On Words Against Whimsy [Public Letter]

[Norgeth 1894]

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ON WORDS AGAINST WHIMSY

BY ARCHWARD COSMORAZEK GRAINSTONE, 36TH OF THE COUNCIL

 

Written and Published in the Common Year 241

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@Rayalia@SimplySeo
 

 

“Those with joy in their hearts know no prejudice for others; the wise know this to be true” - The Zekion Texts as written by the Prophet Oblazek

 

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Let it be said in preface that I, my order, or my people hold no disdain for the Numendain, quite the opposite, our peoples were once good friends, my father, Willfizz Grainstone, dwelt amongst you, and there is even a statue dedicated to one of our most revered fallen in your vineyards. 

 

However, several things have come to my attention that I cannot ignore or remain indifferent to. The men and women of Angrenost have written into their lawbooks to humiliate and, quite possibly, seriously injure any Gnome who enters their territory; their code that supposedly protects whimsy instead harms it, stating to detain us, coat us in honey, and fling us from tall-standing walls into trees before encouraging violent squirrels to attack us. Not only does this spit on our dignity, but a fall into trees is not a safe one; our bones may be broken upon dense branches or on the way to the ground, while further squirrel assault may lead to loss of eyes and sometimes severe, permanent mutilation. 

 

I call upon the Lordship of Angrenost to revoke this racist law, unbecoming of their standing. Whatever strife you may have with the Gnomish people is solely an individual occurrence that regards but one Gnome, not our entire, diverse grouping of cultures. Suppose this hateful edict is not revoked with haste. In that case, I, Cosmorazek Grainstone, Archward of the Order of Wisenwards, shall invoke the authority entrusted unto me to establish the following principle.

 

 

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PRINCIPLE OF RETRIBUTION:

 

1. If any residents, affiliates, or nobles of the Lordship of Angrenost enter Gnomish territory, then they shall have Buckets of Oatmeal mixed with Glue thrown at them, simultaneously being told to leave. If weapons are drawn and blood shed, then the attackers will be reported as murderers to the relevant authorities.

 

2. All Gnomes unjustly injured by the men and women of Angrenost will be treated with the best medicine available to the Order of Wisenwards.

 

3. If the men and women of Angrenost explain the incident that caused the beginning of their cruelty, then the Gnome responsible shall be punished in a manner befitting their supposed crime. 

 

4. This principle will be completely nullified upon the revocation of the Gnome-Clauses in the Angrenost lawbook.

 

 

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[The Vulgate Cycle 577]

In his family guest quarters, within the halls of the Iron Tower of Angrenost, Lord Arthur Marsyr is handed this letter, upon which he reads its title, and his brows shot upwards. It prompted him to read further. But the more he read, the more his mind, body and soul turned to rage, pure and visceral. A gnome, rebuking him? Rebuking Azruphel? Rebuking Angrenost for acting against WHIMSY?! It was enough to turn him completely APOPLECTIC at the sheer audacity of this creature, which thought himself an authority on whimsy when he and his were anything but.
The thought of removing the edict disgusted him, the thought of gnomes DISGUSTED him.

 

His eyes darkly turned to his vast supply of honey and acorn bits, then to the Gnome-uches HE created for the fiefdom, and as he did, a savage fiery smile grew on his face, showed teeth and touched his eyes "By Aeradar, if you want a war Cosmorazek, you'll ******* have one." 

Defiantly he prepared his stock for honey and acorns for ready use. For he knew in his heart that every Gnome walked with the same amount of EVIL and malice aforethought as the Dark Aengul under the Mountain.

Edited July 16, 2025 by The Vulgate Cycle

[Tainga 521]

The High Chancellor settled herself on a bench within Númenost's square, one leg elegantly draped over the other as her eyes skimmed the missive in hand. A beat passed–then came laughter, light and incredulous. "How utterly ridiculous." She breathed between chuckles, and once they began to fade, she added a with a small smirk, "I predict our Princess of Iron will find this just as amusing... perhaps amusing enough to pen a response of her own."

With a soft chuckle still lingering on her lips, the missive was neatly folded and tucked away. In its place, she withdrew a fresh sheet of parchment, and she began to write with an amused smile as she penned a letter addressed to Azruphel. Once finished, she rose with purpose, making her way to the aviary to see it sent off. Only then did she turn on her heel, returning to the square–her stride light–as she went to spend time among her people.

[siglms_ 932]

Lembic Urbran, A wee Oblazeki Gnome currently on vacation, looks upon the missive in disgust! 

 

"How could they do tha' to the gnomish people!? We've been nothin' but supportive o' the Numendain, an' this is how they repay us!?" 

 

 

[Titanium430 578]

Et feels loike this es ah big misundahstandin' or somethin' - Gnomes are peaceful people, ef one o' dem was ah bad actor, why judge the whole multitude o 'dem" Dugric Grandaxe said to himself, looking over the missive. "Launchin' Gnomes seems loike ah poor attempt at humour at duh expense o' ah whole group o' people."

[Ardory 2978]

Soxton Boomstitch, Big Hat Society Member #3, Relic Keeper of the Oblazeki, Conquerer of Mount Trash, CEO of LEY SODA CO, and among many more titles, looks over the scandelous report with his bushy eyebrows raised, stroking his well-kept mustache in interest.

 

"Ah, promise broken, that is, the cosmic balance tips to disorder, and the strings of the world tremble and shake as gnomish flesh is bruised. An ill omen indeed!" the gnome muses, "I will be sure to lend aid to the troubled gnomes with my whimsical powers bestowed by OBLAZEK and his reincarnations."

[Rayalia 537]

The very first thing that occurs - after the missive had been given to The Iron Princess by a loyal servant to read - is a rambunctious, hearty laughter that fills the great tower of Angrenost, on and off in fits that come and go for near hours.

 

Later in the day, the matter would be discussed with a visiting dwarf, resting some worries at ease, clarifying others. There would be no public response posted soon for the missive itself, not from the Lady of Angrenost.

 

[Cally 1080]

A chuckle rang from an Iron Prince and a stout green and gold lady. “Fuckin’ hate gnomes….” A Matriarch of Rourke said with her spectacles over her nose, burning the letter in the case it was coated in anthrax. The Gnome regime would not consume her today. 

[Xayshi 49]

The garden was quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves overhead and the distant chirp of sparrows nesting in the boughs. Boromir sat on the old stone bench beneath the tree, one leg crossed over the other, a scroll unfurled in his lap. The sunlight filtered through the canopy in dapples across his shoulders and armor, and for a brief moment, the world felt at peace.

 

Then he read the first line. 
 

By the second, his brow had arched. By the third, he gave a single, incredulous snort.

By the time he reached the part about gnomes being slathered in honey and thrown from high walls to be judged by squirrels, he laughed—a deep, involuntary laugh. The kind that shook his shoulders and made the birds above scatter. He wiped his eyes with the back of his glove, wheezing through the remnants of it as he finished reading.

“Someone’s given the rodents a quill.” He muttered with amusement, the words slipping out between the cracks of a growing grin, disbelief dancing at the edge of his voice. It was the sort of laugh that came not from joy, but from a wearied recognition that the world had, once again, outdone itself.

 

He leaned back against the bench, eyes scanning the rest of the letter, catching every self-righteous flourish and indignant squeak of its author’s voice in his head. Cosmorazek. That was the name. Sounded like something you’d cough up after breathing in too much smithy soot.

 

And of course, it could only have started with him.

 

“Schmebuleock,” He muttered, venom wrapped in a sigh. “Spawn of a badger and a sack of spoiled turnips. Gods-cursed, feral, finger-snapping little plague-maggot.”

The first time he met the gnome, he tried to bite his finger clean off—three times in a single hour. Only his plate gauntlets had saved him from losing digits. The creature had the teeth of a fox and the soul of a wet rat. Then came the badge—scratched into bark, painted with berry juice—declaring himself the Warden of the Kingswood.

The tiny bastard  marched through the capital waving it about like he was some hero of old.

 

It was probably the highest honor a gnome had ever received. And it was made up. Fully invented on the spot, yet he was too stupid to realize the grandeur he claimed was worth less than the twig it was carved on.

 

He stood, stepping over to the small brazier nearby where scraps were sometimes burned. The scroll in his hand fluttered as he held it over the flame. The edges blackened, curled, then caught.

 

He watched it with grim satisfaction, arms folded across his chest.

 

“May you go up quicker than your author, you squirrel-kissing little inkgremlin,” he muttered as the parchment collapsed into glowing ash.

 

The last thought lingered as he turned back to his home, chuckling to himself all the while.

 

We should’ve crusaded the gnomes, he thought. Not the halflings.

Edited July 31, 2025 by Xayshi