Baldur's Gate Wiki

Jan Jansen's quotes presents lines spoken by Jan Jansen, together with the associated sound files.

Jan is easily the most talkative companion, spinning yarns centered around turnips and members of his apparently infinite family at every occasion. One could try to find the similitudes between his tall tales to deduce that he probably worked in the past for a mage called Golodon the Unmanned and that his aunt Petunia was a ranger, but such reasoning would also mean the Great Underwear Shortage actually happened.

While most of the stories he invents are just to entertain the party and bring his companions a smile, Jan only gets serious in one occasion, when he realizes Hexxat actually killed an adventuring niece of his, proving that, to him, family is to be placed above everything. However, as all neutral-aligned characters, he still doesn't come into conflict with any companion.

Companion dialogue
Aerie Quotes
Anomen Delryn Quotes
Cernd Quotes
Dorn Il-Khan Quotes
Edwin Odesseiron Quotes
Haer'Dalis Quotes
Hexxat Quotes
Imoen Quotes
Jaheira Quotes
Jan Jansen Quotes
Keldorn Firecam Quotes
Korgan Bloodaxe Quotes
Mazzy Fentan Quotes
Minsc Quotes
Nalia de'Arnise Quotes
Neera Quotes
Rasaad yn Bashir Quotes
Sarevok Anchev Quotes
Valygar Corthala Quotes
Viconia DeVir Quotes
Yoshimo Quotes


With Aerie[]

Aerie: Jan, how come you're always telling stories?
Jan: Because they're true, every last one of them, even the one about my great-grandfather slaying the dragon.
Aerie: A dragon? Really?
Jan: Well not really, but close. He thought it was a dragon. He was experimenting with glass, grinding it down to make prisms and lenses, you see, because his daughter, my grandmother, was so cross-eyed that, until she was twelve years old, all she ever saw of the world was the nose in the center of her face. You never had that problem as a child, did you?
Aerie: Me? Oh no, not that...
Jan: Good, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. So my great-grandfather had put together a great series of lenses and prisms, I think twelve in all, and attached them to a leather helm he had, the strap of which always chafed under the chin. Then, all of a sudden, a cloud passed in front of the sun.
Aerie: Oh my! Was it the dragon?
Jan: No, no, it happened precisely as I tell it to you now: A cloud passed in front of the sun and my great-grandfather looked up from his work so quickly that a dragonfly got caught between two of the prisms over his left eye and clung there for dear life. Of course you can't imagine the hullabaloo this caused, my dear!
Aerie: No, I can imagine it just fine, Mister Jansen.
Jan: There he was, throwing all his tools and turnips into the distance where he assumed his greatly magnified adversary to be, and he was running and hollering and telling us to get in the house while he tried to lure the ravaging beast into the backyard of our southside neighbors against whom he had always held a grudge.
Aerie: Whatever happened?
Jan: What do you expect happened? We just assumed that he hadn't been taking his herbs and berries again and all wrestled him to the ground, ruining his precious lens-helm in the process, I'm afraid. It took us a good hour to calm him down and figure out what the truth of the whole matter had been. Now, do you know what the moral of the story is, Aerie?
Aerie: Always wipe your lenses?
Jan: Hmm, that will do nicely. I hadn't come up with one for this story yet.
Aerie: And your grandmother, did he make her a new lens-hat so she could finally see?
Jan: What? Oh no, no, it was an idea doomed to fail, I'm afraid. Two years later she lost her nose in a bizarre harvest accident and she's been seeing just fine ever since.

Jan: So you come from the winged folk, do you, lass?
Aerie: Y-yes—yes, sir.
Jan: No need to be formal, lassie. Call me Jan. I was recently reminded of my ex-brother-in-law, Burt Wunderkind, fabulous griffon-baiter.
Aerie: A... A griffon-baiter?
Jan: Yes, of course. It's something of a cottage industry amongst Amnian gnomes. Quite simple, I've heard. You merely tame a couple of wyverns and WHOOSH, tear through the sky to fling insults at the hapless griffons.
Aerie: Oh, I didn't think you could tame a wyvern.
Jan: Really? Everyone I know has a pet wyvern. Taming wyverns is child's play, literally. As children, we'd tame wyverns. It's easy since they have such an affinity for turtles. Back in the old days it used to rain turtles on even days and frogs on odd days.
Aerie: Why, that's ridiculous!
Jan: That's what I thought until the drought hit. There were ornery wyverns everywhere. After a rich diet of turtle mash, you couldn't expect them to merely accept bacon without eating a few human nobles, now, could you?
Of course, by then, Burt was such successful griffon-baiter that the authorities just couldn't find it in their hearts to make us leash the wyverns. The loss of the noble class is truly a small price to pay to maintain the continuity of such a fine sport. There's nothing like the look of incredulity on a griffon's face to keep one's spirits up.
Aerie: I... I wish I could fly. I haven't since I was a—since I was a kid.
Jan: Don't you worry, lass. If Burt ever pops by, we'll get you up in the air faster than a chicken with one of Jan Jansen's Flasher Master Bruiser Mates tied to his rear. Trust me, that is fast!

Throne of Bhaal only :

Aerie: You seem to be limping, Jan. Have you been hurt recently?
Jan: No, lass, I'm not hurt, and the limp is not new. I've had it as long as you've known me. 'Tis a wooden leg, you see. I was smuggling crackers into Waterdeep several years back (the council had outlawed them due to near constant cracker-related debauchery, you see... I couldn't let THAT pass...).
The council had sealed off all ports and mobilized the army to stop illegal cracker entry. The city was shut down, martial law was declared, and people huddled in their homes for fear and want of crackers. I could not stand idly by while such persecution was visited on the somewhat innocent peoples of Waterdeep. So I smuggled crackers. Salted, unsalted, and herb-riddled alike, it mattered not. All came in, and all were consumed in secret orgies of cracker-related tomfoolery.
Then came the unpleasant business with the hanging. I hadn't seen Picklefeather's eyes bulge like that since that wyvern kicked him in the ba... (oops! Innocent elvish lass, have to watch the tongue) uh... in the arm (yes, that will do). The moral of the story is, you reap what you steal. I still own a warehouse full of saltines. I send a box to all of my friends each year. Seem to have fewer friends each year as a result, but that's to be expected.
Aerie: What does that have to do with your wooden leg?
Jan: What wooden leg? I have no wooden leg.
Aerie: Grrr! You're IMPOSSIBLE!
Jan: Why, yes, I suppose I am at that. *grin*

With Anomen[]

Anomen: 'Tis truly an adventure for the weak-willed. I've fought campaigns against the Hillgnasher giants and slew twenty of the foul beasts.
Jan: Did I ever tell you the tale of the lobotomized orc, my good knight Anomen?
Anomen: You have not, and I've no wish to hear it.
Jan: Well, anyway, as a child, my mammy would give us kids a bowl of gravel, which was all that we could afford, and tell us this parable. Now listen, knighty, lest you be eating gravel.
'Twas once a heavily brain-damaged orc called Ano. Ano was trudging through the forest one day, looking for bull droppings with which he could stuff his mattress, when he happened across a remarkable scene. A brave and noble knight, Jen the Brilliant by name, fought with an evil giant. Ano watched as Jen slew the giant.
Then the knight rode off to save several small children from a wicked witch, also known as a noblewoman, who was attempting to poison the poor dears. Regardless, Ano promptly cut off the head of the fallen giant, ran home to his home in the Dung Orc village, and claimed that he had killed the monster.
Anomen: I warn you, gnome. Cease your prattling immediately!
Jan: Did I mention that Ano had a nasty habit of interrupting folk? Anyway, the giant's brother heard of his sibling's demise and the subsequent display of his head in Dung Town. He caught up to Ano, who was stupidly stuffing his mattress with bull dung, and returned to his cave with the orc stuffed through his belt.
As punishment for his brother's supposed murderer, he tied a porcupine to the orc's head and proceeded to clean his latrine with the makeshift orc brush. Much to the giant's dismay, Ano actually enjoyed it.
Fascinating tale, that! I love to tell it!
Anomen: I'll suffer no insults from you, runtish one!
Jan: Calm yourself, Ano. There was no insult to you. It was merely a parable told to me by my dear departed mother.
Anomen: I shall not forget this, gnome! Your blood will flow yet!
Jan: Whenever you wish to try it, Ano.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Anomen, my friend, I realize that I've been less than polite with you in the past, and I wish to apologize.
Anomen: Verily, you have played me most false.
Jan: Indeed! All know that you're an unrepentant ass. 'Tis not my place to bring it up.
Anomen: Shut up, gnome.
Jan: Your ugliness, both in body and soul, although true, is inappropriate for discussion and rankly impolite. You're stupid, poorly educated, and always smell faintly of lilacs, but it was wrong of me to bring attention to it.
Anomen: Silence before I CRACK YOUR SKULL!
Jan: Arrogant, drunken, piggish, whiny, pompous are common adjectives used to describe you, but I was wrong to say so. You are completely incapable of independent thought and soil yourself with regularity seldom found outside of the nursery. I shall no longer bring these things up in front of others.
Well, I'm glad that, despite your idiocy, you managed to grasp the concept of my apology and mumble some poorly worded forgiveness. Cheers!

Throne of Bhaal only, if Anomen didn't fail his test :

Jan: Anomen, I've been having such a lovely time and have thought to share some reflections with you.
Anomen: Say no more, gnome. Your jibes are meaningless to me. I am a knight and, as such, above your pettiness.
Jan: 'Tis exactly that subject I wish to discuss. Now, it's common knowledge that knights are cleric initiates who are too stupid and ugly to be presentable in church.
Anomen: You are but the buzzing of a fly and affect me not at all.
Jan: So, being a failed cleric...
Anomen: I have failed at nothing! I was chosen to squire for my courage and nobility.
Jan: Of course you didn't "fail"! They have to tell the failures something to keep up blind obedience—that is to say, morale.
Anomen: Just leave me be you icky little man!
Jan: "Icky"? (Ha ha!) Did you think of that on your own? (Ha ha ha ha!)

With Cernd[]

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: If you don't mind me saying so, Cernd, you seem a bit jumpy around me. Do I, uh... unnerve you somehow?
Cernd: It's not you personally, though I am concerned with the gadgets you are often fiddling with.
Jan: Ah, my Flashers and such? Concerned they may be unnatural? Unbalancing? Unnaturally balancing?
Cernd: They do seem to harness more energy than such a small package should contain.
Jan: Nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. Only the finest of fillings find foothold in a fantabulous Jansen Family Flasher firework. Find fault and finances refunded free.
Cernd: Well, that aside, I'm sure they are just a clever mixture of natural elements, though you'll understand if I prefer to be a respectable distance when they are set off.
Jan: Oh, I would recommend it. Normally sedate Uncle Flippy turned into quite the conversationalist after getting a little too close to one. "WHAT?!" he would say. "WHAT?! WHAT?!"
Not as comical as you might think. Now he's taking complaints in a Waterdhavian festhall. *sigh* What do they say down there? "You got troubles? That and a gold piece will get you as far as Flippy hears."

With Dorn[]

Jan: There are times I wish I could still speak with my great-uncle Hans Jansen. A great alchemist, he was. He could turn donkey dung into gold. Funny thing, though—few people want gold that smells like donkey dung. Also, the effect was only temporary. He mistimed one transaction and found himself in a world of—
Dorn: Tell me, gnome—is there a contraption in that pack of yours that will reattach your endlessly blathering head once I cut it from your shoulders?
Jan: Actually, now that you mention it—
Wait. Must've left it in the other pack. And there's a story for you—
Dorn: Keep talking and you'll be telling it to the demons of the Abyss.
Jan: Eh. Wasn't that good a story anyway.

With Edwin[]

Edwin: Jan, your stories are rife with discrepancies, half-truths, and bafflegab. A woeful weaver of yarns you are for one so self-professed with the talents to do so.
Jan: Is there an epic begging for verse rattling about in your head, Edwin?
Edwin: Nothing that could compete heartily with your cock-eyed narrative gems.

Jan: Well, mageling, how goes the battle against all that is right and good in the world?
Edwin: (It would surely go better without annoying gnomes asking questions) Question not my designs, else you too will become an unwilling part of them.
Jan: I sometimes believe that it is my destiny to become a part of some incompetent mage's fizzled schemes. Golodon the Unmanned being a case in point. You too, I suppose.
Edwin: I am to be continually plagued by fools? Conversation with you does not rate highly on my list of things to accomplish. Run along now. (Yes, that will do.)
Jan: Truth be told, I feel a bit sorry for you. It must be frustrating to see your entire life's goals amount to absolutely nothing.
Edwin: What do you know of my goals, gnome?
Jan: By the gods, Edwin, you mumble about them often enough. Oh! Looks like I've hit a vein. Sorry about that.
Edwin: One day you will bow before me, gnome. That shall be a time of reckoning.
Jan: If you say so. Let me know when it's time to bow. I might not notice it.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Edwin: Out with it, gnome! I see that you are fabricating another of your fanciful lies as you look at me!
Jan: Oh, don't get all huffy. It's just that at this angle you look a lot like my Uncle Ager of the Tomes.
Edwin: Ah, and I suppose he had a comical disfigurement, or his mind fell a few coppers short of a silver, or that his tremendous odor kept the stars afloat, or some other thinly disguised failing told ONLY to demean me in the eyes of others!
Jan: Eh, no, he was a mage. Tell me, Edwin, are you having trouble at home?
Edwin: *sigh* Go away, gnome. Go away.

With Haer'Dalis[]

Jan: Haery, I have an idea for a play.
Haer'Dalis: Please, Jan, my name is Haer'Dalis.
Jan: You see, Haery, Angus the Giant Beaver is ousted from house and home by the Bullywug bullies to embark on an epic quest that takes him to the next pond.
Haer'Dalis: Yes, epic. Go on.
Jan: No, no, no, this is only the beginning. Along the way, he encounters Gurgen the Hormonal Moose, and a friendship quickly develops between the two, seeing them through times of great trial and tribulation, though the friendship also caused a great deal of trial and tribulation, as you can well imagine.
Haer'Dalis: What, if I may ask, is a moose?
Jan: Too late, I'm already on to great trials and tribulations—think of it, Haery, such broad and vital themes. Anyhow, the moose catches a curious and ultimately fatal disease, and Angus, as a final testament to their friendship, enshrines him within a wooden tomb in the middle of the lake before throwing himself in the lake to drown.
Haer'Dalis: Jan, beavers can't drown. They spend half of their life underwater.
Jan: There's no point in arguing, Haery. It's a true tale, and if you have any doubt, you can ask my great-aunt Apo Pettiwick, who never married. It all happened in her backyard when she ran the farmer's market that sold turnips up in Thundertree, just upstream of Neverwinter.
Haer'Dalis: Pray I never go there, Jan. Pray I never go there.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Haery, could I draw upon your bardic prowess to help me with a little poem I'm working on? It's a tribute to our fearless leader.
Haer'Dalis: I truly wish you would call me by my proper name, Jan. But I shall be happy to collaborate with you on such an epic subject.
Jan: Great, Haery. I knew I could count on you. I'm off to a pretty good start, but I need rhymes for "purple," "orange," and "silver."
Haer'Dalis: Ah well... perhaps you are focusing too much on colors, Jan. Mayhaps we could take this ballad in a different direction.
Jan: Okay, I'll work on that stanza myself. Maybe you can help me with the next verse. What's a good rhyme for "bucket"?
Haer'Dalis: One does spring readily to mind... Listen, my would-be sparrow, I do not mean to give offense, but perhaps you could let me work with the composition and add my own brand of subtle wit to the mix.
Jan: Ah, Haery, let's just forget about it. I was born a storyteller, and a storyteller I'll remain until the day I die. I'm no poet, and I never will be.
Haer'Dalis: Normally, I would encourage an artist such as yourself to branch out, but in this case, abandoning the genre may be for the best.

With Hexxat[]

Jan: Wait a second. Wait one second.
1. Player: I'll give you two.
Hexxat: What can I do for you, Master Jansen?
Jan: You've done plenty already.
Hexxat: Forgive me. I don't understand what you're talking about.
Korgan: (if in party) Join the club, lassie!
Jan: Let me tell you a story, vampire.
Viconia: (if in party) Get comfortable, Hexxat. This may take a while.
Jan: It's about a lovely girl named Yanna Jojannsen.
Hexxat: Ah. I think I know this story.
1. Player: I don't.
Jan: A lovely girl was Yanna. With delicate, nimble fingers. She had a great future ahead of her, or so it seemed to everyone who met her.
And then she started talking about the tomb of this raging monster called Dragomir. About how great treasure could be found there.
Her family tried to talk her out of going there, of course, but it was all for naught. One night, she vanished, never to return.
1. Player: Oh no. You're saying this Yanna was one of Hexxat's victims?
Jan: She was my niece, and this, this, this VAMPIRE lured her to her doom.
Hexxat: I am deeply sorry for your loss.
Jan: Sorry? I'll show you sorry!
Hexxat: There was nothing personal in what I did. I sought only to survive.
1. Player: We all do what we must to survive, Jan.
Jan: Tell it to my sister, <CHARNAME>. Oh wait, you can't—she died soon after Yanna, broken by her daughter's loss.
I've seen many a monster in my time, but this—this THING has no place walking the world. Not while my niece lies dead.
2. Player: We all do things we regret from time to time.
Jan: Regret?
Tell it to my sister (...)
3. Player: Perfectly understandable.
Jan: Understandable?
Tell it to my sister (...)
2. Player: Would anyone care to tell it to me?
Jan: A lovely girl was Yanna. (...)
3. Player: I couldn't care less about this story.
Jan: She was my niece, and this, this, this VAMPIRE (...)
2. Player: What's the matter, Jan?
Jan:Hexxat! (...)
3. Player: I wait for no one and nothing.
Jan:You can go where you will, <CHARNAME>. It's not you I wish to speak to.
Hexxat! (...)

With Imoen[]

Throne of Bhaal only :

Imoen: You know, Jan... I was listening to a story you were telling a little earlier. I thought it was quite fascinating.
Jan: Indeed? Well, I must say I've never looked at goat cheese quite the same way again. And neither did poor Gilbert. Or any of his cats.
Imoen: And neither will <CHARNAME>, the way <HE/SHE> was groaning. Your story did remind me of a tale I heard back in Candlekeep, though.
Jan: Oh? A new story? My, my... you've got the tiniest toes on my gnomish feet wiggling like Aunt Petunia trying to get into her sunday dress. Let's hear it.
Imoen: Well, it just reminded me of the bowl of goat's milk that old Winthrop used to put outside his door every evening for the dust demons. He said the dust demons could never resist goat's milk, and that they would always drink themselves into a stupor and then be too tired to enter his room... that way he would never have to spend any of his time dusting because his room was always clean.
Jan: Ingenious! Go on.
Imoen: It turned out that dust demons gossip a lot, and their tale of Winthrop's nightly goat milk had spread. So along comes this three-armed balor (there's a longer story about why the balor had only three arms, and besides the fact that he was nicknamed "Smart Mouth" by the greater powers in the Abyss, I won't go into it any more than that) who flies into Candlekeep in the middle of the night and storms his way over to Winthrop's cell and drinks the milk. The balor, however, had misheard the gossip and thought that he was drinking the milk of a pregnant glabrezu. Don't ask me why.
Jan: Well, he must have been very disappointed. I know I would have been.
Imoen: Indeed he was. He put up such a fuss and racket, pounding on the door to Winthrop's cell, that he woke up just about everyone in the keep. Including Gorion, who usually slept pretty soundly and didn't wake up very well anyway. Well, Gorion was all groggy and thought the keep was under attack and just about blew the roof off with a series of fireballs and lightning bolts. <CHARNAME> was so scared <HE/SHE> cried like a baby.
Jan: Hmph. I don't blame <HIM/HER>. Uncle Scratchy once did something similar with a bad mixture of turnip stew and vinegar, but the smell was probably worse.
Imoen: Gorion was terribly angry. He was grumbling, and <CHARNAME> was bawling; people were running around everywhere... it was quite a scene. They banned goat's milk from the keep, which meant that Winthrop had to dust his own room after that point and taught him a lesson about trying to get out of work, as well.
Jan: Hmmm. What happened to the balor?
Imoen: Oh. The monks bought him off with a tome of jokes about baatezu. I hear he's been touring the Abyss ever since. Gets heckled a lot, but what do you expect for a comedian in Hell?
Jan: Hmmm. Hm. All right. Yes, very good job there, lass. At least one turnip reference might be called for in the future, but all-around well done.
Imoen: *giggle* I'll keep that in mind.

With Jaheira[]

When in a forest :

Jaheira: You look quite interested in the local flora, Jan.
Jan: Oh, yes indeed! It reminds me of my cousin, Tyllie Fleetknees, and the garden she had at the foot of a dryad tree in the Forest of Wyrms. I tell you, she went up expecting well-aerated soil, and did she get a surprise! Oh, yes indeed! Why, I remember it like it was burned into my memory with a flaming stick, which was very close to the truth, actually...
Jaheira: Jan.
Jan: Er... yes?
Jaheira: Not now.
Jan: Ahh... of course.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: You know, Jaheira, in all our travels, your smile has eluded me.
Jaheira: Oh, come now. Certainly I reserve my emotions for matters of great import, but...
Jan: That is the thing. Perhaps I have moved you on occasion, but any fleeting glimmer of a smile is gone before it properly lights the room.
Jaheira: Well, have you a relative that might remedy the situation?
Jan: Eh, perhaps illustrating the horror of unappreciated storytelling? Well... I had an Uncle Richard that tried to bring nude theater to a festival in Waterdeep...
Exposure is usually good for an actor's career, but even so, a cold reception for the play caused the cast to shrink steadily. Blackballed, my uncle tried to recruit from the thieves' guild, but they wouldn't let their nick-ers go.
"Just bare with me," he would say, but they were afraid of being stripped of their dignity. He gave up the lead to attract new members, and eventually the production's genius was uncovered, even with his part left out.
Jaheira: Ah...
Jan: Verdict?
Jaheira: Not... one of your best. *snicker*
Jan: They can't all take the brass ring.
Jaheira: Keep trying?
Jan: I will if you will, my dear.

With Keldorn[]

Keldorn: One must maintain constant discipline and remember the four principles of virtue... that is my motto and everlasting burden.
Jan: Virtue, eh, knighty?
Keldorn: Indeed, little one. 'Tis not virtuous to refer to me as "knighty."
Jan: Another human with his shorts in a knot. But I digress. Anyway, Keldy, my mother wrote a book on virtue.
Keldorn: Did she?
Jan: Oh, yes. A book on the virtues of erotic love. "Sins of the Flesh Golem," it was called. Excellent sales in the paladin's spouse market.
Keldorn: A wholly inappropriate jest, Jan. You should be ashamed.
Jan: It is no jest. I'll send you a copy, if your wife does not already have one.
Keldorn: Never speak of my wife, gnome. Your lack of respect is appalling.
Jan: Ah, now I see. One of THOSE.
Keldorn: It is not your place to judge my affairs. You must learn to respect your leaders.
Jan: I do respect my leaders. This has nothing to do with them. This reminds me of the chapter where the paladin first makes passionate love to the flesh golem. What a beautiful scene...
Keldorn: Begone, gnome, lest my honor demand I perform acts that you shall regret.
Jan: Fleshy, honey," the paladin said. "Yes, baby?" said the golem...

If Jan dies and is revived :

Jan: Greetings, everyone. Sorry, no gifts or souvenirs this time, but I'll keep you all in mind the next time I'm gone. Oh, Keldorn: The gods say "hi" and that you should wash your underwear more thoroughly. Everyone ready? Let's go adventuring.
Keldorn: Master Jansen, are you so absolutely incapable of acknowledging the seriousness of our situation?!
Jan: Acknowledged and accounted for—as serious as a turnip blight in winter. Nasty rotten thing, that is... Keldorn, have you ever considered renting out your services as a turnip healer? You would be more than popular, I assure you.
Keldorn: The abilities granted me by my faith are not for sale, especially not for something as foolish and as—as vegetal as a—a turnip!
Jan: You remind me of a top my great-uncle on my father's side made for me as a child. You just wound it up and let it go—it was as if it had an "auto-wobble" setting or some such thing. So, are we ready for adventuring, everybody?
Keldorn: Oh, never mind. I'll stand elsewhere, gnome, lest your constant talk put me to sleep.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: So, Keldorn, while we're on the subject of adult diapers, ah, you're getting on in years, aren't you?
Keldorn: What in the blazes are you about, Jan? We were on no such topic!
Jan: Well, it's just that as Uncle Stinky was nearing your age, he was prone to a terrible diaper rash. I thought you too might be suffering in noble knightish silence. No man should face diaper rash alone.
Keldorn: "Uncle Stinky"? *sigh* He was called this because of the diapers, I suppose?
Jan: No, 'twas the fish heads that earned him that moniker. Real name is Rooctal or Slooble or something. I can't recall. Why, as Pappy used to say, "If you can't join 'em, take your boot and—"
Keldorn: (Gods!) <CHARNAME>, do I strike you as a stupid man?
1. Player: Why do you ask?
Keldorn: I continue to be conversationally pummeled by the gnome.
He's still talking, isn't he?
Player: Yes.
Jan: ...which is really the reason I had the donkey to begin with. Good luck with the rash!
2. Player: Well, you did walk into that one. You should have ignored him.
Keldorn: He's still talking, isn't he? (...)

With Korgan[]

Korgan: Hahahahahaa! Marvelous tale, gnome. Well told, well told. Only blight on ye is that trimmed beard and that loathsome pointy pickle hanging off yer face.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Korgy, old pal, have I ever told you how much you remind me of my uncle Uriah Twin-Hammers?
Korgan: Watch yer step, gnome. If ye make me angry, I'll bury the head of me axe so far up yer backside yer breath'll smell like magic metal!
Jan: That's exactly the kind of thing Twin-Hammers would say. He was a ruthless, savage, bloodthirsty outlaw who would kill anyone or anything that got in his way. He used to repeatedly terrorize a certain gnomish village he frequently wandered through in his never-ending quest for profit and bloodshed.
Korgan: A man after me own black heart! Carry on, gnome... ye got me blood stirrin'!
Jan: Of course, all good things come to an end. Fed up with Uriah's antics, the village hired a hero to protect them and enforce the law—the legendary Clint Hackman (so named for his habit of chopping his foes to little bits). With the townsfolk peering from their windows, the outlaw and the famous lawman stared each other down in the center of the dusty, deserted street. Cold as ice, Uriah said, "I've killed women and children. I've killed everything that walks or crawls on this earth. And now I'm here to kill you."
Alas, Uriah met his end in that street. With his first blow, he broke his hammer on Hackman's shield, and that was it. Weaponless, he wasn't much of a match for the mighty Clint. If my uncle had only been named Twin-Hammer because he carried two weapons, he might still be alive today. But Uriah got his nickname for the mighty hammer he carried in his belt and the even mightier... uh, "hammer" he had *beneath* his belt, if you get my drift. A fine instrument to have, but not much good in a fight.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! 'Tis a good thing ye know yer audience, gnome... me axe stays in my belt.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Korgan: 'Tis been far too long since our last battle. Jan, ye runty windbag, tell me a story to ward off the boredom... and if ye know what's good fer ye, it'll be about dwarves!
Jan: Ah, finally, someone who appreciates my tales! A story about dwarves, eh? Let me see... Of course—my cousin Kimble. Not himself a dwarf, per se, but Kimble always was of peculiar tastes for a gnome. He fell in love with a dwarven lass. She was stout and stocky, with a gruff voice and a soft, supple, full beard...
Korgan: Ah, gnome, ye know how to paint a lovely picture... such a beauty she must ha' been!
Jan: Oh yes, she was a fine-looking woman... to Kimble's eyes, at least. She cast a spell on him far stronger than any sorcerer ever could. But she wouldn't have anything to do with my cousin—she had dwarven princes and clan lords after her calloused hand, and she couldn't be bothered with a dirt poor turnip-farming gnome. But Kimble's heart wouldn't be denied... he left his own family to follow this bewitching creature back to her clan home.
Korgan: Ye're losin me, gnome... I don't want some weepy love story. I want killin' and death! Give me blood!
Jan: You wanted a story about dwarves, and this is the only one I've got. I can't just make up a lie, you know... that would be an affront to the grand tradition of storytelling in my family! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Kimble. My cousin followed the lovely dwarven lass to her clan home in the Alimir Mountains and started a turnip farm there. He had a rough go of it at first, let me tell you... taxes, levies, zoning restrictions. It was almost like the dwarves didn't want him and his farm there. But they had never tried turnips, so they didn't really know what they were missing.
Once those turnips started to sprout, things changed in a hurry. Turns out the dwarves of that particular clan LOVED turnips. Fried, baked, boiled, whipped, pureed, mashed—you couldn't find a meal of the day that they didn't have turnips with. Turnips became so fashionable the dwarves began to wear clothes made from turnips. Never did a dwarf look so snazzy (or smell so appetizing) as when he was dressed up in a turnip top hat and turnip tails, with turnip skin shoes to complete the ensemble. And with his turnip business booming, Kimble found himself with more wealth than he knew what to do with. Just walking around his house was an effort, what with all the mountains of gold spilling out of every door of every room.
Korgan: All that gold got my attention, gnome, but the happy ending isn't doin' much fer me.
Jan: Happy ending? I never said any such thing. Kimble was rich, true enough—but it turns out his dwarven love didn't share her clan's fondness for turnips. In fact, she was deathly allergic. She did her best to avoid the lethal vegetables, but as popular as Kimble's crops were, it was only a matter of time until she accidentally ate one. It killed her, of course. Heartbroken, Kimble tried to return to his own people. But the dwarves weren't just going to let him and his turnips leave. They threw him in prison and demanded he reveal the secrets of turnip farming, but that isn't something you can just teach. You either have the gift or you don't, and dwarves don't. In the end, Kimble's frail body succumbed to the dwarves' torture and interrogation, and he left to join his beloved in the afterlife. And that particular clan of dwarves discovered that turnip farmers were almost as tasty as the turnips themselves. Or so I've heard.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! A great tale, gnome. Ye done yerself proud!

With Mazzy[]

Mazzy: Jan, I find you to be quite the enigma. This adventure has yielded us a crop of useful magical items, and yet you turn your considerable powers to the never-ending quest to create the perfect turnip peeler.
How can someone who's so clever be so shortsighted?
Jan: Well, Mazzy, you're really asking two questions there. My shortsightedness was passed to me by my dear departed father. I was born with the condition, and I'll thank you not to stare! As to your other question, it takes me back to my carefree days as a deckhand on a turnip merchant galleon. We sailed for distant Waterdeep, we did, braving foul seas, foul tempers, and a desperate band of turnip pirates.
Mazzy: You are mentally incapable of answering a straight question, aren't you, gnome?
Jan: 'Twas on a cold winter's night near the beginning of the Great Underwear Shortage that we set sail. I danced naked on the poop deck, which was the custom at the time. Well, my nose and other extremities were getting a bit frosty, so I gathered up the tatters of my poor, abused underwear and headed to the crow's nest.
Mazzy: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!
Jan: Well, I never! You did ask, after all.
Mazzy: SHUT UP!

When in a forest :

Mazzy: All of the evil in the world cannot keep one from admiring the beauty of the earth.
Jan: Very true, lassie. You must work with potatoes.
Mazzy: How might one make that assumption?
Jan: Hmm? Oh, I thought it was obvious. Never had your pegged for a slow one, but you never can tell. Allow me to spell it out... you see, about fifteen years ago, I was employed by a mage of no small caliber. Golodon the Unmanned was his name. Good teeth. Nice smell. Vicious streak a mile wide.
Mazzy: This is not making any sense, Jan.
Jan: He couldn't have children, of course. Nasty cone of cold accident, you see. Regardless, his tower wasn't far from Athkatla, and I managed to gain employment with the old elf for a while. Mondays were particularly amusing. Golodon would start the day off by summoning an imp. He'd usually spend three or four hours making it run around the room barking like a dog.
But, as it was with Golodon, he soon tired of the sport. He had a beautiful mastiff named Buffy. Her diet consisted almost entirely of imps. Imp doesn't taste half bad when it's fried with a bit of garlic and butter. Goes well with turnips too.
Mazzy: What, pray tell, does this have to do with the presumption that I work with potatoes?
Jan: Oh, right. So anyway, Golodon's ex-wife lived no more than two hundred paces from the mage's tower. My primary job was poisoning her food, though occasionally I'd have to clean up Buffy's excrement. She had managed to build quite the resistance to mandrake. Golodon's ex-wife, that is, not the dog.
It was truly a magical time in my life. I haven't been as happy poisoning someone since then. I was also, of course, poisoning Golodon on his ex-wife's behalf. She did pay handsomely.
Word has it that Golodon has finally kicked the bucket, if you get my drift. Died of malaria complicated by a fireball down his throat. Apparently, Golodon's old nemesis returned. Dradu or Dradeen or some such name. The old bastard would occasionally mention this enemy when he was particularly drunk. The two of them had stolen some valuable artifacts from the Gibbering Twelve.
Golodon blackjacked poor Dradunce and split with the magic. He later realized that he should have killed Dreedle and, cold-hearted fool that he was, sent assassins to finish the job. Drafeel disappeared, though his body was never found. It worried Golodon to no end.
Mazzy: Perhaps we should be concentrating on our journey, good gnome.
Jan: I can't find it in my heart to feel sorry for him. He did fire me after all. Do you know why?
Mazzy: I neither know nor care.
Jan: That was a bit rude. I take my potato comment back, missy!
Mazzy: Where in the heavens did this potato remark arise in the first place?
Jan: I don't know if I'm talking to you anymore.
Mazzy: Fine, fine! I'd rather not hear the story anyway.
Jan: If you must know, it was during my time as a mobile turnip vendor.
Mazzy: Jan, though I respect you, I must say that you are quite infuriating. Please desist; we have things to accomplish.
Jan: Twice a week I'd head out to the country to pick up my product. The turnip fields were owned by my uncle Scratchy. Interesting fellow, by the way. Remind me to tell you about him some time.
Mazzy: Are you even listening to me?
Jan: Each trip I made, I would stop to talk to the halfling lass that worked in Uncle Scratchy's potato operation. The girl had had a very difficult life. She lost her parents to an orc attack when she was just a girl. She'd been a slave for the foul beasts until Aunt Petunia freed her.
The girl told me that, no matter how much evil she saw or had inflicted upon her, the simple pleasure of honest work and the feel of the earth beneath her feet always reminded her of how lucky she really was. Her outlook was not unlike your own, dear Mazzy.
Mazzy: A noble tale in the end, Jan, though I'm continually puzzled by your need to inflict twenty minutes of inane yarns on your listeners before getting to the point.
Jan: And that, lassie, is why you are not a consummate tale-spinner. Don't worry, I'll teach you yet.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Mazzy, dear, have I ever told you about my Aunt Petunia the ranger?
Mazzy: Yes, Jan, I have already heard that tale, thank you.
Jan: Really? Are you quite sure? This is the one where she...
Mazzy: Yes, that's the one. One of your best, but I have heard it before.
Jan: Well then, let me regale you with tales of my years as a...
Mazzy: I have heard that one as well, Jan.
Jan: But I didn't even say anything! Ah, here's one I KNOW you haven't heard. Back when I was...
Mazzy: I am sorry to disappoint you, Jan, but I already know that one too.
Jan: A-HA! I made that last one up just to test you, Mazzy! There is no such story.
Mazzy: You mean to say you have been telling us falsehoods this whole time, Jan? I am so very, very disappointed in you. Since you admit to your dishonesty, I can no longer in good conscience listen to your stories ever again.
Jan: Huh... that really didn't go the way I expected.

With Minsc[]

Jan: Minsc! Look out! Behind you!
Minsc: Where? He who sneaks up on Minsc loses teeth!
Jan: C'mon, Boo! Quickly, come to Jan!
Minsc: Stop it! Boo is not for you, tiny! You'll hurt him!
Jan: He likes me. Gnomes are far cuddlier than oafish humans.
Minsc: No, I know best when talking of Boo. If you could hear his wishes, you would agree, but you cannot. The words of Boo are for Minsc alone.
Jan: You can't fault a fellow for trying.
Minsc: I can and will. And another thing; no more sneaking Boo crackers. He is getting rather portly, and the crumbs make for an itchy bedroll.

When outdoors, during the day, after the previous conversation :

Jan: Ah, Minsc! 'Tis truly a beautiful day, no?
Minsc: Eh, weather is nice... mmmaybe...
Jan: It is a day to get out into the world, to breathe in the fresh air.
Minsc: *grunt*
Jan: Too bad, though...
Minsc: What is too bad?
Jan: It's too bad that I won't live to enjoy it.
Minsc: What do you mean?
Jan: Hadn't you heard, old friend? I've got the Calimshan itch. Alas, poor Jan! *sob* *sob*
Minsc: An itch? Can you not scratch it?
Jan: Only death will cure this itch. I shall not live out this day. Oh, terrible powers of the heavens! Why will you let me die without granting me a final wish? Cruel, cruel fate!
Minsc: What can Minsc do to help? A tragedy, this is! I will slay those that need slaying!
Jan: I do have one final wish... no, no. I do not wish to burden my companions with my death. My teensy-weensy wish is unimportant. Travel on, good Minsc. Carry the torch and so forth.
Minsc: It is only fair, big-nosed little one. We will do all that we can to aid you.
Jan: Truly, it is a small thing. As a child, I had a pet hamster, named Spanky. Those were the only pure days in my life. Every day was perfection. Oh, the pain! If I could just hold a hamster while I die, perhaps I could capture the innocence of my youth and die a happy gnome.
Minsc: You will not steal Boo from me! I know your tricks!
Jan: 'Tis no trick. *cough* *cough* Nevertheless, you are correct about one thing, my oafish friend. I do not deserve happiness. Please, leave me to my excruciatingly painful death. I am close now... Spanky, I miss you!
Minsc: Boo shall comfort the little dying gnome for a moment. Only a moment!
Jan: Ah, thank you, Minsc. May I have a moment alone?
Minsc: Alone? No, I draw the line... hey! Stand still! I warn you!
Jan: At last Boo is mine! I cannot believe this stupid trick worked. Come, noble hamster, a life of frivolity awaits.
Minsc: I'll throttle you with your own arms if you do not return him this instant! This is no longer amusing! It was never amusing! I am not laughing!
Jan: All right, all right. It was only a jest, Minscy. I meant no harm.
Minsc: That's right, you apologize! It's hard enough keeping Boo's roaming in check without you stealing him. Bad Jan! There will be a booting if this happens again!

Throne of Bhaal only :

Minsc: Boo? Boo? Where are you?
Jan: What's the matter, Minscy? Did you lose *snicker*... lose *giggle*... lose something?
Minsc: You! The tiny, tricky gnome! Minsc knows it was you who stole Boo! You cannot fool Minsc! What is that bulge moving about within your trousers?
Jan: This bulge here? Why, that's (ha ha) that's nothing. I'm just happy to see you, Minscy. *giggle* Oh, those tiny feet tickle so.
Minsc: I hear Boo's frenzied squeaking! Ho-ho! He is growing angry, little man. Release Boo from your drawers lest his sharp teeth nibble on your naughty bits in his outrage!
Jan: Boo would never do such a thing... uh, at least I hope he wouldn't. Actually, now that I think about it, that's a chance I'm not willing to take. Here you go, Minscy—Boo's yours again, safe and sound.
Minsc: Ah, Minsc and Boo together again! Jan, you are not worthy of having a miniaturized giant space hamster scampering loose in your pants.
Jan: Ah, I suppose there are precious few of us indeed who are truly worthy of that particular honor.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Oh my, my, my... I had the strangest dream last night, Minscy. I dreamt a wizard snuck into our camp while we slept and cast a spell that made you and I switch identities.
Minsc: *gasp* Such a thing would be a nightmare indeed—why, Minsc could not even fit into your tiny clothes! I have no wish to walk naked through these strange lands...
Jan: Just our minds were switched, Minscy. You were me, and I was you. Oh my... what if it wasn't a dream? What if it was real? What if you're really me, and I'm really you? Suddenly, I feel sort of funny... HAMSTERS AND RANGERS AND HEROES TOGETHER!
Minsc: What is this? The puny gnome speaks with the wrath and rage of a Rashemaar warrior! Boo, I am confused...
Minsc: Can this be true? Am I but the sneaky little Jan inside Minsc's great, big body? ...No! This is not right! Minsc is not Jan... Minsc is Minsc! Minsc is Minsc, Boo is Boo, and you are a naughty, naughty gnome!
Jan: Okay, Minscy, settle down. You win. Just a little existential prank is all—no hard feelings I hope. (Hmmm... I really thought that would work...)
Minsc: Your trick may have worked, tiny one, had Boo not saved me from my confusion. Boo thinks, therefore I am. Remember that before you tempt my wrath by trying to steal my hamster again!

With Nalia[]

Nalia: All this traveling is beginning to wear on me... I can't remember the last time I walked so much in a single day. Haha haha... it's something my aunt should try, I think... instead of being hauled about in her gilded carriage.
Jan: Nalia, dearie, you remind me so much of Cletus Bifflelips, my second cousin, thrice removed.
Nalia: I don't think that I could be very much like a person named Cletus.
Jan: You wouldn't think so, yet here we are. You see, Cletus had a propensity for bouts of violent projectile vomiting. We'd call him, Cletus the Room Clearer Bifflelips.
Nalia: Please, Jan! This is too ridiculous, even for you!
Jan: Now just bear with me for a moment, Nalia. You see, it was after one such bout that Cletus, feeling quite ill, took a painful stroll down to the local witch-woman, in the vague hope that she might have a cure for his problem.
After paying the 1,000-gold-piece consulting fee and vomiting in the proffered bucket, the witch gave Cletus an herbal tea, which he was to drink twice per day for a score of days.
Drinking it everyday on schedule, yet failing to notice any change in his condition, Cletus began to worry. Upon finishing his final cup of tea, Cletus vomited.
Nalia: This is disgusting, Jan.
Jan: No need to force your ridiculously high standards onto poor, deceased Cletus.
Nalia: I'm sorry. His illness killed him, did it?
Jan: Actually, he's not dead. I made that part up. Well, needless to say, Cletus was somewhat angry, so he went back to confront the witch. She had, of course, taken the money and left town. But in her haste to escape the vomiting wrath of Cletus Bifflelips, the witch left her belongings behind.
Cletus, at the height of his anger, swiped her entire collection of novels written by noted folklorist Nalia de Bouche. I'll be the first to admit that revenge was not Cletus's forte.
Nalia: Honestly, Jan, that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Jan: Well, they can't all be gems. 'Tis one of my favorites, however.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Nalia, my dear, you've been positively morose as of late. Probably from studying all those scrolls. You remind me of Golodon... prior to his addiction to poppy seed muffins, of course.
Nalia: Jan, I'm really not in the mood for any silliness. We're here for a purpose.
Jan: Exactly! And I've been recording <CHARNAME>'s adventures in a suitably epic story. Ending's not clear, but the rest is dynamo. Maybe you can help me come up with a title?
Nalia: *sigh* Why not just call it "The Adventures of <CHARNAME>" or something like that? I'm no writer, Jan. I probably can't help you.
Jan: Nonsense! You just need the proper inspiration. Hmm... maybe "The Bhaal Cabal"? How about "Fall of the Bhaal Cabal"?
Nalia: Yes, fine. Use that.
Jan: How about "Fall of the Bhaal Cabal Hall"? Oo! I know! "Fall of All the Bhaal Cabal from the Tall Wall of the Hall"! Yes! Yes, perfect!
Nalia: *giggle* You're incorrigible, Jan.
Jan: Now *there's* the smile I like to see!

With Neera[]

Neera: Oh, Jan! That one was great. Did your Aunt Peony's second husband Lor really divide his property among his six children with a butter knife? They must have been so confused when he came to the furniture!
Korgan: (if in party) HAR HAR HAR! The furniture—with a butter knife! It's good to hear ye, gnome. Yer talk is good for every season. HAR HAR HAR!
Jan: The furniture was nothing. It was when old Lor took his knife to the big keg in the basement that his children started complaining. The basement filled up with turnip stout. Lollycook—that was the miller's one-eyed son-in-law, the one with the hedgehog (NOT the one with the sister who slew Otis Emerald's prize walking pumpkin—justifiably, too, as you've never seen a more arrogant pumpkin in your life!)—why, Lollycook came over and lapped up the stout like a thirsty animal! He couldn't stand up straight for days. Meanwhile, the children took to fighting over the six pieces of the keg. One said her piece was too small; another said his was covered with mold; still another said that her piece wasn't wet and didn't smell musty. She suspected a forgery.
Neera: How did they settle it? I'm on the edge of my seat here! Well, not literally. Imagine I'm sitting.
Jan: Settle it? You give that family too much credit. Lor died not long after. Dividing things with a butter knife is hard work, so by then he'd only made it through one eightieth of his estate. They're still feuding over the rest, as far as I know, as well as what he managed to cut up.
Neera: Moral of the story: Whether you're the Lord of Murder or Aunt Peony's second husband, having heirs is tricky business.
Jan: Yes, indeed. I don't think anybody really wants to die, do they? That's why gods and mortals alike go out of their way to make their legacies so much trouble. Unfortunately for my Aunt Peony, her third husband was even worse...

Throne of Bhaal only :

Jan: Neera, my girl, have you ever considered a career in object appropriation?
Neera: Uh, no. No. I have not.
Jan: A shame. You'd make an excellent accom—assistant.
Neera: Accom-assistant?
Jan: Indeed! With your feminine wiles and terrifying hair, you could get into almost any location!
Neera: What do you mean, terrifying hair?
Jan: Just imagine the bountiful riches, the teeth-rattling THUMP of the turnip-launcher as we make our getaway, the outraged screams...
Neera: Turnip-launcher...? Wait, no. I'm good, Jan. Thanks, but I'm just not the thieving type.
Jan: Not thievery—appropriation. The art is an age-old tradition, worthy of honor and respect!
Neera: I think I'll still have to pass.
Jan: Bugger.

With Rasaad[]

Rasaad: Tell me, Jan, is it true that you have a device that—
Jan: Yep, absolutely.
Rasaad: I didn't finish my question.
Jan: You weren't asking me about tattoo removal?
Rasaad: Why would I want to know about that?
Jan: Well, you know. Your face and all.
Rasaad: I've no interest in removing my tattoos. They are part of my identity.
Jan: It could be done, you know.
Rasaad: What?
Jan: The tattoos. They could be got rid of. Easy.
Rasaad: I don't want to be rid of them.
Jan: Well, not easy, precisely. It'd sting a bit.
Rasaad: It matters little, because—
Jan: A bit more than it stung to get 'em.
Rasaad: I wanted to ask you about—
Jan: And longer, I suspect. Never did understand tattoos myself. My great aunt Beryl loved them. Couldn't get enough of them. Covered her body with the things, then ate a herd of cows to put on enough weight to make room for some more.
Rasaad: That—can't have been healthy.
Jan: She was an impressive sight in the end, was Beryl. Four hundred pounds, she was.
Burying her would've been a waste. My uncle used her skin to make a tent that could hold more than twenty people. Fifteen non-gnome people.
Only problem was the tattoos. Some of them creeped people out. So I figured out how to remove them.
Rasaad: That's very interesting—
Jan: The secret is turnip juice.
Rasaad: I—I'll be going now.
Jan: When you want to get rid of those tattoos, you just let me know. But bring me a couple gold; turnip juice doesn't come cheap.

With Sarevok[]

Jan: You know... Binky, I've been considering this plan of yours that you had with the Iron Throne and all that. Interesting ideas... but flawed.
Sarevok: Binky?! You had best not be addressing ME, gnome!
Jan: For instance, whose idea was it to put impurities into the iron? Sounds like the lame idea of some yes-man underling who didn't know when to quit. No doubt you had him flogged.
Sarevok: I will not have my past commented upon by the likes of you, churl. Quiet yourself lest you experience worse than mere flogging.
Jan: Speaking of a good flog, I'm brought to mind of poor Aunty Sara. She too had a master plan to take over the Sword Coast, you know. Although hers was considerably less dramatic and involved the use of some tasty recipes for turnip pie and some mind-altering herbs that Aunty Sara had bought from a rather disreputable Turmish mage.
Sarevok: Are you listening to *nothing* I say?! Desist or suffer the consequences!
Jan: Do you think she would listen to us? You can trust a Turmish mage about as far as you can kick him... and even then it's not a bad idea to carry a good thumping stick. But, alas, Aunty Sara just cackled in her most villain-like way and was determined to carry on with her plan to hypnotize the Sword Coast. Alas, she was completely undone by an over-the-top exposition she gave to a spy that she had captured... and who subsequently escaped, of course, before she could have him killed. It's what villains do, I understand, when they're not busy defiling iron.
Sarevok: I will not be mocked, gnome! This is your last warning!
Jan: Of course, they say that Duke Eltan had already had a bit of Aunty's pie and enjoyed it immensely. Rather than become hypnotized, he just became rather pleasantly obsessed with silken undergarments. This, of course, led to the first Great Underwear Shortage. It's also known as the Three-Year Wedgie Drought, but that's another story completely.
Sarevok: AUUUUGHHH! How maddening! How you can put up with such impudence, <CHARNAME>?!

Sarevok: I've been thinking, gnome... about a certain trading deal my stepfather made several years ago.
Jan: Your stepfather, eh? Was he a megalomaniac as well? Must have been quite a merchant. Was he into crate building, perchance? Everywhere I look, I see crates... business must be lucrative.
Sarevok: My stepfather was with the Iron Throne. He negotiated once for a very lucrative land deal with a gnome named Count Turnipsome, as I recall.
Jan: Ah, yes. I know the fellow. Handsome young gnome, apple of his mother's eye. Wealthy, debonaire, beloved by all. Your stepfather was a fortunate man to have met him.
Sarevok: I wouldn't say the same. The land the count sold him turned out to be useless swampland overrun by umber hulks and bugbears. My stepfather was almost ejected from the Iron Throne as a result.
Jan: Now that sounds like quite a tragedy. Tsk. There are some mighty crooked people out there. Gnomes, even. Just terrible.
Sarevok: I swore that I would take instant vengeance on that gnome if I ever found him.
Jan: Well, it's, ummm... it's a good thing for him you never have, hm?
Sarevok: No doubt. I've been saving some rather excruciating torture techniques for the occasion.
Jan: Uhhh... yes, yes. I see. (Ahem!) I'll just go stand over by <CHARNAME> for a while. Nothing personal, I just felt the wind change.

With Valygar[]

Jan: So, Valygar, how do you like being a ranger?
Valygar: You are going to tell me another of your insipid stories, aren't you?
Jan: Well, if you're asking, then yes. It happens that my Aunt Petunia is a ranger, don't you know?
Valygar: No, I wasn't aware that your aunt was a ranger. *sigh*
Jan: She had the standard followers: a hydra, a shadow dragon, and a solar. She had the dragon trained to roll over, play dead, and fetch dwarves. She called him Blackie, I believe. Loved to run and play and lie in the sun.
Valygar: Of course.
Jan: Long and far she'd roam, with Larry the Solar always at her side, fighting evil, mocking druids, and the like.
Valygar: Mmm hmm.
Jan: Anyway, my point is that Petunia and Larry were out for a stroll in the woods. She was wearing her fruit armor, which was the style at the time, you understand. Aunt Petunia always kept up with the style.
Valygar: It goes without saying.
Jan: Larry had a nasty case of the plague...
Valygar: Oh, is it that time already? I'm afraid I have to take point now. You know how <CHARNAME> is with keeping on schedule.
Jan: Very well. We'll continue this story at the next opportunity.
Valygar: I can't wait.

Jan: Hmm. You know, this all reminds me of my dear old mother. Did I ever tell you of my mother, Valygar?
Valygar: I've no interest in hearing about your mother, gnome. Or any mother, for that matter.
Jan: Oh, come now, surely it can't all be that bad? Mothers are the most benevolent force in the world, cradling you and caring for you from birth until death. What could be wrong with a story about a dear old mother?
Valygar: Let me tell you a story, Jan, about MY mother. She fell to our family curse young, toying with magic, sinking half our fortune into ancient texts and scrolls.
She was obsessed with it. Even my father could barely drag her away from her studies. She practically ignored me from the day I was born.
Jan: Er...
Valygar: She didn't regret her neglect until after my father died. She became so anguished she reanimated him and went insane trying to lavish attention on his zombie.
Ultimately, she entered undeath to join him, and I was forced to destroy them both lest they do more harm. I was crying as I did so.
So how is that, gnome? Is that the kind of story you were thinking of? Does it compare to the wonderful story of your mother?
Jan: Ah, no, no. I think that is quite sufficient, thank you.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Valygar: Hm. You look as if you have something to say to me, Jan. *sigh* You might as well say it... the sooner we get this over with, the better.
Jan: I was just thinking how much you remind me of my cousin Gabber. Ironic name his parents gave him, since he never said a word till the day he died. Caught a case of the Tethyrian tongue gout from eating an unwashed turnip when he was but a babe. Poor little Gabber's tongue shriveled up like an honest Amnian merchant's purse. Turned him into the strong, silent type... kind of like you, Valygar.
Valygar: There is nothing wrong with my tongue, gnome. I just choose not to tire it out with a constant stream of pointless stories.
Jan: My stories aren't pointless! Now where was I? Oh, that's right. Gabber. His tongue was nothing but a long, skinny piece of flesh by the time the disease was done with it. But Gabber was determined to learn to talk. He did tongue exercises and tongue stretches everyday, and his tongue kept getting longer and more nimble the more he worked with it. They say he was able to pick locks with his unusual appendage, though I never had the privilege of witnessing that feat myself. By the time he was a young man, he could flick that thing out a full two feet in front of his face and make the tip twirl like a Calim veil dancer.
Too bad he came to such a tragic ending. Gabber wasn't much of a looker, you know, and he couldn't say a word with that freakishly long tongue of his. But for some inexplicable reason, the ladies loved him. In the end, that was what did him in. Nomis Stormfingers, an extremely large and jealous village smith, found my unfortunate cousin in a compromising position with Mrs. Stormfingers. Nomis reached inside Gabber's mouth, yanked that long lingua out, looped it around his throat, and strangled him with it. Lynched him with his own tongue, if you can believe it.
Valygar: I have no idea what you expect me to say after such a ridiculous story.
Jan: Of course not! That's why you remind me so much of Gabber—you're both tongue-tied.
Valygar: *groan* Excuse me, Jan I have to... uh, I need to... I just have to go far away from you now.

With Viconia[]

Jan: So, Viconia, I suppose you must be a drow, eh?
Viconia: Speak not to your betters, surface slave.
Jan: My brother, Elgar Buttercup, had skin the shade of charcoal, too. Well, technically it WAS charcoal. He died in a nasty fire, you see.
Viconia: You do love the sound of your own voice, don't you, gnome?
Jan: My own voice? Heartless wench! Do you not know? I am deaf. I have never heard the sound of my own voice. I read lips... *sob*... only lips...
Viconia: Deaf? Truly? In the Underdark, the deaf are killed or used in pain threshold experiments.
Jan: I heard that! In fact, it reminds me of the time I was eaten by an avatar of Lolth. I was stuck inside her stomach with a miserable drow called Biffle Chump for days. Of course, I was forced to eat him. A matter of survival, you understand. Nothing personal. He tasted a bit like chicken.
Viconia: <CHARNAME>, how is it that you travel with such a wee buffoon?
1. Player: Hey, don't look at me! You got him started.
Jan: What I would have given for just a pinch of pepper!
Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.
2. Player: Truthfully, it all goes back to the time that Jan's cousin, Plooty Paladin-piper, got caught in a nasty flesh-golem-eating contest...
Jan: Aye, Plooty had a way of attracting golems. Brilliant, really. You start with a saucer of milk—golems are suckers for milk...
Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.

Viconia: You're quite the entertainer, Jansen. 'Tis a shame you're so short, since your bent, sinister humors could sway my affections.
Jan: I'd not venture visiting your pleasures with the tool of another fellow, Viconia.

Throne of Bhaal only :

Viconia: Jan. While I would be tempted to let the situation play itself out, perhaps it is best if I warn you now.
Jan: Yes, my dusky little margarita? What warning would that be?
Viconia: You have a venomous spider on your neck. A lovely creature, known to cause an agonizing, bloodcurdling death within moments of injecting its nerve poison.
Jan: You know, this reminds me of the time Uncle Scratchy laid me flat with the handle of a horseman's flail. "Look behind you!" he says. "Why? What's behind me?" I say. "A Tiberian Dung Beetle!" he cries, looking frantic. So of course I scream in terror and look behind me... and lost a bag of the most scrumptious turnips ever to come out of Scornubel. Ma Jansen was furious, and the lump was more painful than six weeks with the Calishite itch.
Viconia: Oh, look. There it goes down the back of your shirt.
Jan: And then there was that time I took a drow at his word. "Bifflechips," says I, "you had better be telling the truth." And, of course, he swore up and down that he was. Needless to say, not four weeks later, I was stewing in the lower intestines of a giant cave wyrm without even so much as a torch or a sense of irony. I would have been a goner if gnomes weren't well known for causing severe bouts of intestinal gas.
Viconia: I wouldn't squirm about so much, you foolish jaluk. You're likely to anger it, and I have no spells that can counteract its particular poison.
Jan: Now, if I had a copper for every time— Eh, wait a second. I feel something... who's behind me? What *is* that back there?
Viconia: Did I not try to tell you? No doubt it is sinking its fangs into your gamey flesh as we speak.
I DON"T WANT TO—eh? Wait a minute, that's a fly. A dead fly. You mean I ripped off my own shirt for nothing?
Viconia: Ha ha! Sometimes life has its little rewards. Even for the drow.
Jan: You're a cruel, cruel woman, Viconia. Garl help me, but I am so turned on right now.
Viconia: All right, now I'm leaving.

With Yoshimo[]

Yoshimo: Excuse me, good gnome. I have a question that I've been meaning to ask for some time. These flash bombs of yours...
Jan: Yoshimo! Please! "Jan Jansen's Flasher Master Bruiser Mate." They have a name!
Yoshimo: Of course. These "Bruiser Mates" that you construct... might I learn how to use them?
Jan: I won't lie to you, Yoshimo. There is an excellent chance that you'll lose both of your arms. Perhaps even your face.
Yoshimo: If one is not willing to take risks, then one is not much of an adventurer.
Jan: Well said! As Aunty Kylie used to say, "Yeah, it's risky. But they've got gelatinous cubes!" I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have you try your hand at a few. Here, give the dial a twist and throw it.
Yoshimo: Mmm... perhaps I shall wait to perform such a feat. This... bomb... looks most unstable. I am surprised they do not explode in your pack, good gnome...
Jan: Bite yer tongue! This is my best and most potent recipe, I'll have you know. Aunt Kadie herself helped me mix this batch up, and I'll not have you disparaging her good name.
Yoshimo: I meant no disparagement, Jan... but I think I'll leave the bombing to you for now.

Yoshimo: Jan! I have heard that you are an inventor of sorts. Where do your interests lie in the field?
Jan: I'm open to all creative muses. Lately, I've been working on a turnip peeler. A magical device, of course, designed to peel a hundred turnips per minute. I'm really quite close to a breakthrough. Naturally, however, it does cost well over 100 gold pieces per day to run. But think of the uses!
Yoshimo: Why, turnip peeling, for one.
Jan: Exactly! You've got a knack for logical thinking, Yoshi. You could go far in the service of Gond.