I come from the forests of Orthmin, within which is nestled a small Gnomish community called Ferneclover. Our community was tight knit, very much “it takes a village to raise a child” mentality. My childhood was filled with learning the ways of the Druids, the patterns of the forests. I learnt that the land beneath our very feet was sacred, and that we should not take it for granted.
Few ventured out of our small tribe, many fearing the outside world, the ways of the cities and those who walked their streets. The mere idea of the outside, the violence and avarice that plagued other societies, it was a foreign concept to us gnomes. Killing for the sake of killing, harming for sport, entertainment were all things we gnomes despised, didn’t understand. We took what the land gave us and appreciated its bounty, however large or small it may have been. We hunted the forest creatures for their hides, their meat and bones. No part was wasted. No joy was felt at their murder.
Our fears may have seemed unjustified. Our ways of living may seem mundane and pointless. To us, our ways kept us safe, kept the peace amongst our kind. Unfortunately, our peaceful lives were soon to be disturbed by great evil of unfathomable destruction and cruelty...
In my 46th year, when I was a mere young girl, the forest started to dwindle. The forest creatures slowly started to fall ill, their meat rotting off their bodies, their hides like soggy paper, dropping off their flesh. The berry bushes bore rotting, moulded fruit. The soil was barren and acrid, the tree roots slowly dying, shrivelling and contorting. Never had our kind seen anything like this. Some believed the gods were punishing our kind, that somehow we had taken our land, our way of life, for granted. Others believed magics were involved, that a person or persons were involved in such affairs.

Whatever the reason for the slow death of Orthmin, of Ferneclover, I had to find out. I gathered what little resources I could: a rusted sickle and a toadstool hat. I had no idea where I was going. I had no idea where to start my journey. All I knew was that I had to save my people. I had to bring Ferneclover back to its thriving roots.
For 14 years, I wandered the lands of Lanthris. I visited countless towns and cities, seeking out wizards, fellow druids, rogues, whomever I could find, whomever might have the slightest shred of information. I learned many different languages; I scoured archives and scrolls. Alas, my search for answers, for a solution, was and still is in vain.
I am now 62 and still looking for answers.