Abneezer

Picklesmith Abneezer is a man who sits in Moomph's Garden in Moomph's Picklesmithy in the town of River's Rest.

Behind the Scenes

From beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat, the picklesmith Abneezer surveys the garden with an expression of mild curiosity and amusement. He has attained a rare old age for a human. Aside from a comfortable-looking potbelly, he is improbably thin. His prominent nose juts out, sharp as an axe blade.

In Garden

Abneezer stops his pottering to watch a bumble bee zip among the cucumber trellises. He says, "Can't see how they do that, the flying. The gods must be daft buggers, making such a creature." Abneezer grins widely. "Wouldn't want a god that wasn't a daft bugger, meself."
A sudden burst of birdsong, bright and cheerful, erupts just beyond the garden walls. Abneezer laughs. He pulls off his straw hat and does a brief, tottery old man's dance.
Abneezer pats his potbelly and smiles. "It's a good life, so it is," he says. "A garden to tend, brine to mix, people coming from all over to buy me pickles. Aye, a good life."
The picklesmith Abneezer adjusts his wide brimmed straw hat. "Me granddaughter, she wants me to get a new hat. Says this one's a disgrace." He runs his gnarled finger along the brim and laughs merrily. "But I don't want a hat that'll last longer than I do."
The picklesmith Abneezer rubs his potbelly and nods. "I loves a garden," he says. "Me whole life, I've moved at a cucumber's pace. Getting close to falling off the vine, I am." He suddenly grins. "And won't that be something?"
The picklesmith Abneezer sighs as he gently touches the back of his finger to a nearly ripe cucumber. "Me wife's eyes were that color," he says, "or near enough as makes no difference. Another reason to spend time in the garden."

In Picklesmithy

"When I was a lad," Abneezer says, "I used to dream about going off adventuring. S'not a quiet life, though, or so I hear. Not like picklesmithing."
"Devoted me life to the makin' of pickles," Abneezer says. "Worked all me days for the Moomph fambly, up there in Tamzyrr, I did. And when I gots too old, they set me up here. Me own little pickle shop and me own garden. It's a grand life, so it is."
The picklesmith Abneezer takes a gherkin from the barrel and bites it with a snap. "Now *that* is a fine pickle," he says. A bright grin spreads over his face.
The picklesmith Abneezer pats his potbelly and yawns. "I likes this town," he says with a smile. "Slow, quiet...just right for an old picklesmith."