SPOOKTOBER 2025
Needs A Title
SCENE/BEAT 1
- Talondive Thornwood froze at the discordant ring of some bell he had never heard before. Frowning at the unwanted interruption, he glared back down at his work.
- Lord Briardell insisted that the entire indexing be done in three days, utterly impossible without Talondive working during the Forbidden Hours. Voices demanding to know what was amiss drew near, forcing him to douse his lamp and hide as he dared not be found.
- Heavy footfalls carried a massive bullheaded brute into Talondive's work study, the flickering orange of its burning axe revealing things hidden in the dark, including the elf. The brute locked its red eyes on Talondive then snorted as its mouth twisted into a smirk of doom. With a delighted bellow, the brute charged in, swinging that burning axe.
- Talondive dropped to the floor, then rolled to his knees clear of the brute with the doorway before him. A heavy hoof stomped down upon his hand, but before he could pull free, the axe swung down and chopped off his arm. Falling through the doorway without his arm, Talondive bit his lip to keep from screaming as the shocking sting of losing it was rapidly growing into agony. Tears slid down his face as a pleasured groan from the brute was accompanied by the sounds of tearing flesh as it began to eat his arm.
"Come with me," a quiet voice whispered. "They will find the blood, the brute, and whatever bits it doesn't eat. They will assume you're dead. Live as a downfallen." Talondive went with the stranger. There was no other choice that left him alive.
SCENE/BEAT 2
Talondive lay on a pallet, enduring the pains in the stump of his left arm as he struggled with the grief. As terrible as the loss of his arm was, it was not as wretched as realizing everything he strove for his entire life was over. Bitterness coursed through him like a slow-moving river as he struggled to accept his new reality."Tea is ready," a voice called out. With his remaining arm, Talondive awkwardly struggled to his feet and moved to sit at the well-worn table in the chamber that was the entirety of the home of Dartmouse, the kindly stranger who helped Talondive escape. The one-armed elf stifled a snort. This home was nothing more than an old root cellar, and he was properly shelved unless he could figure out what to do with whatever remained of his life.
As he conversed with Dartmouse, he noticed a cracked phylactery jar hidden amongst the food jars. The helpful elf tells of how he became downfallen and his hopes of getting revenge through graven goods. A calculating gleam lit Talondive's eyes. "What graven goods?"
SCENE/BEAT 4
Dartmouse had a brace of dwarven donkeys to pull his well-worn old chariot, which allowed them to travel unbothered by most. They could also travel the rougher wilderness paths with the narrow chariot. Thus, their travelling was swift.SCENE/BEAT 5
Talondive looked over the remote graveyard surrounding a long neglected crypt whose carved name upon the door had been seared away by some unnatural fire. He shared a look with Dartmouse, who eventually nodded. They had to go in.SCENE/BEAT 6
There in a niche lay a tome. Despite the untold years of dust and the debris of time, he saw a mark that matched one on the cracked phylactery. Cobwebs seemed to waiver against a faint breeze, though the air never stirred. It was a clear sign of magic despite there being no hint of a mystical aura. They could not counter what they could not detect, which meant the only way to get that tome was to reach in and endure whatever torment might strike them... or find a way to turn off the magic. Talondive really did not want to risk his one remaining arm.Talondive and Dartmouse carefully search through the filth and broken things left from Dartmouse's previous visit decades ago. As they searched, a voice suddenly called out from seemingly nowhere, "Who's this in our pocketses?" Wicked laughter followed from every shadow.
Knee-high creatures stepped, flew, or crawled out of the shadows. All stood like men, though they seemed to be winged salamanders. One carried a short spear tipped with a twisted dagger blade. "We are not foes." Talondive insisted, showing them that his one hand was empty. "And we most certainly are not in your pockets." He turned to Dartmouse and whispered. "You never said anything about grave gremlins being here." Dartmouse whispered back. "There were no grave gremlins here the last time."
The stench of overworked armpits began to fill the crypt. Neither elf complained as the grave gremlins thus far had not raised their arms to spray their ultimate stench from their pits. The gremlin holding the wicked spear spoke with the same voice that had come from the shadows. "Not pockets. Pocketses is our home. And you are in it."
"This was not your home the last time I was here," Dartmouse pointed out. He tells them a tale of being betrayed and explains that he has come to reclaim what he can for his vengeance. The grave gremlins offer to help as vengeance appeals to them. "They may be noisome, Dartmouse, but they could be very... helpful." Indeed, they were. Using their shadow hopping, the gremlins fetched the tome from its magic-trapped niche.
Talondive broods over the loss of his arm as he studies the old tome.
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