For centuries, some say millennia, the gnomes of the World’s Edge have gathered to fish the unfathomable depths of the Black Water. The journey is as perilous as the surroundings unwelcoming, and often a fisherman can spend hours with no reward to show for his toil. Those more fortunate might curse their success should they find a Razor-spined ogre-baiter on the end of their line. Obviously this pursuit would be of keen interest to the Empire’s anthropologists, if they had any knowledge of the gnomes’ existence that is, and doubtless they might have a plethora of questions for the anglers (foremost amongst those being “why?”, “do you not have anything better to do?” and “yes, but I mean, why??”). They might suggest that the gnomes could supplement their diet with leafy green vegetables, walnuts and the like, or even convene on some alternative amongst the abundance of water courses that navigate the mountain range. Perhaps it is the camaraderie or the sport, and it is known, at least by those with any familiarity with gnomic culture (who are, admittedly, few), that the squat, fierce ones love tradition with a bloody-minded stubbornness that might shame a dwarf. The truth is not one of those things, and not even all of them, but something perhaps best explained by those of us with ambitious wives and relentless children; who work hard and earnestly, put bread on the table, don’t litter and enjoy the occasional session spent binge-drinking strong dwarven ale, expanding their consciousness and swearing like a hapless goblin that has given itself up to be thrown only to then recognise the ravenous gleam in the troll’s eye. After all, there are stranger folk amongst the gnomes who spend their free time obsessing over an abstract game of chance (that they have convinced theirselves is won or lost by the participant with the better strategy) involving dice, finger-sized effigies and lots of head scratching and beard stroking. There are even those who paint said effigies, but we don’t need to get into that here.

All this was to change one fateful day, when a swollen pig’s bladder was pulled from the water by the club’s secretary, Tonan Puddleboot. How had it got there? How had it escaped the attentions of the countless carnivorous amphibians that scoured the depths? How had it not sunk to the bottom of the gloom? It seemed the only logical explanation was to attribute the answer to those three questions, and many more besides, to the will of some unforeseen deity who had chosen Puddleboot to spread Their message. But what was that message? Perhaps the dwarves would know; certainly they would claim to know. Conceited gits.