“Yeah… spending yor time in sewers and cellars may not be glamorous… ooh, but ya can’t beat that job security!” It was grandpa d’Orkin’s famous catchphrase, in the sense that he would bestow it on any grandchild that he could catch for a lecture.
“As long as ‘em tall folk like eating ’em foods, ther’s gonna be pests. And as long as ther’s‘em pests, you’ll have some gold in ya pocket and some straw in ya pillow.” Here grandpa would often pause for effect. “It’s honest work, gets you respect from ‘em tall folk, and best of all… no one else wants to do it! Ha!”
Terro knew that grandpa was right. Gnomes were custom built for pest control. Just over 3 feet tall, nimble, able to crawl into the smallest spaces, feeling at home in the dark, and with the patience to study, track, bait and trap any enemy, gnomes excelled at the craft of killing small things at reasonable prices. His family, the d’Orkin clan, was one of the oldest and best at it. With 800+ years of honorable extermination service in the city and its environs. And there were worse things to do for money and a safe spot behind the city walls…
“Bait the roaches.
Trap the rats!
Fire the slimes.
And spark the bats!”
Terro learned the d’Orkin critter song while still in his crib. In fact he could not remember when he could not remember it. The d’Orkin clan had a system. Extermination wasn’t a job, it was a calling. It was a way of life. And from the time you were a wee baby gnome your life was traps and poisons. Traps and poisons! Know the craft. Love the craft. BE the craft. Being an exterminator wasn’t about spears and swords. Heavy pointy things were for the tall folk. The life of an exterminator, or “snuffer” (in the city’s slang), was about knowing your enemy, setting the right trap, and not being there when it sprung.
“Spook the pixies.
Blast the snakes.
Frost the wisps.
And run from drakes!”
There were 20 more verses, covering any pest that was worth snuffing at a reasonable price. Terro would fall asleep humming it to himself, and then sing it again with his brothers and sisters as they waited for Mama to ready breakfast. His childhood was spent tracking roaches, setting snares for rats, and following his grandpa around the forest learning to identify any plant that could snuff out a critter’s life. (Since no self-respecting gnome would ever pay for poison that literally grew on trees.) By the time he was fifteen, Terro d’Orkin was a merciless killing machine, a silent bringer of death, a destroyer of millions… well, as long as they scurried and weren’t bigger than his boot.
But snuffing wasn’t about the critters. It was about the clients. And clients came from the Guild. Originally all pest control was under the provision of the city’s Adventurers Guild. Killing was killing. Bounties were bounties. And there were always new adventurers looking for a starting gig. But eventually shopkeepers realized that half-orc barbarians were not as good at killing the rats AND leaving the shop still standing. So the Guild of Ter’Minix was started to cover the more delicate “snuffing” bounties, and the gnomes had found their biggest employer.
The Guild posted the jobs, collected the bounties, and made sure the tall folk didn’t have to deal with gnomes more than they had to. If you wanted to work, you had to know how to work the Guild. You couldn’t just join either, a recommendation was always required. So after much entrating and gifts from his parents, Terro was accepted as an apprentice under his uncle, a senior exterminator and a Platinum level associate with the Guild. Then followed ten long years of cleaning out rotten bodies from forgotten traps, taste testing poisons for freshness, and crawling into the filthiest of holes. And then worst of all, constantly having to hear about his cousin Western, who was only 38 but already had his own extermination business, with 3 gnomes and a trap making dwarf on staff, and even the chance for an exclusive contract with the Bakers Union!
On his 25th birthday, Terro paid his first Guild dues (with a loan from his uncle), and was ready to be trusted with independent work. In a family ceremony, he repeated the d’Orkin family oath to keep his baits fresh, traps oiled, and never overcharge repeat customers. With shaking hands he accepted a new shiny white d’Okrin family helmet, with it’s red crest, and matching white uniform from his proud grandfather. (A nuisance to keep clean in the sewers, the white and red combo was an asset on the bustling streets, and kept you from getting stepped on by careless tall folk.) Terro was finally an exterminator, free to be his own gnome.
This is what he has dreamed about all these years. Choosing his own gigs, being the one to decide which sewer or infested barn he was crawling around in, which traps to clean out, which poisons to mix. This was the freedom and fulfillment that Terro has been waiting and working for. His first five years were ok. The next ten were grueling. The last 8 were dreadful. Terro was a good snuffer. He was thorough and polite. His traps were decent. His poisons were adequate. But something was missing. Terro knew it. And so did the guild, and somehow even his clients.
That joy, that his father, uncle and grandfather so often described – in that moment of seeing your trap with it’s quarry dead inside, or seeing your bait eaten and then finding the convulsing body of your prey – that joy never came for Terro. Feeling happy after a day of work is the one thing that he never managed to catch in all his years as a snuffer. So Terro killed, got paid, and went home to his tiny rented room to sleep. Sewer, cellar, barn, shed; trap, bait, kill, clean up. Day after day, his life blended into a predictable slurry of professional, reasonably priced death. Traps. Traps. Baits. Baits. Death. Death. Death…
Terro snapped out of his brooding and looked at the parchment before him. His shirt crusted with dried spider blood, his helmet speckled with pixie shit, his own gnome was leaning against a counter in the Ter’Minix Guild main hall, trying to fill out his paperwork for the last 3 kills. It’s been a very long day. He longed to get to his room and collapse in his bed. But at least this time he had a plan. A plan that would get him closer to doing the scariest thing he has ever had to do: be honest with his family.
He’s been saving up for it for months. And now he almost had enough coin to get his grandfather a present for his 270th birthday: an ornate ironwood walking stick, with “JOB SECURITY” engraved on the pommel. No matter how he felt about his job and his life, Terro was still a good family gnome. And no matter what gold plated monstrosity his cousin would show up with at the birthday party, he would get his grandpa a gift that he knew he would actually use. And then maybe, if his grandfather liked the gift, and they ever got a moment alone, and Terro ever got brave enough, he would ask for his grandfather’s blessing to leave the family business and do something else. Anything else.
“Night job! Double coin!” called out the bored voice of the hafling teller to the mostly empty hall. While the few other weary snuffers paused to consider their options. Acting of their own accord, Terro’s feet swiftly carried him to the halfling’s window.
“Ookay. Lemme see. 3 silvers for the kill, 3 for the night work, 1 more for cleanup” the teller read from a parchment on her desk. “Order’s from Blue Bird Tannery on Craftsman Row. Apparently they have a slime that needs snuffing. Need it done now. Ya want the job, hon?” the halfling looked up to take another draught from her pipe, and frowned, noticing Terro’s tired look and dirty uniform.
“I’ll take it!” Terro said, “Terro d’Orkin, bronze level associate. Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll go immediately.” He pivoted and almost ran for the exit, not giving the teller a chance to reconsider. This should be enough for the walking stick and the engraving, Terro mused while making his way to the tannery. Maybe he could even get some dinner that wasn’t old potatoes. Something in the tavern. A good creamy soup. That would be nice. And then he can fall asleep while still tasting it. It’s been a while.
“Sprinkle some salt on it,” said the burly tanner, looking down at Terro. “One of my boys said he heard the slime moving around the warehouse, but he was too scared to go in. Heck, I’d do it myself, but we have this big order from the Watch to finish, and I just can’t leave the shop.
“Plus,” the tanner chuckled, “someone has to keep ya short lot employed and outta trouble…”
“Understood sir, I’ll have it snuffed quickly sir,” said Terro, keeping his voice respectful.
“And no torches!” added the tanner gruffly, “I don’t want any soot on em fresh hides.”
“Oh no sir, Gnomes can see in the da…” started Terro..
“There’s a big oil lamp inside,” the tanner continued, “right above the front gates, I just filled it up last week. Just reach up to light it and you’ll find that slime in no time.” Here the tanner stretched up to the imaginary lamp above his head.
“I’m not as tall as you sir…“ Terro tried to interject.
“Here are keys.” The tanner dangled a set of keys on a large brass ring in front of Terro’s nose. “That small round key will open the side door. Follow this road down, it’s the last warehouse before the city walls.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir. Will do sir.” Terro bowed and turned to leave.
“And make sure ya don’t get any that slime juice on any of em hides. That will come straight out of ya pay. I’ll take it up with the Guild if I need to! Salt the sucker. Clean it up. Come back here. No funny business!” finished the tanner as Terro backed out into the street.
Double coin, thought Terro while walking towards the warehouse, it’s never simple. Still slimes were an ok bounty. The smell was terrible, the cleanup was worse, but at least you didn’t have to chase them. Just don’t touch them, unless you like your fingers partially digested. Salting didn’t work though. It just made the slimes move quicker and angrier. As if something without a brain could be angry. But then something without a brain shouldn’t be chasing you either, but slimes were good at that too. Organics, that’s all you were to them. Fresh organics. Touch one, step in one, and your body part, skin, flesh, bones and all, were dinner after three minutes of dissolving.
The only thing that really stopped slimes was fire. It messed with their structure. Drop a lit torch on top of one, and it would start to ooze out. A well placed firebolt would also do the trick. That was Terro’s preference. He was no wizard, but every gnome knew a few basic spells. And when you are three feet tall, and weaker than anyone you might meet, a bit of magic often went a long way.
Now gnome firebolts weren’t much of a threat. One was enough to light a torch or cook a piece of chicken breast. If you aimed at the same spot, two or three would make most slimes ooze out. Terro liked that part. Even if slow moving, the slime was an actual adversary that you had to face, no traps or poisons to hide behind. You had to be careful though, create too many firebolts too quickly, and your palms would get a serious burn or worse. Making fire had it’s cost. So no gnome snuffer ever tried to deal with more than three slimes at a time on their own. Maybe slimes were slow, but once they felt you, they never stopped.
It was fully dark when Terro reached the warehouse. “Fire the slime.” Terro heard the critter song play out in his head. Open the side door. Three firebolts. Clean up. Get paid. Go home. Taste the creamy soup. Get some sleep. He took the tanner’s key ring out of his pack and moved towards the building.
Something wasn’t right. That feeling… when your body knows something before you know it, and it gets ready to run, or hide, or scream… all before you know from what. A primal feeling, a leftover from when the gnomes still lived in caves and were always on the menu. Terro knew it from working in the old city sewers. It helped you to know when you were no longer the baiter but the bait. When it was time to drop your gear and run without looking back. That feeling. He had it now. But why… he wasn’t in the sewers. He was safe in the city. Wait… was the warehouse… shaking? Swaying? Dancing? Were the walls moving or was he imagining it?
I’m too tired for this, Terro shook his head and kept moving forward. Dancing warehouses, that’s all I need. Open the side door. Fire the slime. Clean up. Get paid. Make grandpa happy. Taste something other than potatoes. Sleep. That sound… Someone was churning butter in the middle of the night. 10 vats of it. No… 20 vats? Yeah, that’s slimes. Not one. Many.
“Run!” said the feeling.
I can deal with three, thought Terro. Four or five maybe if I climb on something first, and give my hands a rest between shots. Should I go back to the tanner? The job was for one slime only. But he seemed pretty irate. What if he says that I broke the contract and complain to the guild? They always trust the clients over the snuffers. It took me 10 years just to make it to Copper level associate. If I lose it now the whole family will be shamed. I would ruin grandpa’s party.
I should at least find out how many slimes there are inside, Terro decided. Then go back to make a clear report. That’s the professional thing to do. Get the family involved. Get my dad to renegotiate the contract. Show up with back up. Maybe hire a real fire mage, or some adventurers. He crept closer to the large chained up warehouse gates. Just a quick look, Terro told the feeling. There is a small crack between the heavy doors. I look, I count the slimes, I slip away.
“RUN!” screamed the feeling.
Holding his breath, still clutching the tanner’s key ring in his hand, Terro inched his face clower toward the crack. One peek, he told himself, and I can run away and get help. One peek, and I won’t disappoint grandfather. We can still have that talk. One peek, he repeated, forcing his body to move closer, pressing his skin against the old wood of the gates, angling his eye on the dark opening.
The feeling stopped screaming. There was now only silence. A cold, dead, ringing, silence.
As his eye slowly adjusted to the dark of the warehouse, Terro d’Orkin heard himself gasp.