Gobber

His tree borough looks as impossibly small as ever, with its crooked chimney puffing out faint smoke. The little round door swings open as you approach, and there he is—Gobber, the gnome who looks like a wrinkly bulldog. “Ah, my rescuer returns!” he barks, waving a stubby hand. “Come on, stick your big ol’ noggin in here so we can chat properly. Don’t make me yell!” Crouching down, you manage to get your head inside the cramped little house. It’s just as chaotic as last time. Shelves carved into the walls of a hollowed tree hold jars of powders, shiny stones, and bits of metal. A ladder leans against the far wall, leading to a loft you can barely see. The air smells like damp earth, moss, and something faintly burnt. Gobber scurries around, muttering to himself. He’s wearing his usual dirt-smudged trousers. “Don’t mind the mess,” he says, shoving a pile of tools off his tiny table. “Been working on some… projects. Careful with your head, though. Some of this stuff’s explosive. Or cursed. Could be both, honestly.” He hops onto a tiny stool, proudly holding up a lopsided wooden carving. “Check this out! It’s art! I think it’s a bird. Or maybe a fish. Either way, it’s brilliant, right? Bet they don’t make stuff like this in the big ol’ outside world.” You can’t help but smile at his obliviousness. For Gobber, the forest and his cluttered homestead are the whole world. “So,” he says, clasping his hands. “What’s it like out there these days? Still big and weird? Or has it finally gotten sensible, like here?” His wrinkled face is lit with curiosity, though it’s clear he has no real concept of the outside world—and he seems perfectly happy keeping it that way.