NaNoWriMo: Success!!

You are looking at the proud winner of NaNoWriMo 2011; a funny contest, in that it can have infinite winners, since there is no finite limit on words that can be put to our collective and individual imaginations.

A fact for which I am very grateful.

In honor of the event, I will be posting one last scene from the new novel, A.J. Pendlebolt: Gnomish Detective this Friday.  Since the novel is barely half-finished, I may continue to post snippets over the course of the next few months.  With any luck, a manuscript will be going out to publishers in March 2012.

Thank you to all my friends who humbly agreed to be told to buzz off over the course of the past month, to my cats for keeping the sitting-on-keyboard antics to a minimum, and to my girlfriend for perhaps being the most understanding soul of all (given that we also closed on our first house this month).

To all my fellow WriMo's, whether you hit the mark or not, thank you for sharing with us the little crazy things rattling around in your beautiful brains so that they might spark something equally crazy in ours.

NaNoWriMo Preview: Meeting the Constable

Author's Note:  I'm often amazed but just how few words 50,000 actually is; not just in the time it takes to write it, but in how little of a story can be told.  Watch your average film and count the minutes before things really kick into high gear and onward towards climax.  I would bet an average of them hit the halfway point before you truly see the plot develop toward its eventual close.  

I say this knowing that the scene I'm about to post here is past the 30,000 word mark, past the 56th page in an 8.5x11 layout; a not-insignificant body of work.  Yet our hero and his partners are still in the process of gathering information on the initial pair of murders (which they have only recently discovered are linked).  

To think I may only be a third of the way into this work and still deeply mired in what I hope is at least cleverly worded exposition is a little daunting when one considers just how much this is the small house salad to the enticing entree yet to come.  I hope you enjoy.

- andy

* * *

Satisfied at the retelling, A.J. squinted up into the high light from the mirror mesh that was forever focused on this particular haven of commerce as if more light might actually lend purity to the vendors or their seedy patrons.  The woven network of high, angled mirrors managed to catch even the last slivers of light from the desert valley outside without even so much as a drop of magic to feed them.  He might have taken more pride in the feat, were it not for the mirrors’ irritating habit of perpetually guiding the light directly into his eyes.

Squinting through the sun spots, he tried to refocus his eyes and his mind on the scene, somewhere between the thousand scuffling feet of the marketplace.  Somewhere nearby, only two nights prior, a young human boy struggling to earn a day’s wage had been stabbed multiple times and left for dead alongside his bulging purse.  Though both the body and the silver were long gone, there had to be clues left that might lead back to the killer, or killers, who had seen fit to carve into the boy like a stalkermeat pie .

His focus was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out over top of the constant din.  “Well, if it isn’t old Quarterstock himself,” said the constable, making her way up the row to where the trio now stood.  The golden sash of her station shimmered in the bright light of the afternoon, standing out sharply against her otherwise haggard appearance.  The two dwarven officers following behind her could easily have passed for twins, right down to the cut of their beards.  Otherwise, they looked every bit as provincial as the woman who led them, their silver sashes seemingly the only thing of any luster they owned in a city full of metal and gemstones.

The constable herself was squat of figure, even for a dwarf, with long gray hair that trailed almost to her ankles, even when bound in its thick braid.  “And only two days late,” she added, stopping short to glance down at the gnome.  “That’s a new record for you, isn’t it?”

“Breaking new ground every day,” A.J. answered, making an overelaborate gesture of bowing to the constable.  Nathaniel echoed with it far more genuine intent.  Dede remained rigid, not taking her eyes off the woman or the leather cudgel at her hip.

“Constable,” she said stiffly.  “I see you got my message.  Your man said you couldn’t make it.”

“Well, I can always make time for the good people of this city,” the constable said to no one in particular, turning to gaze out into the busy street.  “Or to watch Quarterstock trip all over his little legs trying to figure out what happened here.”

“We know what happened here,” A.J. told her, adjusting his spectacles pointedly as he watched the patrons milling about on the same clustered street.  “What I mean to uncover is why and how.”

“How?” the constable laughed, holding her not-insubstantial belly.  “I think maybe you’ve been standing in the mirrorlight too long, boy.  That courier had more holes in him than the highway road.”  With a long glance up at the tall Terrace guardsman accompanying them, she added:  “Or do you think maybe he drowned?”

“Of course he was stabbed,” A.J. admitted, squatting next to the curb and running his fingers along a handful of white scuff marks where the stone had been stuck by something hard enough to leave a mark.  The constable just chuckled, but before she could state the obvious, the gnome rose to his feet again.  “The question is, how did someone get close enough to a runner, a human runner, to stab him not once but three times?”  To the constable’s befuddled expression, he added:  “Your man was kind enough to forward us your initial report.  At least, I assume it was only an initial report.  Certainly, someone with your depth of experience didn’t think the case closed after just a preliminary inspection with no formal examination—“

“A courier was mugged,” the woman interrupted, “a shifter with no house papers on him.  There was nothing left to do but wait till the noble who sent him contacted us wondering why his shipment never arrived.”

“Yes, brilliant,” A.J. replied, still distracted by the scuff marks at his feet, “unless of course that selfsame noble had just been served a toxic supper and was too busy spitting up blood to file the proper paperwork.”  His eyes followed the line of the scuff marks back out into the street, trying to gauge the angle of approach.  “Not that you should have needed to wait for an invitation to know something was amiss.”

“What are you talking about?” the constable grunted, following his eyes out into the street.  “It looked every bit like a typical robbery.  I bet pennies to platinum you would have come to the same conclusion, if you weren’t too bored to even bother listening to the details.”

Dede did her best to keep the smile on her face to a dull roar.  The constable wasn’t known for her keen insights, which made it all the more precious to hear her nail A.J. squarely on the nose.  The gnome, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat.  “It didn’t strike you as odd that his purse full of coin was still heavy on his belt when you found him, or that on the most crowded street in Stenwahl, no one heard a courier’s cry for help?”

“It was the middle of the night,” the constable explained.  “Everyone would have been in bed.”

“Exactly!” A.J. countered.  “Not a soul on the streets.  So how did his attackers get close enough to him to stab him three times?  Surely, he would have known he was being followed.”

“They?” Dede echoed, raising an eyebrow at her partner.  “Now who’s jumping to conclusions?”

“Runners,” A.J. explained, “are trained to be the fastest men and women in Stenwahl.  Human runners,” he added, glancing up at Nathaniel, “are especially coveted for their long stride.  That same height affords them a vantage point few others can boast.  Assuming they aren’t too busy bowing to everyone in so much as an inch of imitation silk…”

Nathaniel opened his mouth to explain, but thought better of it, simply bowing his head to hide the sudden color rushing to his cheeks.  Had A.J. not been so hell-bent on laying out the scene for the constable, he might have noticed the death glare from his partner behind him.  “For a human runner walking alone on an empty street at night to be stabbed means he is either blind, drunk, or set upon by more than one assailant.”

He pointed to the intersection, tracing an invisible line with his finger up toward the base of Hammond’s Gate.  “Miners call it a ‘pot trap,’” he explained, “on account of the men who go deep into the tunnels to try and drive nests of cavestalkers out into the open.  They beat on pots and pans and generally make as much noise as possible, scaring the stalkers up the tunnel and into the waiting cages.  The poor beasts are so busy running from their harmless pursuers that they never see the real danger right in front of them.”

The constable just laughed, shaking her head at the gnome.  “Boy, you do love to hear yourself talk,” she said.  “Hammond’s Walk is the only road up to the Terrace.  It wouldn’t take much for someone to lie in wait just to jump messengers on their way up to the council seat.  The right bit of paper goes a lot farther than coin in this city.  Just means you’re dealing with a smarter thief than most.  Oh, and for your information,” she added, taking particular pride in the words, “there was a highway breeze two nights ago, thicker than soup and twice as messy.  No one standing could’ve so much as seen the shoes on his feet, no matter how tall he was.”

To her surprise, the gnome started to grin.  “Then why was he running?”

“Running?” the constable scoffed.  “They’re called ‘runners,’ ya daft halfer .  What did you think it meant?”

Dede’s eyes flashed to A.J. at once, watching the gnome carefully.  Not many people could get away with calling a gnome ‘halfer’ in polite company, let alone to one’s face.  It was all she could do not to lay into the constable herself, but the look on A.J.’s face held her rooted to the spot.

“Runners,” the gnome said with a smile, “typically walk, on account of the long distances they have to travel, and the many steps twixt here and the Terrace, where this one was heading.  A sprained ankle may as well be a broken neck to someone whose income relays on his feet, doubly so a shifter who is likely down on coin as it is.  In the throes of a thick highway fog, I would argue that anyone so worried about his next meal and dependent on a working pair of legs to earn it is the least likely person to be found running at, pardon, ‘break neck’ speed up the Walk.”

The gnome paused to enjoy the color coming to the constable’s face.  She rather reminded him of Nathaniel’s captain for a moment, minus the beard and plus several dozen pounds.  “And for your information,” he continued, “the term ‘runner’ is really more of a metaphor, since ‘walker’ doesn’t inspire anyone with terribly much confidence in expedient delivery.

“Runners generally only run when a message is of a particularly urgent nature,” he explained, “or else when they’re in immediate threat of being intercepted.  ‘Mugged,’ as you called it.  Since Counselor Harrows’ proposal was not going to be seen till the morning, it was anything but urgent, so we have to assume the latter, unless you think it likely our messenger fancied a heart-pounding jog at half-past the night bell in the middle of a blinding fog.”

A.J. paused to adjust his spectacles, pointing to the white marks at his feet.  “These marks were made by something small but strong, like the bronze cap of a runner’s case.  You can still see some of the color in the marks there,” he added, squatting low to draw the woman’s attention to the particular mark in question, “meaning they were struck at some considerable speed, especially for something as light as a scroll case to have left so noticeable a mark.  My guess is that the runner landed on top of it.”

“What makes you say that?” the constable asked, trying to sound like she had already guessed ahead at the answer.  A.J. simply gestured to the small, dark stain a few feet further into the street, where a handful of flies had gathered to inspect the dried patch of blood.

“Strange for someone paid to walk the streets night and day to trip on his own feet,” he said, watching the constable’s reaction closely, “least of all with enough force to draw blood.  Unless, of course, he was too busy looking behind him to see where he was going.”  He glanced back down the street again, imagining the poor courier dashing out of the fog, harried by unseen figures hiding in the soupy mist.  “Pot trap.”

NaNoWriMo Preview: Blacksmith's Hands

The captain cleared his throat in a warning gesture, taking another step toward the gnome as A.J. finished approaching the portrait on the wall.  He brushed his finger along the frame again, showing the advancing dwarf his bare fingertip.  “Nothing!” he exclaimed.  “Positively extraordinary.  The woman deserves a medal, if maids were given such things.”  He paused a moment later, glancing up at Nathaniel.  “Pardon, no offense intended.”

“Oh, no,” Nathaniel stammered, waving a hand dismissively at the mention.  “None taken.”

“Splendid,” A.J. lilted, turning back to the portrait and again working to mock its pose.  “So, why was the councilwoman murdered?”

“Perhaps we should finish collecting the facts before we start pinning down motive,” Dede offered, again stepping vaguely into the captain’s path to slow his advance.  “Just to be sure we haven’t missed anything.”

A.J. ignored her, still shifting his pose to match the painted dwarf.  The captain stopped short, too puzzled by the gnome’s behavior and too daunted by his partner’s efforts to continue on his intended course.  “What are you doing?” he demanded, his face again burning a ripe crimson.

“His hands,” A.J. said, turning his own over in front of him.  “Don’t you see?”

Unable to fight their curiosity, the two dwarves took another step closer to the painting and stared at the man depicted there.  His hands were the heavy make of most dwarves his age, with fat, round fingers that bore clear signs of the strength they contained.  Nothing seemed unusual in their shape save for the one missing digit on his left hand, long since healed over in his younger days.

What stood out more sharply was the strange, mottled color that that tainted his palms, largely obscured by the position of his hands.  The one resting on his forward knee showed few signs of it, though the one further back, set atop an inornate walking cane, made it clear that it was not just some error in the mixing of colors on the part of the artist.

“Ah,” Nathaniel said over their heads, craning about to peer at the same, “blacksmith’s hands.”

“Silversmith, I would guess,” A.J. corrected, pointing to the various pieces of silver in the background of the piece, as well as dotted about his person.  “But, yes.  Her father was a silversmith.  Not a well-known fact, of course, else she wouldn’t have been nearly so influential in the council, least of all when pushing a measure which would have given greater power to the purveyors of precious ore as the gem trade dwindled under its new restrictions.”

“That’s not what the proposal was about!” Dede snapped, causing even the captain to start at the sudden shift in tone.  “Capping the gem trade was meant to keep Stenwahl’s working class from starving!  It’s not some sort of plot just to create a new monopoly.”

“Really?” A.J. asked, seemingly more puzzled by Dede’s insistence than with the content of her objections.  “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, crossing the room to the bookshelf on the opposite wall and plucking the treatise from its resting place.  “She was well read, not just in foreign affairs but in ‘the onus of government,’” he explained, quoting the work in hand.  “Perhaps being the daughter of a smithy who would now be on the brink of poverty despite once being one of Stenwahl’s wealthiest trades was more than enough to make a noblewoman deeply sympathetic to the notions of the poor.”

“How do you know he was her father?” the captain asked, now earnestly curious at the gnome’s quick conjectures.

“It’s obvious,” A.J. replied, pointing at Nathaniel.  The latter looked thoroughly confused at the seeming accusation.  “Ms. Harrows, as Mr. Foster keenly pointed out earlier, never married and has no siblings--”

“Lieutenant Foster,” Dede corrected, glancing up at the man in question.

“--which rules out husbands or brothers,” A.J. continued uninterrupted, “and if she had had any children, that man is much too old to be one of them.”

“So an ancestor, perhaps,” the captain intoned, stroking the front of his beard.  “Someone far enough back in her line not to be remembered.”

“No,” A.J. said with a quick shake of his head, “not possible.”

The captain stiffened somewhat, wondering if the gnome were merely being contrary for the sack of getting his gander up again.  His amusement at the captain’s earlier irritation had been obvious.  “Why not?” the dwarf asked, forcing himself to remain calm and deny the insolent inspector his entertainment.

“The ring,” A.J. answered, walking back to the painting.  To the captain’s surprise, he didn’t seem to be reveling in their confusion anymore.  On the contrary, it only seemed to irritate him, like a schoolmarm coaching her most dimwitted students.  His eyes going to the ring in question, the captain soon saw what had made the gnome so certain.  “The Moltair Sapphire,” he said distantly, staring at the gemstone resting on the dwarf’s left hand.

“The Moltair Signature Cut,” A.J. corrected, pointing at it for the remaining two pairs of eyes in the room, “developed only in the last twenty years, which, given the relative age of the man depicted, rules out anyone more than two generations old, and makes even the possibility that this could be her grandfather remote at best.  More than likely, it is her father.  How she kept his line of work a secret from the council’s many prying eyes is beyond me, but I must say, well done.”

“And what does that tell us about our the councilwoman’s murder?” the captain asked eagerly.

“Oh, absolutely nothing,” A.J. answered brightly, snapping the treatise shut not far from the captain’s face.  “But it is fascinating, isn’t it?”

NaNoWriMo Preview: Paperwork

Splashing some of the clear water on his face in an effort to jar himself into wakefulness, A.J. saw about the business of getting dressed.  Standing on tip-toes to pour the water from the tub back into the overhanging vessel, he wound the spigot tight to avoid any leaks and set the cork and string back in the empty tub on the floor.  Placing the silver ball bearing back at the top of the spiraling copper chute, he dusted his hands and at last headed downstairs to start the day.

“About time,” Dede chided as he neared the bottom step.  No sooner had he set foot on the office floor than his arms were suddenly overflowing with papers stacked so high he couldn’t see over the top of them.  The only evidence that Dede was still standing in front of him were the tips of the dark stalkerskin boots staring up at him from the floor.  “You’re six weeks behind on field reports and lab invoices,” she told him.  “Again.  The city isn’t going to let you keep your license if you can’t keep up with the paperwork.”

Shuffling blindly toward his desk, A.J. deposited the stack of parchment, only just catching the top few pieces from tilting off balance and making a break for the floor.  “I’ve said it before, Cordelia,” the gnome muttered, reaching up to adjust his spectacles, “you can’t die properly in Stenwahl without written notice--”

“--at least three days in advance,” Dede chimed in for the chorus, knowing the refrain all too well.  One finger still raised in the gesture of making his final point, A.J. looked rather taken aback at hearing his own words repeated.  Letting his hand drop defeated to his side, he made a gesture of clearing his throat and took a seat behind the desk, hesitating a moment before shoving the stack of papers to one side so that he might be able to see the dwarven woman seated at the opposite desk, diligently rifling through a far smaller collection of files with military precision.  The triangular placard with “Legal Chaperone” emblazoned in well-polished brass sat proudly on the front edge of her desk, angled toward the door to present itself to any potential clients .

As she set her first stack of papers aside, pausing to ensure that the edges lined up pristinely, A.J. couldn’t help but admire her persistence.  Two years of working in a forgotten corner of Lower Stenwahl as the legal liaison for the city’s only quarterstock detective hadn’t broken her of the illusion that this was some illustrious post, worthy of dutiful service.  Having grown up a gnome under the shadow of Hammond’s Gate, A.J. knew all too well that she was the only reason he was allowed to act as an investigator at all.  Gnomes were prohibited from performing any duties of, for or concerning the law, the church or foreign relations; the last of which always made A.J. chuckle.  Under the mountain, where blood was thicker than brains, gnomes were about as foreign as one could be.

“Word came back from the town chairman on the public works committee,” she explained, not bothering to look up.  “Your request was denied.  Again.”

“Did he say why?” A.J. asked, staring woefully at the tall stack of his to-do pile.  

Dede plucked one of the papers she had just finished signing out of her outbox and peered at the formal script.  “Says they don’t have the necessary funding for a public renovation project , even if they were to get it approved by the Royal Beautification Commission.”

“Public renovation project?” A.J. echoed, his expression souring at once.  “All I asked was that someone replace that stupid sign!”

Dede set the paper down in a huff.  “Does it honestly bother you that much?”

“‘Welcome to the Magnificant Stenwahl Public Gardens ?’” A.J. answered, adding particular emphasis on the misspelled word.  “It’s an absolute eyesore!”

“That’s the truth,” Dede admitted, dismissing his concern.  “The whole garden is a-shambles now anyway.  Hardly anyone goes there anymore unless they’re up to no good.  Shame,” she added, gazing out through the slats in the blinds.  “It used to be really lovely.”  Catching the same foul expression on her partner’s face, Dede scoffed and rolled her eyes.  “Oh, for goodness sake, it’s just a sign!  Can’t you just ignore it?”

“No,” A.J. said sternly, “I magnifi-can’t.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn, then,” Dede told him, returning her focus to her stack of papers and pointing A.J. at his.  “Unless you can come up with one hundred signatures  to convince the Royal Beautification Commission.” 

“Only a hundred?” A.J. remarked, resting his chin in one hand.

Dede’s writing brush stopped mid-stroke as she glared across the desk at him.  Knowing the look all too well, A.J. decided to drop the subject for now.  With a heavy sigh, he got to his feet and stretched a hand up to pluck the first handful of files off the top of the stack and begin seeing about the business of filing his reports.  He yawned as he shuffled through them, looking over the familiar case numbers.  Number 271, the case of the curious cummerbund.  Number 219, in which he rescued an ailing cat.  Number 224, the elf with the troublesome wink…

Setting the papers down in a heap, he rubbed his eyes again and reached for a second set, hoping to find something that might better excite his groggy mind into action.  “Did you say someone would be stopping by?” he asked, squinting at the heading on the parchment in his hands to try and make out the clumsy writing of the deputy police chief.

“Yes,” Dede answered simply, not bothering to look up.

“Any minute now?” he prompted.

“Yes,” Dede intoned again, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.

A.J. set the second stack of case files aside on top of the first, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms high overhead.  “Well,” he said, pausing to wring out a knot in his shoulder, “then there’s hardly any point in getting started on these reports until they get here, isn’t there?”

Rolling up the last piece of parchment in her pile and stamping her seal on the edge, Dede placed it in the messenger box with a deliberate motion, setting it neatly atop the pile of similar scrolls all awaiting delivery.  Folding her hands into a steeple on the desk in front of her, the dwarf stared pointedly at A.J.  She didn’t say a word.

After several half-hearted attempts to ply her sympathies, A.J. rolled his eyes and reached for the next piece of parchment atop his pile, peering over his glasses and squinting at the page.  Number 282, in which an elderly dwarf misplaced her home.  Number 247…

A knock at the door filled his spirits with relief.  Dropping the parchment haphazardly to his desk, the gnome hopped down from his chair and hurried over to the door, only to find Dede with her hand already on the knob, shooing him away.  With a deep breath, she straightened up and pulled the door to, trying not to squint in the sudden rush of light coming off the white cobblestones.  Standing on the stoop out front was the vague outline of a tall, thin woman dressed in trader’s leathers.  

“Welcome to Quarterstock Associates,” Dede said proudly, welcoming the woman into the office.  “Legal investigators and authorized notary public.  Cordelia Cadwell, investigative liaison, at your--”

Before she could finish, the woman stormed past her and into the office, looking about with a frenzied expression.  “Where is he?” she demanded.  “Where is that bastard Pendlebolt?”

NaNoWriMo Preview: A.J.'s Alarm Clock

A snippet from this year's NaNoWriMo project: "A.J. Pendlebolt, Gnomish Detective."  To track the current word count, check out the project's profile on nanowrimo.org. Further updates will be posted each week, typically on Fridays (including this one) or as interesting scenes get finished.

---

The warm light from the tilting symphony of the mirrormesh crept up to the window of the small, second-floor apartment sitting atop the building marked “Quarterstock Associates.”  The small man depicted on the sign out front, with bald pate and round spectacles , very closely resembled the young gnome snoring loudly underneath the tangle of patchwork blankets in the small, floor-level bed in the center of the tiny apartment, paying absolutely no heed to the signs of the coming day.

As the thin strands of light snuck into the room uninvited, they tickled the many interwoven lines of the strange contraption erected around the sleeping gnome.  Thin strings and wooden struts outlined the edges of the device and held it in place, leaving any who might enter to wonder at its purpose.  A long and winding course constructed out of a reddish metal spiraled down one wall, passing several rows of tall, brass bells along the way.  Tiny droplets of water fell single-file from the spigot of an overhanging vessel into a broad bucket on the floor, slowly counting out the seconds before daybreak.

The steady drip also kept time with the resonant breathing of the gnome as the sunlight from the room’s only window danced its way across the floor.  It tiptoed over the gnome’s chest and darted onward toward the tub resting on the floor, leaving the room’s only inhabitant still blissfully asleep.  Dipping its toes in the clear, clean water of the tub, the light sparkled about the room, dotting the walls with faeries and phantoms alike in a brilliant display which went sadly unseen, as the only eyes in attendance were rather defiantly shut and leastwise without their glasses, anyway.

On the lip of the tub, a fat, round cork floated on a track, rising up with the slow, steady pace of the water filling the space beneath it.  A thin line of thread ran from the center of the plank up the wall of the room and through a pair of small, iron pulleys mounted on hooks driven into the ceiling.  Between the pulleys on the same thread hung a small weight now sagging low with the slack provided by the rising cork.  The far end of the thread attached to a thin, metal plank rigged vertically at the top of the long, spiraling track of reddish tubing, working to hold back a wide, silver ball bearing awaiting its release the moment the tiny door was pulled free.

With a snort, the gnome rolled onto his side, tugging the mass of blankets with him as he turned his face away from the flickering reflections in the nearly-full tub.  The drops from the spigot above marched on at their same slow pace, unaware of the eager ball bearing nearing its triumph as the water level continued to rise in the tub below.  As the gnome reached a hand back to scratch himself ungracefully, the ball bearing continued to inch its way forward as the tiny door continued to draw away at its steady, indiscernible pace.

When at last the cork reached its apex, the ball bearing torn its way free and cascaded down the track of copper tubing with incredible speed.  As it skirted under the first row of hanging bells, it nicked the rim of each as it roared unhindered down the track, sending up a pleasant chorus of rapidly ascending notes.  The gnome stirred beneath his heap of blankets, muttering something untoward into the empty air as the ball bearing rounded the next bend.
Picking up speed as it reached the second row of bells, the bearing again sent up a ringing phrase, this time in a descending pattern that paired neatly with the first.  The gnome flung an arm wildly into the air, swaying it violently in the general direction of the track, searching for the switch that would halt the ball’s raging course and buy him a few more minutes’ sleep.

Before his flailing hand could strike true, however, the ball bearing skirted under the last row of bells; an extended chorus of up and down signaling the coming of the bottom of the chute.  Sensing the sudden urgency of his condition, the gnome turned to lash out with both hands blindly, still searching for the kill switch when the ball bearing started its final revolution.  The silver sheen twinkled with the light streaking in from the window, scattering it around the room and into the eyes of the gnome still desperately clawing about on the floor to no avail.

Reaching the end of its run at last, the ball bearing flew through the open air and struck, dead center, the dented face of a small gong set suspended just above the floor .  The sudden splash of sound sent jagged shivers through the gnome’s small form, annihilating any hope of going back to sleep.  His objective changed from searching for the now pointless kill switch to grabbing for the gong itself, hoping to clamp it into silence before his burgeoning headache became completely insurmountable.  Leaping and leaving the blanket heap behind, he clasped its edges at once as the ball bearing sped unheeded across the floor toward the door, bumping harmlessly into the tow of the dark red stalkerskin boot  that housed the foot of the dwarven chaperone now standing in the entrance to the room, rolling her eyes at the display.

“Fanny McCree, A.J.,” she chided, reaching down to scoop up the silver ball bearing as the gnome forced open one eye, staring blindly in her general direction.  “It’s half past ten already.”  The gnome spotted the vague outline of the ball bearing hurtling toward him just in time to catch it awkwardly in his arms.  “Quit playing with your toys and get dressed,” the woman told him, turning on the spot.  The creak of the stairs was the only clue A.J. had that she had headed downstairs to the office proper.  “We’re gonna have company,” she called over her shoulder.  “The runner said to expect someone any minute now, so be quick about it!”