This evil gnome was like a rabid bunny, or a chipmunk possessed by spirits of the Abyss. Moros was intrigued. A malevolence clung palpably to this gnome.
Looking at him, Moros thought that there might be hope for the gnomish race yet. He had heard of hobgoblins, even draconians, performing acts of kindness and charity on occasion. Those were aberrations from the norm, so why not an evil gnome?
The wing captain motioned to the chair opposite and the gnome clambered up. He did not sit, however, instead leaning forward, palms flat on the table, his eyes boring into Moros’s face. He seemed to be calming the rest of his body and forcing all of his nervous energy through his eyes.
“Name?” said Moros.
“Boom,” said the gnome.
Moros blinked. “Boom?”
The gnome drew in a tired, deep breath, almost like a reverse sigh. “Boom-master-the-great-and-glorious-the-one-who-harnesses-the-force-of-the-blast-and-plies-the-dark-secrets-unknown-to-men…”
Moros waved off the rest of the gnome’s name with a shrug. The gnome quieted, resuming his deep stare at the wing captain.
“Boom, then,” said Moros, “What do you have for me?”
“A weapon,” said the gnome, his eyes practically glowing with eagerness. “A weapon capable of destroying all those who oppose you.”
Moros arched an eyebrow. He had not expected the gnome to come offering anything destructive. Such a device, if real, would smooth over the troubled waters with command, and perhaps get him out of this abysmal posting. Still, most gnomish weapons tended to be huge, fragile, implosive, and impractical.
“Show me,” he said.
The gnome pushed a hand quickly and deeply into his right-hand coat pocket. Moros saw the sergeant’s hand stray to his sword hilt. Across the room, the innkeeper ceased his mug-polishing.
The gnome pulled out a small object and laid it on the table. The innkeeper craned his thick neck to get a better look. The sergeant relaxed, drawing his hand away from the weapon.
“It’s a rock,” said Moros. “As a weapon, I think it’s been done before.”
“It’s a very special rock,” said the intense little creature. Moros wondered if the gnome ever blinked.
The wing captain picked up the rock. It looked fairly unremarkable, even as rocks go. It was a grayish-brown lump of the type found at the bottom of every stream within ten miles. A small sliver of the stone had been scratched away from one side, and revealed more grayness, broken by occasional flecks of grainy black.
“What does this ‘special’ rock do?” asked the wing captain, turning it over roughly between his fingers.
The gnome giggled, a high-pitched whinny. “It explodes. Boom.”
Moros froze and bobbled the stone, almost dropping it. The gnome giggled again.
“Don’t worry, that one won’t blow up,” said the small creature. “I have to refine it-like iron ore is refined to produce steel-in order to create the explosive material. I call the unrefined rock Gnomite. The enhanced, final product would be called Plus-Gnomium.”
Even so reassured, Moros set down the stone carefully. He waved the innkeep to bring the twisted gnome an ale. The wing captain noticed that the innkeep approached the table with all the caution usually used for encountering venomous porcupines, then set down a mug with the care of a safecracker.
“Do you have any of this material… refined?” asked Moros, almost dreading the answer.
“They didn’t believe me, the fools,” said Boom suddenly, ignoring the question. He grabbed the mug and emptied about half of it in one gulp. Moros nodded at the innkeep to keep bringing more ale.
“They?” prompted Moros.
“I am not one of these country tinkerers,” said the gnome haughtily. “I hail from Nevermind itself, the great citadel of the gnomes. There I was known as a genius, as a visionary, until I told them of Plus-Gnomium and its power. The cowards took my work from me, and cast me out. It took me years to find this place, where Gnomite was abundant, and more years to recreate my confiscated notes.”
The gnome leveled a hard stare at Moros. “Understand this, human. They took me away from my work. Do you know what happens when a gnome is prevented from pursuing his life’s work?”
It twists him, apparently, thought Moros; bends his soul in on itself until it collapses in a intense ball of hatred. That would explain the gnome’s frenetic spasms and nervous glance, his unblinking eyes.