Autognome

Inside an autognome's gnome-shaped shell are pulleys, cogs and scraps of enchantment. Nobody would ever mistake one for the real thing. Its face is painted on, right down to round red spots on the cheeks. It stalks along stiffly, arms swinging out of time, wheezing, whirring, buzzing and clanking, and it speaks Common and gnomish in a nasal drone.

Every autognome follows three directives: protect gnomes attacked by non-gnomes, protect itself, and protect babies and children. That last rule was well meant, but it never names a race, so an autognome that sees elves fighting juvenile gazer tyrants will open fire on the elves.

Its two heavy metal fists strike for 1d10 each, but it is slow and always acts last in the round when punching. Since most (90%) are built to gather soil samples on distant worlds, they carry a retractable metal scoop; a malfunctioning autognome may swing it as a weapon for 1d12. A third (33%) are pure combat models with a wand of lightning built into the chest holding 5d10 charges, which can be salvaged after the machine is beaten or, more likely, after it seizes up and collapses into junk. It bellows threats of destruction nonstop while fighting.

Autognomes save as hard metal and are immune to poison and to every spell but disintegrate.

Malfunctions are frequent. Each successful hit on one has a 10% chance of causing a fault, each attack roll of 1 has a 25% chance, and every day there is a separate 5% chance (not cumulative). Whatever the cause, roll 1d12 on the malfunction table.

Tinker gnomes build them to scout, prospect, rescue and guard in places too harsh for humans and demihumans, and they are exactly as reliable as every other gnomish contraption. Being machines, they have no society or preferred home. A gnomish starship has a 10% chance of carrying 1d4 for exploring dangerous environments.

One can hold up to 100 separate orders, such as how to react to particular situations or which minerals to seek, and can memorize and repeat everything it sees and hears over 24 hours. It can chat, but rigidly, never departing from its orders or grasping a figure of speech. Told to collect a rock sample, it may meet a warrior named Rok, and out comes the scoop.

Some autognomes still answer to the gnomes; others are rogues that have lost their orders and roam the void between worlds doing anything but their job. One in three encountered is a rogue. Roll 1d4: (1) it thinks it is a real gnome and tries to live like one, eating, sleeping and so on; (2) it waits for new orders from whoever comes along; (3) the same, but it does the reverse of what it is told; (4) it attacks every living thing it sees.

Gnomes keep the method secret, though no one else wants it. The process reportedly costs 10,000 gp or more and calls for permanency, animate object, enchant an item and other spells. Penguin-like merchant folk of the void buy intact, working autognomes for reasons of their own. Every other intelligent race either runs from them or, if no gnome is around, blows them up.

Autognomes add nothing to the world but heaps of scrap when they break down, as they always do. Rogues can be a real hazard to travelers in the void.