Small by halfling standards (he stands 2’ 6"), Wikkit has finely-etched, almost elfin, features, with green eyes, a narrow chin, and wild hair that just will not behave itself. A sardonic smirk clues you in to his “wikkit” sense of humor.
Wikkit’s everyday wear is basic, sturdy shirt and trousers, with leather armor over them. Like all halflings he goes barefoot. His only ornamentation is a gold coin on a thong around his neck, and leather bracers which also serve as sheaths for his two jambiya, which he has named Tooth and Claw. A hand-crossbow and sling complete his weapons.
Where’d I come from? Well, it’s like this-
I grew up in a fairly normal halfling family, the third of four brothers. Dad was a brewer and Mom was a baker. My two older brothers Merry & Perry – The Twins – were slated to step into the family businesses, and the youngest, Bob, got ‘prenticed to a tinsmith. Nothing special to see, move along, y’know?
I was always smaller than my brothers, which meant I was usually on the bottom of the pile when we’d roughhouse. It also meant I got hand-me-downs from my younger brother. On the other hand, I could hide in places they couldn’t, and I was slippery enough to get out of wrestling holds, even if I didn’t have the strength to throw them.
Pulling weeds and lugging sacks of grain and flour taught me the pain of hard work, so I soon developed a sixth sense for any imminent heavy-lifting. There seems to be one black sheep in every family, and my parents tolerated my escaping chores, especially since my fishing and hunting skills meant I usually returned with something for the table.
As I grew older, I discovered the fun of sampling the available young ladies. I’d grab a cask of Dad’s Best No. 7, a couple of Mom’s butter cakes, lift some cheese from the spring house and maybe a sausage or two from Old Man Grunnion[*], and invite one of the lasses off to the woods for some mutual exploration. Afterwards, I’d check my rabbit snares, bring back a couple coneys for the table, and nobody was the wiser ’cept me and my smiling friend. And I always left them smiling.
[*] I don’t eat sausage anymore. More on that later.
Once I learned that physical games were exercises in futility, I gravitated to other games of skill or chance, where the odds were more even. I learned to play cards and dice with friends, won some, lost some. I worked on my hand skills by manipulating coins, dice and cards while waiting for the next fish to bite. That also gave me time to modify a few items.
My first try with the new equipment didn’t go quite as planned. Luckily, the stream was shallow enough that I could struggle to shore, and I later found one of the dice in a fish’s stomach. I still have it, to remind me not to try a skill until I’ve mastered it.
My second attempt took a bit longer. I made a totally fair set of dice and swapped them in during a game for a set I suspected was loaded. I studied those until I understood just how the modifications had been done[*], then made my own set.
[*] No, I’m not gonna tell you.
When a circus set up its tents outside town, I drifted that way, drawn by the lights and excitement. I snuck into the sideshow, lost some money in the midway, and listened from the shadows to the carnies’ stories around the evening fire. I decided to try my new dice, and got into a game with some of the carnies. My luck seemed to go to my head, and I went for the big score, hoping to get enough to buy passage to the larger world outside my little corner.
Unfortunately, the carnies were better at skewing a game of chance than I was. They’d spotted my dice and swapped in a set of their own, and I lost big. It looked like the payback was gonna hurt worse than just a dunking. I did some real fast talking about going for money, then tried to slip away when I got a chance …
“Not so fast, you slippery little devil!” A hand grabbed me by the collar, then several more pinned my arms and legs.
“You don’t have the money now, you can work it off!”
Someone threw something over my head, there was a sudden moment of pain, and then …