The Philosopher's Anvil

You gingerly make your way through the cramped hallway, grateful for the reprieve from the biting cold outside. As you approach the door at the far end of the passage, your nostrils flare up seduced by the smell of freshly baked pumpkin pudding and freshly brewed (and especially strong, you imagine) coffee. You politely knock on the door, which slowly sways ajar by itself. In the small living space before you, you see a comfortable looking arm chair facing a warm hearth of fire. Tiny feet lay to rest on a cushion before it, watching glowing embers of firewood occasionally darting to freedom and dying out on the worn rug below. You pause to offer the etiquette of being invited in, but you feel your back start to crick and crackle from the burden of heaving your torso through ways where the ceiling measured hardly five feet (in human terms) from the polished wooden floor. As you start to clear your throat, tiny feet spring to life and in a flash an elderly gnome-skin yellow with age and ...

You stare down the cobbled walkway at the quaint little stone cottage in front of you. A broken down workshop just shyes out of view around the far wall. The grass around the lawn seems uncut in any recent time and is strewn with stones children might have thrown at the now cracked windows-much to the vex of the inhabitant, you imagine. The owner apparently cares little that his abode might be aesthetically unpleasing, but then tips on home decoration is not why you have travelled far and wide seeking Twidler "Limerick Sprout" Twinklefoot. "Grumpy lil' fella...", your guide retorts as he takes a step forward into view. "Yeessss, an' he doesnt get out much either. I cant reckon why you would want to see him, but hey, as long as its worth my while eh?". He rubs a dirty finger over his stubble with a cheeky grin. You dont remember the last time you had met someone with a less flattering sense of oral hygiene. You quickly grab into your travel pouch ha...