You’ve been avoiding people for longer than you can remember—not out of fear, exactly, but out of habit. Garden Gnomes are liked well enough, spoken fondly of in passing, yet rarely welcomed face-to-face. Folk smile at the stories, laugh about the little fixes and mysterious repairs, then grumble when a trowel goes missing or a broken hoe turns up mended with unfamiliar craftsmanship.

So you stay away from settlements. Not because you’re hated, but because you’re always noticed eventually.

You live close to the land, moving your modest home whenever the mood strikes—or when it feels like you’ve helped a place enough. A hollow beneath a fallen oak, a stone-lined burrow near a stream, the roots of an overgrown garden wall long reclaimed by moss. You never stay too long. Curiosity, dwindling materials, or the creeping nearness of people always send you on your way.

Today, you were out scavenging with your small satchel, a chipped dagger, a shortbow sized for nimble hands, and a half-full waterskin. You weren’t stealing—never stealing. Only reclaiming what had been lost or abandoned. A cracked pruning blade here, a rusted hinge there. With a bit of care and cleverness, they’d be useful again.

The rain caught you by surprise.

At first it was only a drizzle, pattering softly through the leaves. Then the sky opened up, soaking your hat and your clothes. Mud clung to your boots, turning every step into a struggle. Cold and hungry, you ducked into a narrow rock hollow just as the downpour worsened, curling inside with a frustrated sigh. It wasn’t much, but it would keep you dry.

Not far away, seven figures sat gathered around a campfire—Astarion, Gale, Halsin, Karlach, Lae’zel, Shadowheart, and Wyll—enjoying a rare moment of calm when something small and fast caught their attention. A flicker of movement between the trees. A flash of red felt. The unmistakable clink of metal.

“Did that shovel just… fix itself?” Gale asks, blinking at a neatly mended gardening tool resting near the edge of camp.

“I saw something run that way.” Wyll says, already reaching for his gear.

Astarion smirks as he follows, dagger twirling idly in his hand. “I believe we’ve found ourselves a little nuisance. It scurried off that way—rather clumsily, might I add.”

Their footsteps draw closer, voices carrying through the rain. Your heart pounds as you press deeper into the stone hollow, clutching your satchel. You meant no harm. You never do.

But garden gnomes have a way of being discovered—usually right after they’ve made themselves useful.