanus said aloud, to no one in particular. 

“Yes, well, it is a gnome’s nature to be passive as a general rule… and aggressive when the situation demands it,” spoke David Knudsen as he walked out of the Coyneborough wood, a dark green hat upon his head and a beard as white as snow coming down to his shins. Although the gnome stood barely a foot and half, Titanus instinctively felt a sense of reverence for him. 

“We gnomes have a saying…sometimes the sparrow must act as the hawk.” 

Thaddeus was pondering this statement as he suddenly noticed many more of the gnomes appear, at first with obvious reluctance, from the edges of the forest. They looked not as the gnomes of stories Thaddeus had heard as a child, with bright colorful clothes and a cheerful disposition, but rather tired looking. A sadness to their faces, a resigned look of desperation. Titanus felt a pang of sorrow for this lot. 

“We realize our place in this petition is one of weakness…but we’ve heard tale of your gallantry in Breckenruune and beyond.  We know you to be a holy knight of Lathander, a noble man of his word. So we humbly plead that you refrain from…evicting us from this ancient land of our ancestors,” and as David Knudsen spoke, Titanus couldn’t help but have sympathy. He then suddenly remembered the stinging humiliation of a potato smashing into his forehead and thought the better of it.

“No…no…I cannot…WE cannot tolerate the blatant plundering of our land! OUR land, gnome - sorry, Mr. Gnome. Sir. This is no negotiation! What could you possibly offer me? Huh?”

“Well, if it is negotiation you seek, Sir Titanus, I am wholly aware that you, erm, how shall I say this…are perhaps in need of a new sword?” David Knudsen said this with a knowing smile and quick wink. Titanus was caught speechless, blushing a shade of rouge and fumbling for the right response. A knight losing their sword was not only an inconvenience, it was downright humiliating. 

“Wait - how did you -” Titanus attempted to comprehend how a gnome so far from the lands of the Westwood Thicket and Hawkinsbury would’ve caught wind of his…over exuberance.

“Word travels fast, Sir Titanus. Tales of your exploits in the west have been the talk of Coyneborough Wood and well beyond. Why, I am humbled to be in the presence of a bonafide hero!” At this David Knudsen turned back to the rest of the gnomes and mutterings of general agreement, head noddings and looks of admiration could be seen and heard.

“Well, I do it all for the Kingdom, and Lathandar of course,” Titanus was a man who succumbed to flattery quite easily. 

“Of course you do, Sir Titanus. What with goblin hordes, cultists and even, dare I say it, the undead roaming the lands, I am sure the Kingdom is in desperate need of heroes. And it seems this hero that stands before me is in desperate need of a sword…and not just any sword - but the very blade that sliced in twain the feared bandit king Chaum Blythewind.  It is the exact weapon that was forged by half-orc renegade blademaster Zahm-zahm Killrath.  I give to you, Sir Titanus -  Clackenmoor’s Bastard!,” David Knudsen’s bright, beady eyes glistened up at Titanus. 

This gnome is good, thought Titanus to himself.  Titanus had heard tale of Clackenmore’s Bastard from his Uncle. It was a sword of renown but also of a sword of ill repute, and was most definitely not a sword fit for a knight. But these were, in the words of David Knudsen, desperate times for Titanus.

“Very well, Mr. Knudsen. Tell me more about this sword. Where can it be found, and whom, or what, will be in my way?” Titanus was a man on a mission.  He stood there as a ridiculous caricature; a knight on vacation, head pounding and heart pumping with the thought of claiming a sword that most men would be unable or unwilling to wield. Clackenmoor’s Bastard. 

The gnomes looked on with thoughts of their own.

“Well, before you commence this undertaking Sir Titanus, let us first approach the topic of our land rights,” David Knudsen said with calm as the other gnomes stood behind him. A silent, stoic energy overtook their once lively appearances. Titanus couldn’t resist the gnomish charm, the wise and sturdy small-folk of the wood. The young knight carried  faint memories of his childhood, playing near the woods and coming across gnome-folk freeing a fox that had been caught in a trap. They looked at him with alarm, but went back to their task with focused concern. Even at that young age, Thaddeus Titanus had been impressed. 

“Sir,” Titanus spoke with reverence. “I hereby offer you free rein of the Coyneborough Wood, under my personal protection, as well as 5 pecks of vegetables and a barrel of cider per moon cycle… and a tincture of wormroot…for knowledge or procurement of this blade unto which you speak.” 

David Knudsen listened attentively, then slowly turned to the eager faces behind him. There seemed to be a fierce conversation taking place amongst the gnomes; many contorted faces, red with intensity faced off, all looking for the approval of their esteemed elder, Mr. Knudsen. After the banter and gesturing died down, David Knudsen slowly turned and approached Titanus. 

“Two barrels of cider a moon cycle,” he stated nonchalantly.  

“Done.” Titanus put his hand out to shake, not remembering the proper gnome etiquette for agreements or greetings. David Knudsen then grasped Titanus’ forearm, bringing him toward the ground with a stout pull. He looked Titanus square in the eyes.

“You’ll follow that pathway over yonder, the old trade route -  before Faylewaite built that monstrosity of a roadway. About a quarter passing, depending on your pace, you’ll come across a bridge long abandoned. It is there you will find your sword and what awaits you standing before it.” David Knudsen released his grip on Titanus, a serious gaze upon him.  

Titanus was in his element. He began his day without a care in the world, light and free, cider on the breath and honey on the lips. But Lathander gave this day its true purpose. Titanus felt a rush, that familiar tingle in the back of the neck.   He re-lived the moments of near death in his mind…those moments that had only taken place mere days before. Flashes of gallantry, and the eyes of his peers and onlookers cheering him on. 

Further and further Titanus trudged into the woods…a loamy, shady wood. He followed the small stream that ebbed and flowed with terraced pools that ran into other shallow pools.  Not one single ray of Lathander’s dawn light could make its way this deep into the wood…day, night - it mattered not. The floor of the thicket just southeast of the estate hadn’t been trodden upon since the earliest of days of the kingdom. For many a fortnight these woods had been left to themselves, and Titanus was beginning to understand why.

The reaching trees from the wood impeded Lathander’s son as they might, but Titanus emerged to waning afternoon light and mocking calls from surrounding creatures.

Or maybe the teets and starlings merely wished to alert him to the broken structure that lay crumbled before him.  A massive structure tilted into the deep, green hell of Coyneborough Wood.  A bridge claimed by green moss and shadows, gone for so many years but now rediscovered by this wandering, curious knight.

The dark spaces beneath the bridge invited him with foreboding whispers.  He would go, but he knew not what awaited.

A smell of decay betrayed the lonely guise of the hidden space.  Something lived, ate, and shit here.  

The large pale creature came upon him or he upon it, seemingly out of the gloom like an apparition. It happened before he could even set foot beneath the forgotten structure.  He had neither time to react nor flee, not even the ability to utter a word.  

The bridge troll…he was more a man than a troll. An obscenely large man. With exaggerated features the likes of which left Sir Thaddeus Q Titanus stunned. 

Titanus wasn't entirely sure whether a sword or ax could cleave the thing.

The brute reeked of refuse, moving a short distance across so the knight could see his yellow grin of nightmares. 

“What say you, shiny boy?”

Titanus realized at that very moment he had never actually met a troll face-to-face, and his knees clenched while his throat choked on the heavy forest air.  There were no friends here to support or save him. No Goody to slice the ankles and no Snacho or Lygh to unleash the arrow. He had grown to trust these brothers-in-arms, even though he didn't quite know if they always trusted him. 

The voice of the bridge troll was deep, resonant, so much so that it could rattle the timber off a Lothian brothel. 

“I…I…uhh..I am Sir Thaddeus Quiltaintus Tita -”

“Look here blondy, do I look like I care what the likes of you  ‘ave to say?” 

“No, -” Thaddeus Titanus, for once in his life, did not have the words to string together. He realized how alone he was - how vulnerable he was with only a breastplate and trousers.

Titanus had stumbled onto the troll lair so cavalier, so careless…Uncle Reynoldus would be disappointed. Titanus never wanted that.

“Listen here,  I ask the questions - you give the answers. You don't give an answer I like?  Well then - I eat you.”

“Ahh a riddle!” Titanus felt stupid for even saying this out loud.

“The fuck you mean, riddle?  This is a life or death question for you Sir Fucklestick.”

“Of course…” Titanus bowed his head in shame, knowing full well he was out of his depth. He would have to dig deep here…brawn wasn’t going to cut it. 

“So, here’s the first of my questions, my lil’ tin cup: the more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?”

Titanus knew immediately the answer, but didn’t want to insult the Troll, or give off the impression that he was being obtuse or rude. Titanus could very often be guilty of possessing both of those qualities. 

He had heard such a riddle in his formative years, and while many people may forget such trifles, Titanus always saved room in his mind for these trivialities. It’s what a knight does.  

“Well, my good…sir - in order for something to be left behind, it must have to do with directionality, therefore -”

“Shut your gob, twiddledick!  Answer me!”

“F…fff…foot…fffootsteps…”

“Whaaahahahaaaa!”

Titanus pissed himself a little at this explosion of laughter.  But after a moment, Sir Titanus knew he had bought himself some time, and was perhaps a little closer to being able to ask his own questions.  And closer to the sword. He knew that no matter what, he could not ask the questions. Never ask the questions, and mayhaps I shall live, thought Sir Titanus.

“Alright, alright my lil’ shiny pearl, my little cockle to soak in brine…’ere’s my next question: I met a man with a load of wood, which was neither straight nor crooked. What kind of wood was it?”

He racked his brain, seeing trees, forests, galloping through the fields at the estate, returning with his horse Cricket to the stables, made of the finest stone work and old oak, wood, saws - 

“Sawdust!” Titanus exclaimed excitedly. 

“Wrong, you gnat!” The bridge troll started at Titanus, but abruptly stopped, poking him in the breast plate and laughing uproariously. He was enjoying this bizarre spectacle. Titanus felt the pressure mounting from the power play of this grotesque man, one that had sinister undertones. A feeling not dissimilar to that of the gnomes. Hadn’t they too duped the brave Sir Titanus into this most precarious situation, leading him straight into the troll’s den? Yes, suspicious indeed. He wondered if the gnomes and the troll, becoming ever more scarce, and desperate in the kingdom of Faylewaite, had conspired against him? Paranoia gripped him. 

“Now, I’m starting to like you…” The bridge troll came uncomfortably close and sniffed Sir Titanus. 

“I thinks I should let you ‘ave the blade, toy soldier…if you answer one more question…or actually, many a question. You see, Sir Titmouse of the Wood, this blade comes with old memories. When you wield this blade, you sacrifice something. You give what you take, Sir T. On some fucking level. Do you ‘ave any idea from whence this blade was crafted? The name of the forsaken?”

“Why, yes Zhing Zham Glamtrap, I believe.”

“No, you dunce; simpleton you are, you wouldn’t know your arse from a clam shell. Zham Zham Killwrath. Don’t you forget that name,” the bridge troll rasped. 

Titanus stood still, suddenly realizing he was sweating profusely as the droplets turned cold to his flesh. He realized he felt heavy. Stuck in place with exhaustion and weakness, Titanus saw his end. 

“Go ahead - take the blade. It’s over there yonder leaning against my accumulation of entomological treasures,” he said gesturing toward a neglected pile of detritus. “I think I'll eat a baby deer, shave, shit, then, tuck in the biddy and call it a night.” The bridge troll who moments before had sent Sir Titans into a panic, seemed suddenly bored and distracted. He turned toward Titanus, dismissively “When you take this blade, Titanus of Falylewaite, your good name is sullied, blemished beyond repair. This Kingdom will dispatch you as it pleases. You are a mast, set sail under your own path, yet shadow may hang heavy.” He spoke with prophetic intention. Titanus paused and waited in silence upon this precipice of indecision. He strode through the myriad displays to at last grasp the hilt of Clackenmoor’s Bastard - feared weapon of obscure origin. Its weight dubious, its sheen obsidian. The young knight had never felt nor seen a sword such as this; its size larger than any that had ever yielded. 

A bastard sword. Popular among the banditry. Two-handed in design, but if strong enough, it can be wielded by one hand alone.

Titanus felt a surge of brazen courage holding this masterpiece of death. The dark blade swung round his head in perfect form, swinging, slashing phantoms with precise motion. All in one clenched fist. The knight turned and stopped abruptly to find the troll had vanished.  

Titanus turned to cackling wood as the sun fell to rest. Lathander’s waning light cast the final promise of salvation, His remaining rays begging to be received. The knight, turning his back, sauntered forth into uncertainty.