The good deed started, as all disasters do, with excellent intentions and absolutely no planning.

Runklebean, after waking everyone up that morning, had declared, "There's a village nearby that's been having mysterious livestock disappearances. Helping them could count as a deed, if we resolve it peacefully, without violence, theft, or—" he paused, eyeing Lucian and Alistair, "—theatrical swordsmanship."

Lucian gasped. "But how will they know we're heroes?"

"We'll tell them," Nedrick said. "With words."

"Like peasants?" Alistair asked, aghast.

Nedrick rubbed his temples again, mentally drafting his resignation letter from life.

The village in question turned out to be less a village and more a bureaucracy in disguise.

Nestled in a forest glade surrounded by suspiciously well-maintained hedgerows, it was called Gnibblestone Hollow, and it was entirely populated by gnomes in waistcoats.

They didn't live in mushrooms. They lived in filing cabinets and houses shaped like stacks of paperwork: tall, angular structures with signs like "Permit Processing – South Quarter" and "Temple of Typographical Omens."

Their leader was a wizened gnome with spectacles the size of tea saucers and a quill longer than he was tall. He introduced himself as Overclerk Mibbin Trenchwhistle, Herald of Forms and Final Approvals.

"Welcome to our sacred sanctum," Mibbin said solemnly. "We are a people governed by order, bureaucracy, and several appendices on acceptable sandwich fillings."

Lucian stepped forward with his most princely charm. "Good gnome—"

"Overclerk," Mibbin corrected.

"Overclerk," Lucian tried again. "We've come to help."

Mibbin adjusted his quill. "Have you filled out Form 8-P, Section Heroism, Subsection: 'Pledges of Gallant Intent'?"

Alistair reached into his pocket. "Do you accept monogrammed letters of recommendation?"

Nedrick coughed. "Let's just fix the actual problem."

"There might be a worse problem," Runklebean fretted, having wandered slightly off to the side to examine one of the gnomes' appendices. "They don't have 'bread' listed as an acceptable sandwich filling!"

He was ignored. And so, with a crowd of gnomes behind them and the scent of ink in the air, they investigated the mysterious livestock vanishings.

Which, to their credit, were happening.

Unfortunately, they discovered it was because of a mischievous gremlin who had been disguised as a free-range cheese salesman.

Less unfortunately, the gremlin's cheese cart was excellent.

Runklebean carefully de-gremlined the situation by offering the creature sanctuary in a nearby swamp library, where he could sell cheese to reclusive druids who had no livestock to steal.

A peaceful resolution!

A tidy fix!

A good deed!

At least, that's what they thought.

Until Mibbin Trenchwhistle returned with a scroll the size of a canoe.

"I regret to inform you," he squeaked, "that the act of gremlin relocation—though noble—almost violated Article 12, Clause B of our Inter-Realm Negotiations Act."

Runklebean paled. "What clause?"

Mibbin adjusted his spectacles. "The one that states: Only divine emissaries may relocate magical beings across jurisdictional lines. But then, that's when we realized; there's a divine emissary already among you, isn't there?"

The princes looked straight at Runklebean. But Mibbin and the gnomes were only looking at Nedrick, who had to do a double-take before he realized.  

Nedrick gawked. "Wait. You don't think I'm the divine emissary, do you?"

The gnomes bowed immediately.

"Behold!" Mibbin cried. "The Chosen One of Municipal Balancing! The Herald of Harmonized Forms! The Divine Reconciler of Section A and B!"

"What?!"

"Your aura radiates neutrality and barely-suppressed competence," Mibbin said reverently. "You are clearly one foretold in the Sub-Appendices."

"I feed pigs," Nedrick said.

"The Cosmic Swine Shepherd," murmured another gnome, jotting it down.

Lucian whispered to Alistair, "Why didn't we get mistaken for divine?"

Alistair whispered back, "I tried once. Turns out you can't just say you're a celestial incarnation during tax season."

Runklebean looked pained. "This… might actually count as a good deed, I think, but it's also created an entire religion built around Nedrick."

Nedrick stared blankly at the scroll being unfurled before him, now labeled:

"THE FIRST GNOMISH CHURCH OF NEDRICK: THE COSMIC SWINE SHEPHERD"

He muttered, "I hate this quest."

Back at camp that night, Nedrick sulked near the fire while Runklebean made a log of the deed in a notebook he kept in his satchel.

"So…" Runklebean said gently, "this technically got us two good deeds in one! This is great!"

"I didn't do anything," Nedrick grumbled. "I just stood there and took up air."

"Plenty of air to go around." Runklebean smiled. "Often, the presence of a friend, however quiet, is enough to provide a vibe of security. Someone reliable to fall back on, should matters go awry. Sometimes, just being there is enough."

From nearby came shouts of:

"MY SOUP IS A REVELATION OF FLAVOUR!"

"IT TASTES LIKE HOT LAUNDRY WATER!"

Nedrick sighed. "And sometimes, it's not." He looked hopefully at Runklebean. "Any way we can undo the whole 'divine emissary' thing?"

Runklebean sipped tea and shrugged. "We could try… or, we could lean into it. Divine figures get free meals, sometimes. Just show them that certificate the gnomes gave you."

Nedrick paused. "…How free?"

Runklebean grinned under the veil.