Dirtspawn064

In the Valgrothi foothills there was a young Gnome baker. His name was Tyrr and he was only an apprentice. He wished to be a warrior with the baggy trousers and metal boots, gloves and cuirasses, but he would always be as feeble as a flower. He won all the Gnomettes’ hearts with his baked goods, which he had a natural talent at; cookies, cakes, crumpets, and muffins and croissants too. He didn’t want all of the Gnome women, he wanted to settle for one. One who was different. On a rainy day Tyrr was drinking a cup of cranberry brandy at the inn looking as depressed as ever. In Gnome taverns there was a dance floor. Fryzi asked him to dance but he wasn’t into it. Then a soaking wet woman crouched into the tavern. She was a thick northerner, long white hair and 6’5” weighing 260 lbs wearing a patched robe and leather boots and an adventurer’s leggings and skirt. She had a dagger. While it was short to her, to Tyrr it was a long sword! As always, Tyrr carried a basket of some of the days