Tickleteckle
Race: Autognome
Class: Bard
Pathfinder Campaign
Class: Bard
Pathfinder Campaign
My creator’s name was Oruver Bronzespring. He was married to Pridysa Babblethread. He met her one night when he was lost in the woods. It was after a long fight he had with his parents – they had fought because Oruver was spending too much time with his head in the clouds and not enough time working on practical things. Frustrated and saddened, my creator stormed out of his home and into a nearby woods. He marched forward, on and on, until all the light was gone and nothing but flecks of moonlight cast down through the trees. He was lost. But he was not alone...
He sensed snapping branches all around him and glowing eyes peering at him. He was surrounded by woodland animals of all shapes and sizes. He had no means of offense or defense. He had proven his parents right by being fully unprepared for life. He threw his arms around his face, bracing for impact, when suddenly... all the motion stopped. He looked up to see the woodland creatures sitting or lying peacefully around him, all looking up to a figure in the background.
There emerged a fellow gnome. She was a forest gnome, different from him, but there was no denying she was also a gnome. She reached out a hand to help him up.
Unlike my creator, Pridysa had skills already established. She had spent her years learning many skills, but her true passion was music – she had become a well-versed bard. When she spoke, it was almost always in song. When the rain fell, she created melodies to the beat of the drops. She was headstrong and grounded him. He was lofty and gave her levity. It just worked.
She continued to pursue her passions. Her vigor inspired him to learn how to build. He finally picked up his family lineage of being a tinker. He began to master the art of creation.
That’s the first time I was born. He had begun to experiment with using magic to give life to machines. An automatic sewing machine. A running wheel for water. A head that could see and hear and retain those memories. That was me. Just a head. I couldn’t speak yet, but I got to see it all.
After some years, the two of them married in a quiet ceremony, with a festival party afterwards that lasted for months. They were sounded by their families and many friends. I was there. I got to watch all the happy gnomes dancing and drinking. I got to hear the song they chose for their first dance. And they were happy for many decades.
Pridysa began to fall ill. It was slow at first. She found herself tired more often. Then she found herself losing her balance and forgetting details. Gradually, she became bedridden. She lost the strength to even lift her favorite instruments. She lost the strength to even vocalize her favorite melodies. Her face lost much expression. Her eyes grew dull and looked at nothing. She barely could acknowledge her own husband when he entered the room to help feed her or wash her. Even still, he never cried in front of her, only in private.
After every alchemist and sorcery and healer had visited, all to no avail, Oruver had to accept that this was their fate. Instead of mourning her inevitable loss, he wanted to cherish whatever life they had left. He wanted her to be comfortable. And maybe even happy.
At first, my creator tried to play music for her. But after years of working his hands down to callouses, every note he tried to pluck came out flat and frail. He lacked the centuries of dedication to the art form that she had. But what he did have was the ability to build.
This is when I was born fully.
My creator had heard of his fellow tinkerers creating machines. These were unique machines. All it took was some magic, and it was like I was alive. He programmed me to play music. He named me Tickleteckle, after the second name of Pridysa’s mother.
He brought me into the sick room, and I sat before her. I remember looking at her. She was thin under a heavy quilt. Her eyes looked blank, as did her expression. My creator asked me to play some music, so I picked up the lyre and began to play a song I was taught. As I continued, she remained motionless, save for her chest rising and falling with slow breathing. But after some time, I saw her eyes move. They moved towards me. They stayed on me for the rest of the song.
Each day, I came to play for her. Each day, I saw more responses. Eyes showing life. Head turning slightly towards me. My creator swears he heard her humming along. It seemed like every day, she got better, even if only by a little bit. It was enough.
Many years went by like this. I played her music, and she would give small signs of life. My creator was overjoyed.
One day, however, she stopped responding. It was sudden. My creator panicked and brought over every healer he could find nearby. After some consideration, they concluded that she had fallen into Living Death. She would remain asleep until she died. It would only be a matter of days.
My creator... he stopped talking. To me. To anyone. He sat in the room with her and just stared.
While often I was just doing as I was told, after the third day, I went to him and asked what I could do to help. He looked up at me. There was a long pause where he simply looked into my eyes. It felt as if he was looking but not seeing.
When he opened his mouth, there was still another pause before he finally spoke. “Play us a song.” I asked him what he wanted me to play. “No... not here. Come with me.” He rose. He walked over to his wife, standing over her, watching how slowly her chest was rising and falling now. He bent down and picked her up, carrying her in his arms. “Follow me.”
We walked through the woods where they first met. The forest creatures were all silent. So was he. We walked in silence as we marched through the mud and twigs to find ourselves at the edge of the thicket. It opened to a small field and a large lake. We walked together to the shore, where he gingerly placed his wife down and he kneeled by her side on the soft sand.
We sat in silence again. I wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t sure if I should even say anything. The sun was starting to set. I just stared at him. He just stared at her.
As dusk fell, he finally spoke. “My parents always told me I was like a boat without an anchor. I was always too flighty, too far into the sea... that I was just going to float away.” He looked at me for a moment, then back to Pridysa. “She was always the one who was grounded, the one who had her act together. She was the anchor. I was the boat. She helped to bring me down to earth, to weigh me down when I needed it.” He looked back at me. “I wanted her to keep living. But this isn’t living.” He looked away from me and to the water. “Can you play the song we danced to at our wedding? That’s what I’d like us to hear.”
I hesitated a moment. I was built for this, but I knew this was the last song I’d play for them.
As I started to play their song, he lifted her up into his arms and began to walk into the water. I played and watched as they both sank below the surface, the sun’s light dissipating on the horizon, the bubbles slowly slowing then stopping.
I was alone.
For many years, I wandered. I crossed many lands. I had nowhere to go and nowhere to be. Much of my internal memory started to fail without magical updates. After a couple of centuries, there came gaps in my memory. But I was alive. I was going to live.
Ainsley Irvine
Profession: University Student (Art)
Call of Cthulhu Campaign
Call of Cthulhu Campaign
The lighthouse stands vigil above me, a lone watchman over the approaching abyss, while the waves roar against the sharp rocks below. This has always been my world—a place where the boundaries between the known and unknown blur, and the water whispers secrets only the bravest dare to hear. Blackshore Bay, my home, is a town forgotten by time, perpetually shrouded in fog, its edges dissolving into the vast ocean that surrounds it. It’s here, in this isolated and enigmatic place, that my story begins.
My father, Malcolm Irvine, was the lighthouse keeper for as long as anyone could remember. His work was solitary, and few envied it. The tales of “lighthouse madness” weren’t just rumors—they were warnings. But inside our home, my father and my mother, Eleanor, managed to keep the darkness at bay. My childhood was quiet, shaped by the steady rhythm of the sea and the flickering light of the beacon my father tended. Yet, even then, I could feel something beneath the surface—something waiting just beyond the mist.
From as early as I can remember, the sea has called to me, its mysteries drawing me closer. I would sit for hours, sketching strange shapes I imagined lurking beneath the waves. My mother, a poet whose verses seemed to capture the essence of the unknowable, encouraged my creativity but always with a cautionary tone: “Be mindful of what you bring to life, my dear. Some things are best left unseen.” I never truly understood what she meant—until the visions began.
The first came when I was twelve. I dreamt of a shipwreck so vividly that I woke in a cold sweat and immediately painted it. By morning, the news had spread through Blackshore Bay—a fishing boat had been lost at sea. The details of my painting matched its last known location too closely to be a coincidence. My father dismissed it as a trick of the mind, but my mother… she knew. She had always suspected I had inherited her sensitivity to the world’s hidden currents.
As I grew, so did the visions. Each one was darker, more unsettling than the last. My art became my outlet, the only way to make sense of what I saw. But with each painting, I felt the weight of something vast and incomprehensible pressing down on me. The thought of spending my life in Blackshore Bay, tending the lighthouse like my father, was unbearable. The world beyond the fog called to me, and I answered.
When I moved to the city to attend university, it was like stepping into a different world. Here, I could start over, free from the whispers of my hometown. My talent set me apart quickly—my surreal, haunting paintings drew attention. But even as I gained recognition, the darkness in my work deepened.
It was during my sophomore year that everything changed. At a juried show, a young man approached one of my pieces—a painting of a room, meticulously rendered, dark and foreboding. As he stared at it, his face twisted with horror. Through choked sobs, he told me it was the exact scene where he had found his sister after her tragic overdose. The position of her body, the shattered mirror, even the tiles—it was all there, though I had never heard of him or his family. The university investigated me, suspecting exploitation, but the details of her death had never been made public. I couldn’t explain it.
Then the visions narrowed their focus. I began dreaming of a dilapidated mansion perched on a cliff, overlooking a stormy sea. It consumed me. I painted it over and over, each piece more vivid and unsettling than the last. The series was accepted for a gallery exhibition, drawing both admirers and skeptics. Among them was a man named Ambrose Whitlock.
Ambrose was unlike anyone I had ever met—enigmatic, wealthy, and with a reputation for dabbling in the arcane. He offered to buy my work, but I hesitated. When I asked why he was so interested, his answer chilled me. The mansion in my paintings was real, he said, but not of this world. It existed on the cusp of reality, touched by forces older than time.
He warned me that my visions weren’t just dreams—they were windows into a realm of cosmic horror. From that night on, my dreams became even more intense, dominated by the mansion’s decaying halls and dark corners. Each new vision pulled me deeper into a mystery I couldn’t escape.
Now, as I paint, I feel myself teetering on the edge of sanity. But I can’t stop. I need to know what lies beyond the veil. Am I being guided by something far older and more powerful than I can comprehend—or am I a pawn in a game played by ancient, malevolent forces?
With each brushstroke, I draw closer to the truth—and the abyss waiting beyond it.
Esini (AKA "Ziggy")
Race: Faun
Class: Blightseeker (Alchemist Archetype)
Pathfinder Campaign
Class: Blightseeker (Alchemist Archetype)
Pathfinder Campaign
There once were two fauns: Joseez and Rubae. Love, or a few flagons of elderberry wine, led them to create their masterpiece—yours truly, Esini. But for your convenience, most folks just call me Ziggy. You see, "Esini" sounds too refined for the kind of trouble I've gotten myself into.
My upbringing was a medley of sylvan festivities and casual revelry. My parents taught me the fine arts of dancing, drinking, and making every day feel like a fae feast. They also schooled me in the clandestine cultivation of magic-infused mushrooms... yes, the kind that made reality wobble and shiver in uncertainty. It was a long-standing tradition in our community, one that had as many wonderful side effects as it did haunting ones. It was all in the luck of the draw, up to the fate of the Universe.
No one was entirely sure anymore how we came upon them. But the legend revolves around a faun called Amanita. She was said to have lived many hundreds of years ago in our forest and was a master at Wild Magic... and she was simply wild in all aspects of her life too. She was known to cause chaos wherever she went. She’d swap someone's eyes for their ears, just to see what would happen. She would push the limits of the very fabric of reality just to stave off boredom. And it was never enough. No amount of enchantments or illusions or inebriation could satisfy her. And one night, after crafting countless spells and consuming countless spirits, she was said to have been seen dancing alone in a small open field, just spinning and spinning in circles until... she was nothing but a blur of light, silently wavering in the air, slowly sparkling into particles that fell to the forest floor. She was there no more. Only a ring of mushrooms stood where she once spun.
And thus: the legend says her Wild Magic, too powerful to live in a mortal host, spread into the ground and manifested itself into the magic mushrooms we know in our community today.
I won’t lie. I always wanted to be like Amanita. Well, besides the whole dying by molecular disintegration part.
It wasn't long into my adulthood before I joined forces with my mentor, Jorhik, a gnome whose moral compass always pointed south. One day, he had stumbled into our village, eyes bleary and stride wobbly... we had assumed he was drunk or enchanted, perhaps both, but he never revealed the source of his ailment. While on the defense (just to be safe), our community did allow him a few days of room and board to recover, all while keeping a close eye on him. But he portrayed nothing but civility and gratitude.
We didn’t get many outsiders to our village, so I was naturally curious about him. I’d often go to speak with him, and he’d regale me on all his misadventures so far. Outsmarting corrupt nobles! Exploring forgotten caverns of mystery! Fighting dragons! I couldn’t help but get excited at the thought of seeing such things in the outside world.
It wasn’t long before he, too, was curious. He had to ask about the mushrooms, of course, as he had seen many of our villagers partake to... amusing results. So, I gave him the lowdown. I saw his eyes widen with each sentence. I assumed he was just excited to try it. Turns out, he had a proposition for me...
My parents and my community were equal parts sad and excited for me to take part in an adventure beyond the trees. No one here feared the outside world; we just liked our comfort at home. But I guess I wanted more. And Jorhik knew exactly what to do with these mushrooms.
Jorhik and I didn't just peddle our enchanted fungi; we turned them into mind-bending concoctions, sold to the highest bidder. Those unsuspecting partakers were paying for completely random and unknown effects, and we laughed all the way to the bank.
There are too many tales to even recount. I experienced more in those years than I could have ever dreamt up. Let’s see...
Well, one time, while searching for rare magical plants to crossbreed with our mushrooms, in an enchanted forest, we accidentally trespassed into the territory of mischievous forest spirits. The spirits, offended by the intrusion, played pranks on us, turning our belongings into hopping toadstools and causing illusions that led us in circles for hours.
Or, one time when we decided to set up a mushroom stall at a bustling goblin market. Unbeknownst to us, a goblin child switched some of their regular ol’ normal mushrooms with our enchanted ones. Chaos ensued when unsuspecting customers started experiencing strange side effects, like temporary levitation and coughing up bubbles.
Then there was the time when Jorhik acquired a magical flying carpet, thinking it would help us be more like traveling salespeople. However, during our first test flight, we accidentally crashed into a wizard's tower and... well... like I said, I could go on and on.
Here's where the darkness starts creeping in though. Our hustle eventually caught the scent of the authorities. Honestly, I was surprised we had evaded any consequences for as long as we did. The laws were pretty gray when it came to what we were doing. But, as I heard, the son of a captain had gotten hooked and ended up eventually hitting one of the most dangerous possible effects and... well, he experienced eldritch horrors and his heart exploded...
Look, I never said all of the experiences were good. Never.
Cornered in a dingy old tavern, the soldiers were just beyond the doors, looking to take us in. I was all set to toss one of my concoctions and make an escape, but my gnome companion had other ideas. He told me to hang back, as he had a plan to get us out of there safely and without bloodshed. He was a talker. He always knew how to get us out of trouble. I peered from behind the stacks of boxes I was hiding behind to see what he was up to but couldn’t hear much of what was said.
All I saw was his scared face and an accusatory finger pointing in my direction.
Jorhik sang like a drunken bard at a karaoke night. He ratted us out faster than you can say "bail money." In his twisted mind, selling me out was his get-out-of-jail-free card. The betrayal hit me harder than any of my explosive concoctions gone wrong.
Off to jail, I went, kicking, and cursing the entire way, as the gnome grew smaller and smaller in my sight.
A few years behind bars, I figured. I bided my time. I felt the anger burrow inside. And I had to keep it all down. I had to behave if I was to hope for a quick release.
I had nothing but my thoughts. I imagined how I’d kill him. I imagined how I’d destroy him.
After my release from that wretched jail, I made a bittersweet return home to my parents. I had nowhere else to go, really.
At first, it was all hugs, tears, and laughter, like old times. I missed the warm embrace of this community and the simple pleasures of a comfortable life. But it didn't take long for them to catch wind of my dark, vengeful desires, my increasing experimentation with dangerous alchemical extracts, and my descent into obsession I was spiraling. I was closed off. I kept recklessly consuming the magic-tainted mushrooms. I maybe even hoped I’d end up with a really bad effect.
It was hard for them, and I could see it in their eyes – the mix of love and wariness. They embraced me, yes, but it was a hesitant embrace. They were concerned about the path I was on, the shadows that clung to my soul.
In the end, with the wisdom of parents who'd seen their share of mistakes, they encouraged me to move on, to heal. "We love you, but this vendetta will consume you,” they had said to me. “Find your own light and let go of the darkness." It was tough love, and it hurt. I left home once more, quietly in the night, torn between their affection and the quest for revenge that still haunted me.
Now, I'm free, brewing potions, and bombs, and extracting magic from every strange fungus I can find. I still have to make a living. But don't be fooled by the glitter; vengeance is my true currency. My road is a dark one, but it's where I belong now. I'm on the prowl, watching, waiting, and hoping that fate throws that gnome right into my path.
Revenge? It's not just a dish served cold; it's a whole buffet. And I'm ready to feast.