On the prime, in a small Halfling village in the principality of Forestreach, Bumbleton Humbleberry is quite drunk. Sitting at the polished bar of his cousin Marlowe’s tavern, he sighs into his stout and swings his feet over to the ground. Launching himself forward at a stumbling pace through the bar and then out the side door, he finds himself smacked into the familiar door of the outhouse. While attending to business, Bumbleton is reminded once again of his secret burden…
(Flashback Mode On)
Walking through the forest between Ironsgate and Hillsmark, Bumbleton decided to shag off the main path for a bit and enjoy a quick pipe and nap. Shading himself under the branches of an elm tree, he filled his pipe and began to relax. Using a simple cantrip he learned long ago from a traveling magus, a small flame appears at the end of his finger, and he lights the pipe, inhaling deeply the sweet smoke of his cousin Honeybuster’s prized crop. Waving his finger out and blowing a smoke ring into the air, Bumbleton sinks low against the trunk of the elm and pulls his hat brim low. Moments later, he is blissfully napping. His ceramic pipe falls from his lips and onto the ground below. Embers from the bowl meet a small bank of dried leaves against the trunk of the tree he’s napping against and spring to life in flame.
Stirring from a dream about meat pies and honey mead, Bumbleton realizes that there are two things very, very wrong.
1) There is a beautiful woman screaming at him.
2) He is on fire.
As much of a shock that the former was, it was the latter that finally made him shake off his lethargy and leap to his feet. Remembering an old gnomish rhyme that the inventors chanted when similarly engulfed, Bumbleton stops, drops, and rolls on the ground, extinguishing his trousers, but setting other small piles of leaves aflame. This intensifies the woman’s screaming.
“Are you a foe of nature or are you just plain stupid?” exclaims the woman in outrage.
“Wha-what, oh damn… FIRE!” stutters the Halfling.
“Don’t just stand there, do something you pint-sized dolt!”
Thinking quickly, Bumbleton grabs his waterskin and dumps it out on the few leaf piles that have caught on fire, extinguishing them into a mucky soup of ash and dry leaf. With the danger of burning down the forest averted, he sighs and turns to the woman.
“Glad that’s all taken care of. Now then milady, Bumbleton Humbleberry, entertainer at large.” He bows low, removing his jaunty hat. “How may I be of service?”
Scowling, the woman replies, “You have damaged my tree, you fur-footed, thick-skulled, short stack. I will expect full and immediate recompense.”
“Your tree? Milady I beg your pardon, but this forest belongs to the royal family and is used as a trade route between my village of Hillsmark and the human town of Ironsgate.”
“Don’t you realize what I am, you malodorous ninny? I’m a Dryad, keeper of this forest, and the tree you singed with your irresponsible napping was my home!”
A look of excitement and fear begins to creep over Bumbleton as he begins to realize the implications of his actions.
“Please, fair maiden of the wood, please don’t turn me into some kind of toad or lizard, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, you verdant beauty, please.”
The dryad sighs and says to the prone hobbit, “Get up, you. I’m not going to turn you into a lizard, but I do expect recompense. There is a pair of lumberjacks on the eastern side of this wood, and they are cutting too much, too quickly. Convince them to replant what they cut, and I will consider everything water under the bridge.”
A few days later, after successfully convincing the lumberjacks to replant trees, explaining the benefits of tree farming instead of deforestation, Bumbleton once again approached the Dryad’s tree.
“Oh mighty mistress of the woods, I have humbly performed your task and once again beseech your grace for forgiveness.”
A voice speaks to Bumbleton like a whisper on the wind.
“Enough of your brown-nosery. Thank you for your assistance. I have but one more proposition for you. The times are changing, Halfling. The marches of man across our world seems unto me but as a tidal wave crashing against the shores. With their rapid growth, their “science” and their aggressive attitudes towards nature, it seems as if quiet groves like this might someday be only a fading memory. I would ask of you, and your kin, who have always lived in balance with these lands to protect my grove. I understand that you too have a predicament with the machinations of man. The Archduke Waltonshire is planning to annex your village and place you under his jurisdiction should you fail to come up with the appropriate amount of collateral to purchase his claim to your lands. If you, acting as a representative for your village swears to me that you shall protect this wood, then I shall provide you with the means to purchase the rights to your land.”
Bumbleton inhales deeply as he weighs this in his mind. “You honor us all with your wisdom, Madam. I, as an agent of my people, accept your offer.”
“Then search under the stump 20 paces to your west, it is there that the final treasures of the wood elves who used to live in these woods rests. I should be more than enough to save your village.”
The wind stops.
Scurrying back to his home, backpack full of ancient elven gold and jewels, Bumbleton couldn’t be more excited if he tried. Immediately he begins to think of the party he will throw in his own honor when he announces that he will save the village, and all that the people have to do is watch the forest. “Pshaw,” thinks Bumbleton, “We were gonna do that anyhow.”
As the party began and the announcements were made, the “Savior” of Hillsmark began what became known as one of the largest and longest lasting parties in all of the cosmos. The ale flowed like water, and nowhere in the village of Hillsmark was there an unhappy face. The grand party lasted 16 days history will remember, and when the haze finally cleared, Bumbleton awoke in someone’s field, missing his shirt.
As he staggered back to his cottage, head throbbing in response to his revelry, a human on horseback rode up to him along the road.
“Hail, Master Hobbit.” Exclaimed the armed and armored rider.”
“Good day to you, Sir Knight.” Replied Bumbleton
“I seek Master Bumbleton Humbleberry of Hillsmark, would you know where I could find him?”
“I am he, good sir.”
“Verily! I am Sir Oswald, Knight of his grace the Archduke Waltonshire. I am here to receive the payment against the land claim. If you would be so kind.”
“Certainly, I was wondering when you would arrive. If you would please excuse my disheveled appearance and return with me to my home.”
The Knight nods and dismounts, walking along the path with Bumbleton. As the two come to Bumbleton’s home, the Halfling goes inside to get the locked chest under his floor that he had been keeping the elven treasure. As he excitedly opens the lock and undoes the latches to the chest, he gasps in horror as he realizes… the money is gone.
(Flashback Mode Off)
Sighing at his misfortune, Bumbleton begins to pull up his trousers and prepares to crawl back inside the bottle he’s been in since the money had been lost. A week has passed and he has still not found trace of the treasure, or even told anyone that he had lost it. Just about that time however, a grinning blue gentleman stuck his head through the privy wall and exclaimed with the kind of temperament that only a dyed-in-the-blood merchant can possess….
“Hello!”
(Next time: More character Backstory.)