Gweebin

Cauldronbearer Gweebin (a.k.a. “Little Rat-Bones” (used by Grumblepot occasionally), “The Potwalker” (used by the caravan he saved with soup), “The Goblin Cook” (generic, but common in stories))

Overview:

Gweebin was born in the Molten Warrens of Skav'ren Hollow , a ramshackle goblin warren carved into the blackened cliffs above the Searing Churn. The very air is spiced with sulfur, ash, and arcane discharge. Most goblins there worship fire, noise, and things that explode.

But Gweebin? Gweebin worshipped flavor.

While his kin clamored for shiny things or big booms, Gweebin wandered the bubbling vents and lava-choked crevasses seeking sizzling herbs, spicy cave grubs, and molten fungi that could sear the tongue and warm the soul. His obsession with cooking made him an outcast among his tribe—mocked and chased for “wasting fire on stew.”

His fate changed the day he stumbled through a collapse in the basalt tunnels and into a cracked rift into the Feywild, where time bent and smells danced like spirits. Deep in this shimmering grove of impossible spices and giggling willow-stalks, Gweebin found the lair of a powerful hag—a twisted kitchen of bone-grinding pestles, cursed silverware, and Grumblepot, the sentient cauldron once forged in the kitchens of the minor Archfey Sizzlewhisk.

Whether it was bravery or sheer goblin idiocy, Gweebin stole Grumblepot, strapping it to his back and barreling back into the Material Plane with the hag’s shrieks echoing behind him.

Now Gweebin wanders the wilds of Zalthera—through the vine-choked ruins of Bala’mir, the wind-whipped heights of Sejiri’s Spine, and even the floating debris-fields of shattered Elarion. Meanwhile, Grumblepot grumbles, the hag hunts, and Gweebin cooks on—with spatula in hand and his magnificent grease-curled mustache leading the charge.

His dream? To open the first interplanar tavern of taste, where Fey, Fiend, and Mortal alike may share a meal so good it breaks curses, heals heartbreak, and maybe sets something on fire.

Appearance:

Gweebin is a small, wiry goblin, barely three feet tall but somehow taking up far more space than he should—mostly through clatter, smell, and sheer culinary chaos. His skin is a scorched bronze-green, always smeared with flour, soot, and unidentifiable sauces. His eyes are wide and wild, bright like pickled moonfruit and twice as twitchy. And then there’s the mustache. A thick, curled, and gleaming monstrosity, Gweebin’s mustache rises from his upper lip like a pair of enchanted cinnamon whiskers—twisting upward into chaotic spirals that shimmer with grease and faint arcane heat. It moves when he speaks (even if he doesn’t), twitches when he lies, and quivers with delight when he’s about to add too much spice. Rumor claims it was a gift—or a curse—from the Archfey Sizzlewhisk himself, forever binding Gweebin to the sacred art of fey cuisine.

Gweebin is clad head-to-toe in mismatched cookware. His armor is cobbled together from:

Frying pans for pauldrons

A saucepan helmet

strapped with salt shakers Tongs, spatulas, skewers, and meat cleavers hanging from bandoliers like deadly kitchen tools of war

And of course, Grumblepot—his massive sentient cauldron—strapped to his back like a snail shell, belching steam, spices, and sass with every step.

He waddles when he walks, jingles when he runs, and always smells like smoked paprika and regret.

Personality:

Mostly silent—speaking only in chirps, croaks, and excited goblin gibberish. Lets Grumblepot do the talking, who speaks in a gruff, sarcastic voice only he can hear (and sometimes others, when it’s feeling dramatic). Proud of his mustache. Very proud. Brushes it with a chicken bone. Occasionally braids herbs into it for "flavor inspiration." Will try to cook everything. Enemies, weapons, mushrooms, dreams—nothing is safe from the pot.

“The mustache twitched. That means he’s either got a plan, or gas.”

“That’s his thinking mustache curl. Stand back.”

“Oh gods no, not the cayenne… oh—he’s serious now.”

"In Sizzlewhisk’s time, I fed legions of faeries, gnomes, and blink-dogs. A feast could stop a war! I brewed potions of courage and stews of swift feet, and once even a chowder that sang lullabies—though that didn’t go down well with the warriors who drank it before battle." "But fey hands are fickle, and Sizzlewhisk eventually vanished into the Feywilds one day chasing the perfect spice. I sat still for a long time—until I was found by a nasty old hag, name of Grendwattle the Gray-Toothed, who had no joy in her soul and even less salt in her soup. She used me to stir up hexes and sorrow-brew, binding my magic in sour curses and toad-stew tricks. Ugh. I wept broth for years." "But then… then came Gweebin. Oh, strange little Gweebin. Quiet as a stew on low boil. He snuck into that hag’s lair under the light of a grinning moon, tiptoed through cat bones and candlewax, and yoink!—plucked me from her hearth like a crab from a pot!" "We’ve been together ever since. Gweebin may not talk much—well, at all really, unless you speak Goblin—but I talk enough for both of us. And let me tell you, we make a mean garlic nettle dumpling."
— Grumblepot

Physical Description

General Physical Condition

Lean and wiry with sinewy goblin limbs. Built more like a half-starved raccoon than a warrior, but scrappy and quick—perfect for dodging boiling broth or incoming arrows.

Body Features

Skin is scorched bronze-green, with blotches of soot, flour, and mystery stains that seem permanent. Fingers are long and burn-scarred, well-suited to plucking herbs or swiping unattended rations.

Facial Features

Wide, twitchy eyes; a flattened, expressive nose; and a perpetually chapped lower lip stained with spice. His ears are large and slightly asymmetrical—one torn at the tip from an incident involving a jalapeño elemental.

Identifying Characteristics

The mustache. A thick, upward-curling, grease-laced monstrosity that glows faintly with arcane warmth. It twitches when he lies, quivers when excited, and is rumored to be mildly enchanted.

Physical quirks

Constantly sniffing the air, even when no food is around.

Walks with a forward hunch—part survival instinct, part weight of Grumblepot.

Special abilities

Pocket Spice: Gweebin carries elemental spice pouches that disrupt enemies mid-fight.

Grumblepot bond: His cauldron assists in defense, flavor judgement, and sass delivery—granting him magical protection and fey culinary insight.

Apparel & Accessories

Wears mismatched cookware as armor:

Frying pans as pauldrons
A saucepan as a helmet (sometimes smoking)
Spatulas, cleavers, and ladles hanging from bandoliers
His apron is stained, patched, and blessed by butter

Always strapped with Grumblepot on his back—like a sentient, sassy iron snail shell.

Specialized Equipment

Magical Elixirs brewed from impossible Feywild ingredients, often with unintended side effects.

Mystic Meals that heal, empower, or accidentally make someone float for two hours.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

Born in the Molten Warrens of Skav'ren Hollow, a goblin enclave obsessed with fire and explosives. Shunned for his culinary obsession. Became an outcast. Discovered a rift into the Feywild, where he stole Grumblepot from a hag. Has been wandering ever since, cooking his way across ruins, courts, and caravans.

Gender Identity

Identifies as male, but doesn’t care for titles or expectations.

Sexuality

Undefined and not particularly interested in romance—but has a soft spot for voices that sound like melted sugar. Once flirted with a sentient pie crust.

Education

Formally uneducated, but has a genius-level culinary intuition honed through survival, experimentation, and Feywild exposure.

Learned to read recipes (and taste) in dozens of dialects, but still struggles with “boring words” like “taxes” and “forms.”

Employment

Self-employed roaming cook, sometimes hired by adventuring parties, sometimes bartered with towns in need.

Was once briefly employed in a noble’s kitchen… until the soup sang the family secrets out loud.

Accomplishments & Achievements

Stole and bonded with Grumblepot

Saved a caravan from magical famine using nothing but mushrooms and instinct.

Cooked a dish that allegedly drew the moon closer for a single bite.

Won the Gobble-Off (if Dusty Matlock’s lies are to be believed).

Failures & Embarrassments

Banished from his home warren for using sacred explosion-fire to make stew.

Accidentally poisoned a wedding party—though it did cure three chronic illnesses.

Cried publicly after his first soufflé collapsed. Grumblepot still brings it up.

Mental Trauma

Suffers from post-hag stress disorder: flinches at bone-colored ladles and whispery voices.

Has dreams of a kitchen he can’t escape, where every ingredient screams.

Intellectual Characteristics

Highly inventive, deeply instinctual—understands magic and alchemy best when translated through flavor.

Struggles with abstract logic, thrives in chaotic systems. Can’t do taxes. Can brew a love potion with a pinecone and regret.

Morality & Philosophy

Chaotic Neutral: Believes joy, taste, and experience matter more than laws or expectations.

Willing to steal, trick, or season someone’s boot if it gets him a better broth.

Respects sincerity and hates pretension. Sees cooking as sacred chaos.

Taboos

Considers kitchen theft, overboiling, and wasting garlic to be unforgivable taboos.

Personality Characteristics

Motivation

To explore the limits of flavor and magic through food.
To prove that even a grease-stained goblin can change the world—one bizarre bite at a time.
And maybe, just maybe, to open the first interplanar tavern where mortals, monsters, and fey sit side by side, burping in harmony.

Savvies & Ineptitudes

Savvies

Culinary improvisation (even with cursed or emotional ingredients)

Detecting poison or magical influence through taste

Traps, ambushes, and sabotage via “food delivery”

Social manipulation when filtered through hospitality

Ineptitudes

Reading long text or formal contracts

Subtlety in speech

Lying without the mustache giving it away

Standard etiquette or noble table manners

Likes & Dislikes

Likes

Spice in all forms (culinary, personality, and conflict)

Sentient food or talking cookware

Hot surfaces and kitchen alchemy

Honest compliments about his mustache

Dislikes

Cold food

Blandness (in people or meals)

People who waste ingredients or overcomplicate joy

Priests who “bless” food without tasting it first

Virtues & Personality perks

Generous to those who are hungry or kind

Loyal to the few he trusts (Grumblepot, maybe one weasel)

Will cook for enemies if it might change their heart

Finds laughter and warmth even in cursed kitchens

Vices & Personality flaws

Compulsively adds spice to any meal—even magical ones

Cannot resist the urge to “improve” other people’s cooking

Takes offense when others refuse food

Occasionally cooks emotionally, causing unintended effects

Personality Quirks

Taps his spoons together like drumsticks when thinking

Mustache twitches constantly—it has a life of its own

Sniffs strangers to determine if they’re trustworthy

Braids herbs into his mustache for “flavor resonance”

Narrates his own cooking under his breath in broken rhyme

Hygiene

Objectively awful by most standards—but sacredly consistent.

Hands are always clean (ritualistically scrubbed with lemon, ash, or salt)

Clothes are never clean, just... seasoned

Mustache is meticulously groomed with a chicken bone and fey butter

Grumblepot keeps most parasites out through sheer sass and heat

Social

Contacts & Relations

Grumblepot – Sentient cauldron, partner, and worst best friend. Constant companion.

The Caravan at Sejiri’s Spine – Traveling band who fed him and were fed in return. Rumored to still sing songs of “the Potwalker.”

________________________________________________________________________________

Several Feywild creatures – Mostly culinary prank victims or trading partners. One enchanted onion owes him a favor.

Grendwattle the Gray-Toothed – A hag who wants Grumblepot back, along with Gweebin’s liver. Very much not a friend.

Family Ties

Estranged from his warren; no known biological kin.
Occasionally refers to Grumblepot as “old-pot-pa” when emotional, and mutters about a “brother ladle” lost to soup madness.

Religious Views

Devoted in his own way to Sizzlewhisk, Archfey of Cooking, Fun, and Folly.

Believes cooking is sacred chaos and the stomach is the soul’s doorway.

Thinks most gods are too picky with seasoning.

Social Aptitude

Charismatic in a “this goblin just offered me glowing stew” kind of way.

Trusts no one instantly, but will feed you anyway.

Prone to misunderstanding social cues—assumes all toasts are about him.

Mannerisms

Bows by tipping Grumblepot slightly (causing steam to hiss out)

Smiles with too many teeth

Greets friends with a dramatic sniff and shoulder tap with a ladle

Never knocks—just enters kitchen-shaped spaces

Hobbies & Pets

Keeps a one-eyed rat named “Snarlspice” who may or may not be imaginary

Collects bad cookbooks to correct them

Tries to “rescue” under-seasoned dishes from restaurants without being asked

Speech

Speaks in incomprehensible goblin dialect, full of sound mimicry, invented words, and food-based metaphors.
Even other goblins don’t fully understand him. Grumblepot usually translates… reluctantly.

Example: “Sizzle-snout talk too-much. No-bite, all steam. Give me five clack-things and a pop-spice—I stir ‘til they weep soup.”

Wealth & Financial state

0 gold

1 priceless sentient artifact

Three IOUs from drunken nobles

View Character Profile

Alignment

Chaotic Neutral

Honorary & Occupational Titles

"Cauldronbearer"
“The Potwalker”
"Little Rat-bones"
“Mustache That Fed the Moon”
“Grease-Touched” (used by a suspicious temple priest)
“The Goblin Chef”

Age

Birthplace

Skav'ren Hollow

Children

Current Residence

Wandering

Gender

Male

Eyes

Avocado

Hair

Paprika

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

Olive

Height

3'1"

Weight

Quotes & Catchphrases

“We all broth inside.”

“Spoon lies. Fork tells truth.”

“Burp-glad. That means it work.”

Known Languages

Goblin (spoken in a wildly obscure, Gweebin-specific dialect)

Common (understands fluently, but rarely speaks it intelligibly)

Thieves’ Cant (interprets it through food metaphors)

Has partial understanding of Fey dialects via Grumblepot

The Grumblepot Chronicles: Folktales & Half-Truths Vol.1

~ A scattered collection of tales, riddles, warnings, and lies—told across taverns, fey glades, and back-alley stew carts. Rarely is the cook named. Rarer still is a version that agrees with another. ~ The Mustache That Wouldn’t Lie As told by Granny Picklenose of Larkroot Bend, who swears she once tasted a dumpling that turned her house invisible. Long ago—but not too long, mind you—there was a goblin who could cook a meal so spicy it made volcanoes blush. His mustache, thick and greasy, was cursed or blessed (no one quite agrees), for it would twitch when he fibbed and curl when he boasted. One day he judged a fey queen’s soup and lied. His mustache slapped him in the eye. He fled the court with a leaf in every boot and stew smoke in his wake. The Night He Fed the Moon As recalled by Old Bunkle the Dock-Sitter, who says he once caught a starfish that spoke only in soup riddles. During a famine-tide, a goblin arrived on a raft of soup bones. The sea was dead, the moon missing. He cooked a broth from memory alone—laughter, fear, and one mustache hair—and the moon drifted lower to taste it. When morning came, the fish returned, and a warm bowl was left on every sill. The Time He Married a Chicken As told by Dusty Matlock, retired scarecrow repairman and part-time liar. In Chicken Gulch, the Gobble-Off required you to cook from the soul. This goblin pulled a chicken from his heart. Beatrice. She clucked in rhyme. They won. He proposed. She left six days later for a bard with foot-lutes. But they say she still sends him parsley-sealed letters. The One Where He Ate the Storm As whispered by Nurse Clackbuckle to children who refuse their boiled turnips. He arrived during a storm that swallowed lighthouses. With no ingredients, he cooked from memory. The wind slurped his stew and left behind whispering raindrops and pickled thunder. On a high rooftop, a bowl remained—still warm. The Three Bites of the Goblin Cook Collected from the talking spoon of a fallen Feylord. Spoon has since been misplaced. At a crossroads inn, a goblin offered three dishes. Each came with a riddle: "What cannot be stirred, yet brews within?" "It cannot walk, yet crosses seas." "What feeds the gods and fattens fools, yet dies the moment it follows rules?" The innkeeper answered only the third: "Joy." When morning came, the inn was gone. Three riddles remained, etched in stone. More tales may follow. None will agree.

Three Bites of the Green Chef

~ Collected from the talking spoon of a fallen Feylord. Spoon has since been misplaced. ~ They say a traveler once came to a crossroads inn with a mustache like burnt cinnamon and a pot that muttered even when empty. He asked for no room, no rest, no coin—only a place to cook. The innkeeper, curious, agreed. But the traveler made three dishes. And with each bite, he asked a riddle. If the innkeeper solved them, he could keep the pot. If not… Well, he didn’t say. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “What cannot be stirred, yet brews within? What grows with hunger but shrinks with sin?” (The innkeeper guessed “a curse.” The cook smiled but said nothing.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “It cannot walk, yet crosses seas. Devours the mighty, then begs for peas.” (The innkeeper guessed “regret.” The pot laughed.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “What feeds the gods and fattens fools, Yet dies the moment it follows rules?” (The innkeeper wept. He guessed “joy.” The cook nodded.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And when morning came, the inn was gone. In its place: a single spoon, a trail of breadcrumbs, and three riddles etched in stone, unsolved or misunderstood by all who pass. Some say the cook still roams, still cooking riddles. Some say if you solve all three, the pot becomes yours. But the fey know better. The pot chooses who it simmers for.

The Stormeater Goblin

~ As whispered by Nurse Clackbuckle to children who refuse to eat their boiled turnips. ~ There’s a tale told when thunder rolls over the hills and the stewpot rattles without warning. They say that once, during a storm so fierce it cracked the sky like eggshells, a goblin in a walking pot came to a cliffside town and asked for their finest spice. But the storm was alive, you see. Not just wind and water—but a thing of teeth and cold hunger. It had chased the stars from the sky and swallowed a lighthouse whole, just to taste the fire inside. And that night, it was hungry for flavor. The town had no spice left. The wind had stolen it. The salt was damp. The garlic wept in the cellar. So the goblin, with great care, removed the cauldron from his back. He placed it on the rain sodden ground, lit no fire, and began to stir. With no ingredients, only memory. A pinch of laughter from a party he once crashed. A spoonful of fear from a forgotten cave. A single hair from his mustache—twisted tight and dropped like a ritual offering. And when the storm came, screaming across the rooftops, it smelled the broth and paused. The wind tasted and the wind howled. And the next morning, the sun rose. But the town found strange things left behind: thunder in the butter churn. Raindrops that whispered soup recipes. A lightning bolt pickled in a jar. And somewhere, on a high rooftop where no goblin could’ve reached, sat a clean bowl… still warm.

The Bride of Gweebin

~ As told by Dusty Matlock, retired scarecrow repairman and part-time liar, over his fourth mug of pickled cider. ~ Oh, you never heard that one? Pah! Then you’ve never really heard of Gweebin. Everyone talks about the stew and the mustache, but no one remembers his first wife. That’s right. A chicken. Full ceremony, too. See, it all started when Gweebin entered the Grand Gobble-Off, the most prestigious cooking competition in all of Chicken Gulch. Winner got a golden ladle, a kiss from the mayor, and the Sacred Egg of Flavor Eternal. But there was a catch: no outside ingredients. All food had to come from your soul, see? So Gweebin, clever thing he is, digs through his heart and pulls out a full-grown chicken made of dreams, guilt, and rosemary. Called her Beatrice. She clucked in iambic pentameter. They cooked together, side by side, and won the Gobble-Off by crafting a soup so perfect it made the judge retire on the spot and take up whittling small boats out of bread. Now here’s the twist: The Sacred Egg could only be claimed by one with pure culinary intent. Gweebin reached for it, and the egg shuddered. Beatrice pecked his hand. And that’s when he realized—he’d fallen in love. They were wed the next day under a sauce-stained banner and a rain of pepper flakes. Grumblepot served as best man and allegedly cried. Of course, Beatrice left him six days later for a traveling bard who played lute with his feet. But some say she still writes him letters, sealed in parsley, left under warm kitchen windowsills. And every so often, Gweebin will wake from sleep, reach for an egg, and whisper her name. ...Anyway, that’ll be two gold for the story. Don't tell my brother I said this one. He still thinks Gweebin’s real.

The Night Gweebin Fed the Moon

~ As recalled by Old Bunkle the Dock-Sitter, who says he once caught a starfish that spoke only in riddles and soup recipes. ~ Once, in the time between tides, when the moon had gone missing from the sky and the sea refused to rise, the folk of Driftwharf began to starve. The fish hid deep. The tides stood still. Nets came up empty and even the seaweed turned bitter. The salt in the air soured, and not even the gulls dared to caw. Now, no one had summoned him, and no one expected it—but one night, wobbling in from the fog on a raft made of sausage links and scorched soup bones, came a little goblin with a pot strapped to his back. He didn’t speak, not really. Just grunted and chirped and pointed at the sky with a spatula. They say the town elder tried to shoo him off with a broom. They say the broom caught fire. And they say Gweebin just nodded, smiled with all his teeth, and began to cook. All night long, the smells rolled through Driftwharf: lemon-seared squidlings, buttered ghost-fish, kelp stuffed with storm-honey and scallops that sang lullabies when you bit into them. And when the people gathered, hypnotized and hollow-bellied, Gweebin pointed to the sky. To the space where the moon should be. And then Grumblepot belched. It was a terrible, wonderful sound—like a harp string snapping inside a volcano. A column of scent and steam rose up from the pot, twisting with light and sizzling aroma, and the sky shimmered. They say the moon returned that night because it smelled something it could not resist. They say it hovered just a little closer, just for a taste. And when morning came, the tides returned, the fish returned, and the goblin? Gone. Leaving only a basil leaf in every boot and a faint, savory warmth on the breeze.

The Tale of the Candid Coiffure

~ As told by Granny Picklenose of Larkroot Bend, who swears she once tasted a dumpling that turned her house invisible. ~ Long ago—but not too long, mind you, else the oil would’ve gone rancid—there was a goblin named Gweebin who could cook a meal so spicy it made volcanoes blush and old curses hiccup. Now Gweebin wasn’t like other goblins. Where they liked to smash and bite and set things on fire for fun, he set things on fire for flavor. He wore pots as pants, used forks for throwing weapons, and never went anywhere without his grumbly, grumpy cauldron friend strapped to his back. This cauldron had a name: Grumblepot. It complained. Constantly. About seasoning, temperature, the texture of frogs. But it never complained about Gweebin’s mustache. Why? Because the mustache could not lie. You see, it twitched when he fibbed. It curled when he boasted. It drooped when he despaired. And if Gweebin told you your stew was “a little salty” when it tasted like shovelwater, that mustache would writhe like a snake in a pickle jar. One day, a fey queen asked him to judge her soup. A single spoonful, she said, made warriors weep and ghosts remember their names. He tasted it. He nodded. He smiled. But the mustache curled backward, poked him in the eye, and slapped the spoon from his hand. The queen gasped. Gweebin burped. “I’d suggest more thyme,” said the mustache. And so Gweebin and Grumblepot were chased from her garden by vineknights and flying ladles, but not before planting a basil seed in the fountain that, to this day, only grows leaves shaped like hearts. And the children say: if you stir your stew with a chicken bone and it smells faintly of paprika and shame, Gweebin’s been there… probably judging you.