- The best tales are born in blood.
Sanguine Stories is the 23rd questing area in the game (listed as 9.7 on the map) and becomes available when all sub-quests and boss encounters have been completed on at least normal difficulty in Tales from the Pumpkin Patch
NM Achievement Blood Screams
- Completing this area on normal will allow you to get the Shadow raid essence.
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Achievement[]
Title | Level 1 | Level 2 | Level 3 | Level 4 | Level 5 | Level 6 | Level 7 |
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Blood Screams (Complete Sanguine Stories on Nightmare difficulty.) |
1 25 AP |
5 50 AP |
10 100 AP |
25 250 AP |
50 500 AP |
100 1000 AP |
250 2000 AP |
Loot[]
Name | Att | Def | AV | Per | Ability | Obtained | |
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Orange Blood Tale | Craft x2 Stat Points (Collection), Pet Emporium Scroll 3, Apocolocyntosised Barbarian
, Pumpkin Clasp (General) |
Sanguine Stories quests | |||||
Purple Blood Tale | Craft x2 Stat Points (Collection), Apocolocyntosised Guardian, Pumpkin Clasp (General), Pet Emporium Scroll 3 | Sanguine Stories quests | |||||
Blue Blood Tale | Craft x2 Stat Points (Collection), Apocolocyntosised Barbarian, Pumpkin Clasp (General) | Sanguine Stories quests | |||||
Green Blood Tale | Craft x2 Stat Points (Collection), Apocolocyntosised Guardian, Pumpkin Clasp (General) | Sanguine Stories quests | |||||
Grey Blood Tale | Craft x2 Stat Points (Collection), Apocolocyntosised Barbarian, Pumpkin Clasp (General) | Sanguine Stories quests | |||||
Brown Blood Tale | Craft x2 Stat Points (Collection), Apocolocyntosised Guardian, Pumpkin Clasp (General) | Sanguine Stories quests |
Difficulties[]
Quest Name | Energy | Experience | Miniboss | Drops | |
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Mother's Eyes | 70 | 105 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3150-3850 | |
He's Coming for me | 70 | 105 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3150-3850 | |
Graveyard Smash | 70 | 105 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3150-3850 | |
Tomb of the Tentacled God | 70 | 105 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3150-3850 | |
Shadow | 100 | 200 | 14400-17600 |
Quest Name | Energy | Experience | Miniboss | Drops | |
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Mother's Eyes | 80 | 120 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3600-4400 | |
He's Coming for me | 80 | 120 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3600-4400 | |
Graveyard Smash | 80 | 120 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3600-4400 | |
Tomb of the Tentacled God | 80 | 120 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 3600-4400 | |
Shadow | 130 | 260 | 18720-22880 |
Quest Name | Energy | Experience | Miniboss | Drops | |
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Mother's Eyes | 110 | 165 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 4950-6050 | |
He's Coming for me | 110 | 165 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 4950-6050 | |
Graveyard Smash | 110 | 165 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 4950-6050 | |
Tomb of the Tentacled God | 110 | 165 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 4950-6050 | |
Shadow | 160 | 320 | 23040-28160 |
Quest Name | Energy | Experience | Miniboss | Drops | |
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Mother's Eyes | 150 | 225 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 6750-8250 | |
He's Coming for me | 150 | 225 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 6750-8250 | |
Graveyard Smash | 150 | 225 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 6750-8250 | |
Tomb of the Tentacled God | 150 | 225 | Apocolocyntosised Axe Murderer | 6750-8250 | |
Shadow | 180 | 360 | 25920-31680 |
Quest Lore[]
Pre Lore[]
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"So I pray for the souls, Of men I'll never know; The young woman sang and skipped down the country lane. Lank hair flapped behind her with every step, like the ragged remnants of a war-torn banner. It smacked against a coarse, stained dress that must've been made from a grocer's sack. Dranric grunted. A stupid little peasant wench. The sort who frolicked through life with an empty purse and emptier head. He looked over his shoulder. A rusty carpet of autumnal leaves stretched for a full mile, flanked by naked trees -- misshapen pillars supporting a deepening sky. The world around him was almost untenanted. Just that idiot girl and a few sheep scattered in the fields, chewing away their brief lives. Still an hour before darkness. Maybe more. He drew his knife and pressed its broad blade against the side of his face, cooling the bristles of an unshaven cheek. He'd get scant pickings here. But he couldn't ply his trade in the city, pluck its richer fruit, until the sunlight died. And something was better than nothing. Dranric quickened his pace. He didn't bother trying to sneak. The girl's untalented but enthusiastic singing voice and her springing stride masked his footfalls. "The gods up above, He grabbed a handful of dark hair. It was greasy, oily. Like entrails. She squealed when he yanked her backwards. His knee thudded into her belly and stole her breath before she could scream. Dranric shoved her against a tree. Her back hit it hard; the impact shuddered through her body. He grasped her throat and pinned her there. His other hand brandished the knife, letting her wide eyes focus on sharp steel. She groped for her pouch. Two grimy copper pieces appeared in a grimier palm. Her hand trembled and eyes pleaded, begging him to take the money and go. He slapped her forearm with his blade. The coins fell in the lane. The girl tried to wail, but his thumb pressed into the weak, tender flesh in the middle of her neck. Only a burbling moan came out. Dranric aimed the weapon at her ribs. Desperation burst through terror, like it usually did. She thrashed and struggled. Dirty fingers clawed at his forearm, nails gouging flesh. Scoring angry red furrows on his hairy skin. He let her fight. Listened to her heart hammering inside her chest, making the blood flow. Launching it throughout her body. Fast and hot. He pulled her off the tree and drove the knife into her side. Another stifled scream became a soft moan. Her eyes rolled and fluttered. Dranric twisted the blade, widening the wound. Blood gushed past steel. He dragged her to the ground and held her there, where her ruptured body could feed the growing crimson puddle. Dranric gazed into its red depths. And the story came, like it always did. Because everyone's blood told a story. It was better than he'd hoped for. A tale of love and adventure, of knights whose panoplies shone in the crimson pool. She'd been a dreamer, this dying peasant girl. Or maybe she'd heard this one from a grandparent or a wandering minstrel. It didn't matter. The story was hers, however it'd come about, and now it was his. He followed it to the end, when its chivalrous hero hugged the damsel and they kissed in the sunlight. A silly peasant dream for a silly peasant girl. But enjoyable all the same. Dranric cleaned his knife on her rough dress. His first story hadn't been so different, had it? When he'd come home to find his sister lying on the kitchen floor, head cracked by a clumsy fall against the corner of the fireplace. Blood pooling in a sticky mess of hair. His horror had vanished in an instant when he saw it, when the story played across the shimmering surface of spilled life. A tale of heroism and romance. He'd sat there, giggling and clapping his boyish hands while the crimson narrative unfolded. His parents thought he'd taken leave of his senses. Been driven mad by his sibling's death. They'd grabbed him, shaken him -- as though madness could be dislodged like loose rocks from a hillside. And he'd learned the truth. They couldn't see the stories. Only he could, because he was special. Chosen by the gods or the raw, primal might that throbbed inside the blood of all living things. The stories were for him, and him alone. Dranric stood up. He sheathed his blade and glanced down the lane in each direction. The world was still empty, save for the sheep. Emptier now, with the girl's eyes staring into space. There were no more stories here. But there would be tonight. The sky was blue, but darkness would fall. Not just any darkness. A special one. Special, like him. Because tonight was Pumpkin Night. And on Pumpkin Night the blood always held the choicest tales. Stories of fear and horror. His eyes tingled. He could already feel them. Tonight would be magnificent. Dranric left the path and walked across the field. Towards Liven. Towards dark alleyways where men and women could disappear among the shadows, and a blade would spill their secrets. |
Mother's Eyes[]
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I love my mother.
Sometimes we spend all day playing in the gardens -- running around the flowerbeds, throwing stones into the lake, feeding the geese, or just sitting on the grass and singing in the sunlight. If I get tired, she carries me inside and lies down with me. I curl up in her lap and snuggle my head against her bosom. Her perfume smells like warm roses, so it's like we're still outside, resting on a bed of sweet petals. She tells me stories till I fall asleep. Stories about heroes and princesses and dragons. Father wants me to have a tutor. He says I need to learn about real things, like numbers and history. But mother says no. She says she'll teach me everything herself. Just mother and daughter. We don't need anyone else. Father argues, and tries to have his way. But mother loves me more. Tonight father wanted to take mother to another silly ball or banquet. He made her dress in a gown that looked like a cake, and had the maids wind her hair into ringlets. But when the carriage came, I hugged her leg and cried. Father got angry. He glared at me and said I was a bad daughter. But mother knew I wasn't. She knew I loved her. So she stayed and he went off on his own, fuming like the evil kings in our stories. He hasn't come back yet. Mother's waiting for him downstairs. I said she should come up and read me a story, but she told me to go to bed. I hate father! Mother was crying, and I went down to see what had happened. I thought father had upset her again. But he wasn't there. She was in the parlor, with the servants all fussing around her. Bartlett, our coachman, was standing near the doorway. He'd got muddy footprints on the nice clean rug, and I thought that was a silly thing to cry about. But then he turned around. He was covered with blood. Bandits attacked the carriage and wounded him. Father tried to fight, so they killed him with their swords. I ran to mother and she hugged me tight. She shrieked like a terrible ghost, and cried and cried. But I was happy. I'd saved her, by making her stay. And now father would never get in our way again. It'd be just me and mother. Forever and ever. Mother's still sad. She's wept and wept for weeks and weeks, and she hardly seems to eat anything. But she must eat sometime, perhaps when I'm sleeping, because she's getting very fat. Maybe that's why she won't play with me in the gardens anymore. But that's okay. I cuddle up to her in bed, and put my head on her big, round belly while she reads me stories. Screams woke me up in middle of the night. Mother's screams, loud and horrible. I ran to her bedroom but the servants stopped me in the hall. They held me there, and wouldn't let me pass -- no matter how much I kicked and scratched and shouted. Mother screamed and screamed and screamed, like she was being murdered! And they wouldn't let me help her! But then she stopped, and I heard crying. When they let me go inside, mother was lying in bed, covered in so much sweat it made her face shine. She seemed so weak and tired, but she was smiling. Smiling and looking at me with bright eyes, like she didn't even know she'd been screaming. And she told me I had a sister. Ellie. Something's wrong. Mother doesn't know, and the servants don't either, but something's wrong. Ellie's wrong. Don't they remember the screams? Mother was hurt! Something hurt her! Now everyone's happy and smiling... A baby needs a mother and a father. Everyone knows that. In the stories, princesses have kings and queens. Ellie doesn't have a father! I asked mother, and she said my father was Ellie's father too. But he's dead! Father's dead! Doesn't she remember? I think it's a curse. Dark magic. I have to protect mother. Mother's always in her bedroom now, with Ellie. I wanted to stay with her, to watch over her. I said she should read me a story. But she said we'd wake Ellie up, and sent me away! She rang for Bartlett. He said he'd read to me, and asked me which of my stories he should read. But I told him I wanted a new book. One about curses and dark magic. Something's happening to mother, and I have to find out what! He took me to father's old library so we could find something. I hate it in there. It's dark, and dusty, and there are cobwebs high up where the maids don't clean. But I needed to be brave, for mother. Bartlett found us a book on the fey folk. He lit the fire and we sat beside it, reading. The fey folk are evil creatures. Their stories made me shiver. I know what Ellie is now. I peeked through the keyhole in mother's door, and I saw it. Ellie was biting into her bosom, like a big pink leech! Sucking the life out of her! And mother just smiled and sang! I wanted to bang on the door and call to her. But she's under the fey folk's spell, so she wouldn't understand. That's why mother's losing so much weight, and her big round belly's disappeared. Because Ellie's feeding on her! Ellie's a changeling, like in the book. A fairy monster that pretends to be a baby. I asked Bartlett to read more of the book with me, but I didn't tell him why. The servants must be under the changeling's spell too. Otherwise they'd have helped mother on the night Ellie came. When she was screaming. It said changelings pretend to be human till they come of age. Then they murder their families, and summon more of the fey folk to take their places too. Ellie's going to kill us! But that means she'll keep her secret hidden for years first. I'm safe for now, and so's mother. As long as Ellie doesn't know I know, we're safe. I can watch her and wait for the right time. Mother's with Ellie every day now. The changeling's stolen her from me. But I'll wait. One day it'll be time. Today mother and Ellie played in the gardens. They ran around the flowerbeds, laughing and singing. I wanted to go out and pull Ellie's hair. Drag her to the ground and yell that I know her secret. But it isn't the right time. I can't let her know. Otherwise she'll call the fey folk early, and they'll harm mother. I have to save mother. Mother wanted to take us riding. But when the groom tried to put Ellie on a pony, the animal whined and fought. The groom said it must be ill, but the horse knows the truth. Animals can sense the fey folk. That's why Ellie's scared of Ripper, the gardener's mastiff! The pony died last night. The stablehands found him lying in his stall, with goo leaking out of his ears. They said it proves he was ill after all. But I know what happened. Ellie killed him. Ellie or the fairies watching over her. There's a war! Dragons are attacking the kingdom, and I heard one of the servants say they'll eat us all! I ran to mother, but she was with Ellie. The changeling was bawling her eyes out, and mother was cuddling her. I don't know if she was just pretending to be scared. Maybe fairies are frightened of dragons? I wish a dragon would come and gobble her up! Mother held her, and said we shouldn't be afraid. She said brave people were fighting the dragons. People like my aunt in Fallows. A messenger came. There was a big battle in Fallows, and mother's sister got hurt. She wants to see mother, but she's not well enough to travel here. Mother's going to take the carriage and visit her instead. Bartlett says it'll be safe. He says the heroes killed the dragon there and saved the town. Ellie begged to go with her. But mother says Fallows will be horrible so soon after a battle. She doesn't want us to see that. Ellie pretended to cry, but I was brave and mother was proud of me. I told Ellie we should take a walk around the lake. She smiled, and said it would be fun. Does she know that I know? Will she try to kill me when we're away from the house and the servants? Maybe. But I'm ready. I stole an iron spike from the stables. The fey folk hate iron. I have to be brave, and protect mother. I came back to the house alone, screaming, with my dress and hair soaked. I said we were sitting on the stone ledge that hangs over the lake, where father used to dive from, and that Ellie fell in. I cried, and told the maids I'd jumped in to save her, but she'd hit her head and it was too late. They believed me. They've sent a messenger to Fallows. Mother's safe now. She'll be sad, but she's safe. And it'll just be the two of us again. Mother and daughter. Forever and ever. Ellie came back. In the mirror. I was brushing my hair, and there she was -- in the glass. Staring. Just staring, with those cold, evil fairy eyes. I screamed and ran. A maid grabbed me in the corridor. She asked me what was wrong. I sobbed, and said, "Ellie!" She hugged me and put me in bed. I said Ellie was in the mirror, but the maid said I was just upset. She didn't believe me. The changeling's magic's still on her. On all of them. I can't let her come through the mirrors. Mother will be back from Fallows soon, and I won't let Ellie hurt her! The changeling knows I'm her enemy now. If she gets through, she'll kill us all. I smashed my mirror with the iron spike. It shattered to pieces, so Ellie can't get through it now. I went to mother's room and broke her one too, before the servants could stop me. I said it was because of Ellie. They gave me a warm drink and put me to bed. I smiled when they were gone. I've beaten the changeling. It's midnight. Everyone in the house is asleep. Everyone except me. I snuck into the maid's room, and found the iron spike she took from me. I'll need it tonight. To save mother. Mother came back today. She was crying. I ran into her arms and she held me. She stroked my hair. And it was like old times. Just me and mother, before the changeling came. But then I looked up into her eyes. Mother's big, wet eyes. And I saw her. I saw Ellie. Because mother's eyes are bright, shining mirrors. And Ellie can come back through mirrors. I wanted to scream, to warn her. But I kept quiet and just hugged her tight. If I'd said something, Ellie would've known I'd seen her. She'd have hurt mother. I won't let her hurt mother. Mother has beautiful eyes. She'll be so sorry to lose them. But it'll be okay. I'll look after her, and help her with everything she can't do. I'll read stories to her, and braid her hair. Because I love mother. Forever and ever. |
He's Coming for Me[]
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She's just a child. Watching at the window, huddled in a blanket and the darkness. Her parents' edicts have condemned her to bed, sealed her in her room like a princess locked within a tower, while older children torment the world in frightening costumes and terrorize the night with their screams. Those happy cries, the pleasure of scares inflicted and received, taunt her. But she snatches what vicarious joy she can from her window.
Did she nod off? She must've done. Because the cries have stopped. The night's soft and silent, save for the wind in the branches and the hoots of owls reclaiming the dark. She sighs. Even those fleeting glimpses of festive fun are gone now. Nothing beckons but bed, sleep, and the morning's weary trudge to the schoolhouse. She's already shifting, trying to muster up the energy to move from window to mattress. Fatigue of mind and disappointment of heart weigh her down. She almost turns away and misses it. But she lingers just long enough to catch movement in the corner of her eye. A figure saunters down the road, hideous in its ghastly green flesh. Its face might've been snatched from her nightmares. But the monster whistles a jaunty tune and springs up with every step, kicking its heels together. It's Kurnbart. The miller's son. She scowls. She's always hated him, for calling her names and pulling her pigtails. Yet she watches him all the same -- unwilling to surrender this last lingering trace of Pumpkin Night revelry. Kurnbart whistles his way along the path. His idle kicks scatter piles of russet leaves. They flap and flutter around him like dark little bats, and settle in his wake. He's almost out of sight now. About to escape into the unseen world beyond her little window, taking with him all that remains of the festival's macabre magic. She sighs. Then she hears them. Hoof beats. Hard and fast. The steed is invisible, further down the road. But Kurnbart must see it. Because he stops. He cries out. He turns around and runs, flying back over the strewn leaves, trampling his former conquests. The breath catches in her throat. What's happening? Bandits? The word's unreal, like 'ogre' or 'dragon'. She's heard the adults speak of them, the criminals who lurk among the wilderness' distant routes. But here? In the tame countryside? Kurnbart wails. It doesn't carry far. A soft, smothered sound, just for her. He slips. The leaves get their revenge, sliding out beneath his clumsy costume boots. He falls onto his hands and knees. The hooves grow louder. Louder. Louder. Kurnbart turns his head, looks up. His eyes meet hers. Then the rider comes. It happens impossibly fast. A blur of flame and bone. Her eyes can't comprehend, and it's left to her brain to make sense of fiery afterimages. A skeletal steed. A burning pumpkin. Speed and fury and darkness. Kurnbart, gone. Just gone. He didn't even have time to scream. The girl's eyes light up. It was him! The one from the stories. Magnificent and terrible. A legend come to life for the boy's destruction and her delight. In the distance, laughter. It echoes off her lips. Jack. She stays at the window for an hour, perhaps longer. He doesn't reappear. But that's okay. The warmth of memory still burns within her, and later thrills her dreams. Jack... She's eleven. Sitting in the dark, waiting. In the distance there are screams and laughter. Costumed horrors wreak merry havoc. She doesn't care. Their silly, childish games aren't for her. The cat in her arms is cold now, its fur hard and sticky. Like bristles. A red-black puddle shimmers at her feet. She waits. And waits. But he doesn't come. The darkness settles around her, and she sighs. Her offering, her token of love, isn't enough. She's twelve. The past year brought a growth spurt that's left her taller than any of the boys at school. It's made her tougher. Stronger. That strength helped her tonight, let her wield the knife in an untiring fist. Butchered sheep lie on their sides, wool dark and red. Filth pools around their split underbellies. Her hands are filthy too. Sticky with blood and goo. They stink of life and waste. But it's a good smell, a smell of love and devotion. Last year she was a fool -- offering a mangy alley cat. Why would Jack pay attention to something so paltry? He'll take notice this time! He'll see his name spelled out in guts and gore! So she waits. Watching for the flicker of fire on the horizon. Listening for the galloping hooves. But dawn breaks. She's still alone. She sighs, and walks her weary way home. She's fourteen. There's a spark in her eyes that the village boys find alluring. But she pays them no heed, and rebuffs them at every turn. Because one day he will come for her. When she proves herself. When she's worthy. For months she watches the seasons crawl over the land, and longs for the time when nature's flaming torches will lay waste to the leaves. At last it comes. That autumnal massacre. And with it the day she yearns for as others crave their birthdays or the winter festival. Pumpkin Night. Another chance. She wanders the shadowy lanes, grasping knife and courage. What she plans to do tonight makes her hand tremble. The risk... The danger... The consequences. She bites her tongue, focusing on the pain. In her mind's eye she sees him. A blazing hero, a champion, riding his skeletal steed. That steadies her for the moment. In the end, the gods or darkness smile on her. There's a scream. A cry for help that becomes a splutter. Thrashing limbs splash in water. She runs to the edge of the lake, where clothes lie in a tangled heap. Out on the water, the frightened youth sees her. He calls out. Desperate hope blooms in his eyes. It's Taderly, the tailor's apprentice, and he knows she's a strong swimmer. She smiles. Then she reaches down. Her fingers close around a big, hard, muddy rock. She throws it. The missile splashes in the water. Her aim's bad, but that's okay. There are lots of rocks. She throws and misses three times before the flailing, spluttering boy comprehends. His next cry is of wordless disbelief. It makes her laugh. Her next rock smacks him right in the forehead. The thrashing stops. He disappears under the blue-black water. She sits down and waits. Jack must come for her now, mustn't he? He must! Cold winds whip across the lake, chilling her bones. She rubs her hands and wedges them under her armpits. He must... But he doesn't. She's sixteen, and she won't let anything stop her. Not now. Not tonight. Last year she was ill. A fever racked her body, and brought her to the brink of death. She spent Pumpkin Night moaning in her bed while her parents knelt beside it, hands clasped together, lips muttering entreaties to the gods. Jack rode through delirium and twisted dreams. He was disappointed with her. She hadn't earned his respect, his praise, his love. She screamed and begged his forgiveness. Tonight she'll be worthy. She drinks the potions, stolen from the foolish young alchemist whose gaze caresses her body but whose hands never will. Power surges through her blood. A hundred heartbeats drum within her veins. Muscles, already firm from chores, twitch and strengthen. The cleaver felt heavy a moment ago. But it's light when she picks it up. Light as a child's toy. So's the big butcher knife in her other hand. This time there's no doubt, no hesitation. Only screams. Flashing steel. Blood. She kills five before the guards tackle her. Her parents cry as the hangman fits the noose around her neck. Some of the villagers jeer, curse, and wail. She doesn't care. Her eyes are on the horizon. "He's coming for me," she says. He'll ride into the village. Burning with flame and fury. Trampling them beneath his horse's hooves. Laying waste with sword and scythe. He'll whisk her away, and they'll gallop into the night. "He's coming for me..." Where is he? And she hears it, when the wood falls away. Hears it as she dances on air. Jack's laughter, echoing in the darkness. |
Graveyard Smash[]
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"Bloody stupid, you ask me," Gern said.
He plunged his shovel into the mound of dirt, grunted, and transferred a considerable heap into the open grave. "Yeah, stupid..." Lia said. She sighed and matched his movement, casting another shovelful of crumbling earth onto the cheap wooden coffin. Hard chunks drummed against its lid. "All that carrying on, dressed up like monsters." The old man turned his head and spat on the mound. Saliva glistened atop the next little pile he tossed in the hole. "And not just the children, mind, like it was in my day. You know who I saw last year, running around the town square?" "The mayor." Lia sighed again, and continued her halfhearted assault on the dirt. "The mayor! Going about in a white sheet, howling-" "...like a ghost." Lia looked towards the graveyard's distant railings, which were almost lost in the gloom. But she felt Gern's piercing gaze on her cheek as he snorted. "Right. Like a ghost." "You told me. Anyway, I-" "Folk think it's funny, pretending to be zombies, vampires, and the gods only know what else." "Gern..." "Make them do an honest night's work here, dealing with real undead, then see if they think it's so bloody funny! I tell you, these-" "Gern!" "Huh? What?" "Tomorrow night..." "It's all right, girl." His mouth split open in a smile that managed to be both ghastly and avuncular at the same time. "I understand." "You... You do?" "Course I do. But don't you worry. It's okay." "Really?" The girl's face lit up. "You don't mind?" "Mind? Course not! It's only natural, on Pumpkin Night." "Thank you! I'm going to-" "Every gravedigger gets a little nervous this time of year, and it's your first! Nothing wrong with being scared." "...dress up like Katrina von Malhaven, and..." She blinked. "Dress up?" So did Gern. "Scared?" "What?" they chorused. "We're... We're going to celebrate Pumpkin Night," Lia said. "Me and the other kids." "What!?!" "I said-" "Who's going to help me with the night's work, if you're running around pretending to be a zombie?" "Katrina von Malhaven's a vampire! The one from..." Lia snorted and shook her head. "Look, I'm here every night. Every night! When everyone else is out having fun!" "Fun!" Gern spat into the grave. "Fun's for jesters and... and harlots!" "I'm a harlot now?" Lia's eyes narrowed. "You will be tomorrow, if you dress like one!" "Katrina von Malhaven's not a... Oh, go to hell!" She dropped her sharpened shovel, turned on her heel, and stormed off. Issaoe Nightclaw's feline eyes drank the darkness. Her pupils expanded, ebon pools filled and nourished by shadow. A purr vibrated in her throat as she padded down the cellar's rough wooden steps, turned the corner, and entered the small, dank stone chamber. Then it became a short, sharp hiss. "Where's Treluce?" she said. There were six chairs at the round table in the middle of the room. Figures garbed in hooded robes, black as the surrounding gloom, occupied four of them -- painted in umbral and penumbral shades by the weak, half-smothered light of the dark lantern at the center of the table. They glanced at one another. Issaoe sat down and stared at them in turn. "The town guards caught him," Mincrolt said. The human scratched his nose, scraping away little flecks of skin. "He was trying to snatch a lad off the street." "They took him straight to the gallows and hanged him," Xrekzi said. Her beady goblin eyes glittered like oily fish scales. The felpuur growled. Claws slid in and out of her fingertips. Elldo, the plump gnome, and Shabana, the dusky woman from Bhanipur, shuffled their chairs away on either side. Wood scraped on stone, making Issaoe's ears twitch and bristle. "Idiot," she said. "I told him, I told all of you -- no murders, no abductions. Not before tomorrow night. Nothing to draw attention." "Treluce said he..." Mincrolt trailed off. They all knew their former fellow necromancer's proclivities. Issaoe clawed at the table, scoring five long furrows in the wood. The others winced. A shudder worked its way through her bones, unpleasant but somehow satisfying. "If anyone else gets themselves killed, I'll raise them back up and feed them to wild dogs!" She hissed again, then sighed. "How many zombies?" "I've got one," Elldo said. "Found her by the roadside. Looked like bandit work." "Three," Xrekzi said. She aimed a sharp green nose and sneering mouth at the gnome. "An explosion at the alchemists' guild. Killed by gas -- still intact." "No zombies," Shabana said. "But four skeletons. Taken from the ossuary." "You went into the shrine of Karuss?" the gnome said. "What if-" Shabana shrugged. "With the cleric dead, the place is empty," she said. "But the god! He-" "If he cared, he'd have thrown a lightning bolt. But he didn't, so I have four skeletons." Issaoe Nightclaw's mouth opened in a growling grin. The Bhanipuri had always been her favorite ally. Bold, cunning. She should have thought of the ossuary herself. Ancient bones, just sitting there beneath an uninhabited little temple, one that would remain vacant till the new priest arrived to take up his role -- or forever, if their plan succeeded. "My flesh golem's finished," Mincrolt said. "One of my contacts sold me the oroc arm I wanted." "More than enough," Issaoe said. "I don't know..." Elldo's gaze met hers, then flicked to the side as though the rest of his words were intended for the lantern. "I've heard stories about that gravedigger. He's meant to be a tough one! They say he-" "One man. One man, against the four of us and our minions. He's not Lord Tyranthius! He's just an old fool with a shovel!" "Maybe... But I hear he once headbutted a berserker in the pub, and knocked him right out." "Good," Shabana said. "After we kill him and build our army from his graveyard, we'll raise him too! We'll need good fighters to defeat the town guard." Yes, Issaoe thought, the Bhanipuri was her favorite ally. Which meant she'd be the most dangerous rival. The felpuur would have to keep an eye on her. But that was a problem for another time. For now, all that mattered was Pumpkin Night. "What do you think, mam?" Lia asked. She shuffled through a cautious, hesitating rotation -- turning her head to keep her eyes trained on the tall mirror, as though she feared its treachery. The dress' red and black fabric blustered around her. "You look lovely!" her mother said. "You'll be the prettiest girl in town!" Lia frowned. Parents always said stupid things like that, and she should know better than to put any faith in her mother's loving lies. The gown was just a silly cheap thing. Gathered materials she'd sewn together in a laughable imitation of the magnificent garment Katrina von Malhaven wore when she came to meet with the mayor years ago -- which an artist had captured in paint, preserved to hang in the town hall. She should take it off right now. Throw it away and... The apprentice gravedigger stopped turning. She stared at her reflection, still awaiting betrayal. But... Lia tried to stop the smile that bloomed in her eyes, spread through her cheeks, and curved her mouth. It was like trying to hold back the tide. Her costume looked great. She looked great. "I should go show..." she began. Lia bit her lip. Gern? Show Gern, who'd just snort and call her a harlot? Her gaze hardened and sharpened. To hell with the gravedigger. If he wanted to spend Pumpkin Night with the dead, he was welcome to it. She was going to have fun. "You call this ogre piss beer?" Gern said. "Yeah..." the gnome said. She looked down at him from the height granted by tall boots and the long plank which ran behind the bar. "And that's what you'll call it too, 'less you want to get chucked out." The gravedigger grunted and took a second sip. If anything, it was worse than the first. Terrible ale for a terrible pub. But Lia's father owned his favorite drinking hole, and he was in no mood to bump into that silly little girl. "Anyway," the barmaid said, "a bit early for ale, ain't it?" She gestured at the empty taproom. "The rest of our lot won't be here till dark. Come back then, and we'll have better grog. Pumpkin tarts too! And there's a prize for the best costume. Maybe you'd win it with that zombie outfit you're wearing..." Gern glowered at her. "Some of us'll be busy," he said, "doing an honest night's work." He took another drink, spat it back into the tankard, and slammed the vessel down on the bar. Droplets splashed in all directions. "Oi! Watch it!" "I'm going back to the cemetery!" He got off the barstool and stomped towards the door. "Here, wait! That's no place to be on Pumpkin Night! There might be ghosts, and ghouls, and wraiths, and-" "Aye!" Gern looked back over his shoulder. "And whose job do you think it is to shove them back in their blasted graves, while the rest of you dress up like idiots and carry on like a bunch of kids?" He yanked the door open and barged his way into the street, through a cluster of protesting youths with tufts of hair stuck to their faces. "And what are you supposed to be?" he said. "We're werewolves!" one of the boys said. "Werewolves." The gravedigger's glare sent them running. "This bloody town... Serve the lot of 'em right if I let zombies eat their brains..." Laughter, cheers, and cries of mock rage or terror echoed through the forest. Lia headed towards them, where the fire's playful flames beckoned between leafless trees, offering light and warmth in the darkness. The big, heavy sack bumped against her ribs and spine. Rough cloth chafed her hands as they held its mouth closed at her shoulder. But the ceramic bottles' clinking and clattering were as merry as the voices, and made the burden light. Her father would be angry when she got home, despite the handful of coins she'd left behind -- weeks of apprentice gravedigger pay. He never let her drink anything stronger than small beer. She'd grown up seeing what drink did to young folk in the pub, he'd tell her. She should know better. There'd be arguments. Shouting. His face floated before her. Stern, admonishing. So did Gern's. Lia smiled and dispelled them. "I'm going to have fun tonight," she said, "and if you two don't like it, you can both piss off." The clearing was alive with the mad rush of young bodies. A goblin with wickerwork demon wings chased a giggling girl around the fire, prodding her buttocks with a wooden trident. A felpuur, her fur dyed red with black patterns like a blood wolf's, was on all fours -- howling at the moon. At least half a dozen musical instruments played, while boys and girls danced in the discord. "Hey! It's the graverobber!" Alecia, the blacksmith's daughter, said. "Keep your hands to yourself -- we're not dead here!" "Not yet..." Lia murmured. But she managed a smile and even a small laugh at what passed for humor. "Who invited the freak?" Graeme, the butcher's boy said. His face was hidden inside a bloody, hollowed-out bull's head, but she'd know his jeering voice anywhere. "No one," Castor said. The fishmonger's handsome son shoved Graeme's flabby arm, making the fat wobble. "But you came along anyway, with half a cow on your head." There was laughter. Because when Castor told a joke, or anything resembling one, there was always laughter. And Lia found herself laughing along with the rest. "Tell me you brought the beer," he said. She heaved the sack off her shoulder, set it on the ground, and pulled it wide open. Laughs became cheers. Snatching hands grabbed. Corks left bottles in a symphony of soft pops. And they drank. Lia sat on a log, the sack at her feet, and received praise like a queen accepting the tribute of conquered nations. She looked amazing, they said. Her Galba costume was wonderful. Oh, Katrina von Malhaven? That's what they meant! She was the spitting image of her! The spitting image! Could they have another beer? Thanks! And yeah, it was a great Galba... Katrina... costume. Just great. Some glugged their ale like the drunkards in her family's pub. Young but already hardened to it. Others spluttered, winced, and tried to hide weakness lest ridicule follow. It tasted foul in Lia's mouth. But people were laughing, patting her on the back. So she grinned and drank. And after the first couple of bottles, the others weren't as bad. "You coming?" a voice asked. "Huh?" Lia blinked, and Castor's smiling face appeared, warm and radiant amid a blurry halo of firelight. Happy, cheering voices were disappearing into the darkness behind him, where fallen leaves rustled and twigs snapped one by one. "We're going to have some fun," he said. He took her hand and pulled her off the log. "Come on! Don't forget those..." She grabbed the sack. It was lighter now, easier to heft. Lia swung it beside her as they ran after the others. As they ran towards Pumpkin Night, and whatever fun it had to offer. Her laughter joined theirs. "Bloody kids," Gern said. "No respect. No work ethic..." He continued grumbling for some moments, while his sharpened shovel shifted back and forth in the light of moon and lantern, filling the latest grave. But it just wasn't the same without Lia there to hear it. He patted the earth into shape with the flat of his blade and sighed. Had he really become so accustomed to having an apprentice, after just a few short months? A high-pitched giggle sliced above the tombstones. It was brief, just an instant of noise among the rustling branches, stifled almost as soon as it'd begun. But the gravedigger's ears caught it all the same. His eyes gleamed. Graverobbers, probably. Well, they'd learn what happened to thieves in his cemetery! Gern grasped his weapon and slipped between the graves, through the bushes. Another giggle. Louder, closer. He crouched low -- letting the old stone markers shield his approach. "Quiet!" a female voice hissed. "Sorry!" a male one answered. He giggled again. "You know I'm ticklish!" "Oi!" Gern said. He leapt out from behind a gravestone, ready to hew heads from shoulders, and blinked. "What the..." Two faces gawped at him. The young man squealed, making his bare, scrawny chest shiver. The gnome girl gasped, and crossed her arms over her underdone bodice. "What the hell are you people doing?" "Nothing!" the gnome said. "Nothing! We're... We're..." "Paying our respects?" the man said. Gern snorted. "This is one of those dark rituals, isn't it? I've heard of them!" He pulled his weapon back to strike. "No one summons succubuses in my graveyard!" The man shrieked and raised his arms. "Wait! Wait!" "We weren't summoning sucky-whatevers!" the gnome said. "We were just going to shag!" "Yeah! Shag! Honest!" Gern stared into their frightened, frantic eyes, and lowered the shovel. "This is my mother's grave!" the man continued. "She never liked Mizzi, and said we'd be together over her dead body! So, I... We..." "We thought it'd make her mad, in hell!" The gravedigger glared. "Put your clothes back on and piss off, before I send you both down there to find out!" The lovers scurried away -- she working at her bodice, he wrestling with his jerkin and letting out a yelp whenever he bumped into a gravestone. They disappeared among the cemetery's twisting paths and autumn foliage. "Damn young people," Gern said. "If they're not using the whole wide world as their latrine, they're using it as their bedroom. In my day-" Two screams tore the night. The gravedigger swore. He was an instant away from breaking into a run, charging towards the cries of terror, when another voice sounded -- this one far, far closer. "Braaaaains!" Cold, dead hands grabbed at him. The voices up ahead were still merry. Hot with joy and ale. Laughing, cheering. So happy and elated that it took Lia several moments to process the words they chanted again and again. "Get the witch!" "Get the witch!" "Get the witch!" Castor's laughter rang in her ear. "Come on!" he said. He ran, pulling her after him. Bottles clinked in the sack. "Get the witch!" The wobbling world settled a little when the two of them came to a stop, as though fastened by the cool breeze that chilled her cheeks now they were out of the forest. A small house came into focus past exuberant faces. Faint light shone in the cracks of a shuttered window. "That's Prya's house," Lia said. "Get the witch!" "Get the witch!" Her sack fell to the ground beside her. But other sacks appeared, and went from hand to hand. "She's not a witch. Just a crazy old woman..." "Get the witch!" Something whizzed through the air and cracked against the house's old, weatherworn stone. Then another. All around her, arms cocked and let fly. Rocks crashed and clattered all over the little dwelling. The sound of slate roof tiles splitting added itself to the laughter. A hefty throw thudded on the shuttered window and splintered rotten wood. "Get the witch!" "Get the witch!" Everyone grinned, jeered. Lia blinked at them through the haze. The red felpuur... The wicker-winged goblin... Alecia... All of them. Even little Susannah, who never spoke a harsh word, and spent her days singing hymns. She was laughing and lobbing with the rest. The greater madness of the mob had driven her mad too, transformed her angelic face into a demon's leer. Other missiles flew now. Splatting instead of cracking. The sulfurous stink of rotten eggs assaulted Lia's nose. "Get the witch!" Castor said. He glugged from a bottle with one hand, aimed and threw a rock with the other. "Get the witch!" "Wait..." Lia said. "Wait..." "Get the witch!" Someone tried to press an egg into her hand. It fell in the dirt. "Get the witch!" A bottle spun end over end, a drunken bird fleeing from drunken fools. It shattered against the house and died in a rain of shards. "Oi!" Lia said. "No!" Alecia was groping at the sack, going for a fresh weapon. Lia shoved at her. The blacksmith's burly daughter shoved her back. Lia staggered, feet kicking at the earth for purchase, and tripped on the hem of her dress. She hit the ground and stared up at a ring of horrid grins. "Piss off, graverobber!" "Get the witch!" The gravedigger's apprentice roared. She got to her feet, eyes gleaming, fists clenching. Gern had taught her to fight the creatures of the night, damn it! Zombies! Vampires! Did that fat cow think she could push her around? "Alecia!" she said. The blacksmith's daughter turned. Lia's punch caught her in the stomach and doubled her over. "Hey!" Graeme grabbed her arm. "You-" Lia's other fist hammered into his groin. He went down, moaning. The winged goblin thrust his trident at her. She seized it behind the head and yanked him into a headbutt. He crumpled. There were more. Grabbing hands, clawing fingers. Her fists and elbows thudded on bone and flesh. Cries of anger gave way to pain. They fell back. Some were already running, fleeing into the night. Cowards... "Get lost!" she said. "All of-" The back of her head exploded. Lia sprawled in the dirt, lights dancing inside her eyes. A numb hand groped for her injury. Fingers brushed hard, sharp fragments, and came away wet. Gods... Was that her skull? "Castor!" Graeme's voice throbbed, echoed. "Is she dead?" "Who cares?" So did Alecia's. Pounding feet. Running into the night. Everyone leaving. Running towards Pumpkin Night, and whatever fun it had to offer. No... Not everyone. A boot appeared beside her face, crunching the broken bits of bottle. Not her skull... Thank the gods... Not her skull... Lia flopped over, onto her back. Things scraped and scratched her head. Little demon fingers, clawing for her brains. And there was Castor -- still framed by halos. Blood gushed from the wreckage in the middle of his once handsome face. "Oo brk m'nus!" An elbow. There was pride in that thought, but it vanished an instant later. When Castor raised his hand. The big piece of broken bottle glimmered in the moonlight like a blade. "No..." Lia said. "Please..." He lifted it up, a sacrificial dagger aimed at her eyes. "Dragons fall from the sky! Kalaxia screams! Erebus roars!" The cry, a woman's voice, made Castor's head snap round. "Roland with his swords! Medea playing to the stars! Elf music! Men of Kruna, opening doors!" Lia turned, pressing her cheek against the cool, wet ground. Prya stood in the open doorway, grey hair wild like a gorgon's. The old woman strode towards them, tattered dress flapping around her, eyes burning -- a pair of hot coals set in her withered face. "Blood in the snow! Crenus and Isabella! Justice by the sea!" The murderous shard fell from Castor's hand. He took one last look at Lia, another at Prya, and ran. The gravedigger's apprentice exhaled. "A thousand stars. Talia, Ragnar. Sorrow and rage." Her voice was softer now. She knelt beside Lia, and a wrinkled hand stroked the girl's hair. "A man in black. Young and ancient." Her grasp was strong. Stronger than Lia would've thought possible. She helped the girl to her feet. "Fade to gold," the woman whispered. "Fade to gold." Prya turned around and went back to her egg-splattered house, muttering more nonsense. Lia watched the old woman go. The apprentice gravedigger pressed a hand against the back of her head. So much blood... It'd need stitching up. Not home. Her mother and father would ask questions, demand to know who'd done it. With that thought, Lia's eyes blazed. Castor! But he could wait. There was only one place for Lia to go. So she turned towards it, and walked into the night. Gern twisted in the zombie's grasp. "Braaa-" The top of the gravedigger's head smashed into an undead face. His enemy stumbled backwards, and Gern swung his shovel. Enchanted metal cleaved rotten flesh. The zombie's head went spinning away. Gern grunted. Shuffling footsteps... The stench of decomposing skin and voided bowels... More zombies. And...
He spun round and hacked. A ribcage shattered beneath his blade. Bits of old, dusty yellow-brown bone clattered at his boots. The skull's jaw clacked open and shut twice before falling onto the pile. "Bloody Pumpkin Night..." Gern backpedaled, shovel raised in a high guard, keeping his half dozen foes in front of him. That was one of the first things a gravedigger learned: don't let the bastards surround you, otherwise your brains end up in their guts. "Come on then, you rotting bastards!" The dead shambled forward, silent save for the skeletons' clicking bones and the zombies' low, rumbling groan. None responded to his taunt. And no intelligence glimmered in glazed eyes or within the soft glow of skeletal sockets. That meant they were probably mindless puppets. He glanced around, but there was no sign of the necromancer. Gern snorted. After he put this lot down, he'd find their master or mistress and- "Rrraaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrr!" The roar was followed by a crash. A hulking mass of muscle smashed through the trees where the lovers had disappeared moments earlier, battering aside a storm of broken branches. Gern gawped at the monstrosity, at the discordant body parts of at least four races, held together in a mismatched humanoid form by lines of heavy stitches. Even its hideous head was bisected -- marred and mangled along the haphazard diagonal line where an orc's green flesh met half a human face. The abomination lumbered forward, reached down, and grasped a heavy granite tombstone. "Bloody hell..." Gern dived and rolled. The granite mass crashed among the grave markers, cracking and crushing, launching pieces of sharp stone in all directions. He swore as they bit into his flesh. "Rrraaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrr!" Heavy footsteps pounded. Gern got up and looked around. But there was nowhere to run. The plodding monster... The shuffling zombies and skeletons... And now, on the other side, figures in dark robes emerging from among the crypts. The gravedigger sighed and gripped his weapon tight. At least he'd die in his graveyard... Lia's hand froze on the cemetery gate. In her brief time as Gern's apprentice, she'd learned to recognize the various nefarious sounds this place could harbor. Zombies' groans. A banshee's wail. The arrogant cackle of a newly risen vampire. All these were familiar. But that roar... That was something new. And 'new' meant untold danger. She left the gate, hitched up her dress, and sprinted for the gravedigger's hut. The door wasn't locked. It didn't need to be. Lia ducked through the entrance, evading the swinging scythe that would've turned a burglar into a fresh customer for the boneyard. A minute later she was running back towards the iron railings, clutching a sharpened shovel. Mincrolt leaned against the marble crypt and massaged his temples. Gods, his head hurt! It felt like someone had shoved a pear of anguish into his skull, turned the screw, and splattered his brains into a gloopy mush. Exerting mental dominance over the stupid creature- "Me not stupid!" The voice bellowed inside mind. "Me smart, like... like smart person!" "Shut up and kill him!" Mincrolt said. Elldo glanced over at him. Probably wondering if he'd taken leave of his senses. Mincrolt ignored the gnome and rubbed his temples again. He'd needed more time to practice. To get used to mastering his creation, or else develop the stupid- "Not stupid!" "Shut up!" ...brute into an obedient servant who could be left to his own devices. But Pumpkin Night didn't wait for the living or the dead. "Kill him faster!" Mincrolt said. "Faster!" White lights, pinpoints bright as miniature suns, burst in the middle of his vision. His brain pounded like a beating heart. Zombies... Why couldn't he have gone for zombies? Nice, simple, flesh-eating zombies. Why had he chosen to show off with that stupid- "Not-" "Shut the hell up, you stupid heap of troll vomit! Shut up, or I'll hack your head off and crap in it! I'll-" "Oi, necro-prat!" Mincrolt turned, and the world spun around him. His aching eyes and throbbing brain tried to focus. "Huh?" Confusion pierced his mind an instant before the broad blade. "Aaarrrggghhh! It's Katrina von Malhaven!" Elldo said. "Run!" "That's not Katrina, you blasted midget!" Shabana said. "Kill her!" Bolts of black and purple magic flashed around the gravestones. The flesh golem saw all this through a misty haze, as he struggled to make sense of the sudden vacuum inside his head. He pressed his hands against either side of his skull and tried to shake the confusion loose. "Golem!" Issaoe said. "Kill that old fool! Don't just stand there, you stupid sack of-" "Me not stupid!" The golem roared. How was he supposed to think, to put his mind back together, with that damn cat woman hissing at him? He snatched up a tombstone, tearing it from the dirt, and tossed it at her. She screeched. Then her skull went splat, and she shut up. Good! Now he could think... "I've got her!" Shabana said. "Move!" A chattering green skull flew from her fingers, casting its sickly luminescence over the trees and stone. Elldo screamed. "Help! Help!" He ran in circles, arms flailing. His robes blazed with emerald fire. "I told you to move!" Somewhere on her left, Xrekzi screamed. Shabana began to turn, then leapt back from the object that bounced along the ground and landed at her feet. The goblin's head stared up at her through lolling eyes. The woman from Bhanipur let out a shriek. Idiots! Her allies were idiots! If she wanted something done right, she'd have to do it herself! She whirled round. There was the girl, striding towards her. Out of cover. Exposed and vulnerable. Shabana's dusky features twisted into a grin. She raised her hands, spoke the words of an incantation. Then she screamed. A broad, savage blade burst through her chest. She stared at it. The necromancer had just enough time to wonder what a shovel was doing there, before the darkness fell. "Bloody necromancers," the old gravedigger said. "Always make a mess..." "That's more like it," Gern said. He looked his apprentice up and down, and nodded. Lia smiled. Her mother wouldn't call her the prettiest girl in town while she was dressed like this -- clad in her tough, grimy work clothes. But there was digging to be done, and she certainly wasn't going to do it dressed as Katrina von Malhaven. Gern passed her a shovel. "You already dug the grave?" she said, glancing at the hole. "I always keep a spare one open on Pumpkin Night. Nice and deep. You never know when Jack might come along, and need to be put back in the ground." "Help..." The voice was weak. Barely a groan. Lia almost mistook it for the wind, until it sounded again. "Where... What..." She looked at Gern. The old man grinned. "Take a look," he said. The apprentice stepped over to the edge of the grave. A number of bodies lay piled at the bottom. Zombies sprawled next to their severed heads. Smashed bones littered the space around them. Hacked, battered corpses in black robes protruded here and there. But above all this debris, planted atop the heap of dead like a cherry on a cake, a figure writhed. Ropes bound his wrists and ankles. "L... Lia?" Castor said. "Help! Get me out of here!" "Gern..." she said. "How..." "After you told me, I went looking. Found him lying in some bushes. Drunk more than he could handle, I'm guessing." "What're we..." "That's up to you." Lia grinned. She drove her shovel into the mound of earth, and lifted up a big pile of crumbling dirt. |
Tomb of the Tentacled God[]
Lore |
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Dreaming of silver and gold in the deep, Shimmering treasures that gleam in my eyes, Swimming in waters the merfolk all dread, Skeletons, stripped of all flesh by the fish, Down in the murk of the vessel's split hold, Wealth of untold and impossible worth Plundering hands had an idol once clasped, Under the waves, in the dark of the deep, |