The sun rose over Timberfall Hollow with little fanfare—just the steady rhythm of a village trying to ignore the weight of the woods pressing in from all sides. But for a group of weary adventurers, the morning began with a purpose not found on any map.
Costa, burdened by memory and unfinished business, led the party across town to confront Silas “Dust” Halloway, the wiry, sharp-eyed proprietor of The Hollow Mercantile. Silas was a man of few words and fewer excuses. His dirt-streaked clothes and razor-sharp blue eyes gave him the look of someone who’d survived more than he let on.
Costa didn’t waste time. He placed a charcoal drawing on the counter—a sketch of Costa himself, taken from the kobold wagon the party had fought during their ambush on the way to Timberfall Hollow. The same wagon that had carried the ballista ambush.
Silas went pale.
Under Costa’s stare, the shopkeeper’s defenses cracked. He confessed—he had hired the kobolds, not to kill Costa, but to scare him off. Business had been bad, the debt unpaid, and he’d panicked. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far,” he muttered. “Just a warning.”
But someone—or something—had taken it further.
In a rare act of restitution, Silas repaid the debt and offered something unexpected: a riddle-laced scroll, supposedly tied to unclaimed treasure somewhere outside the village.
As the party examined the verse, Thokein’s brow furrowed. The words spoke of the The Duskmere, of leaning trees, silver waters, and a guardian that should not be roused. It was no tavern tale—it was a map wrapped in poetry, and it pointed toward something old, sacred… or cursed.
Their musings were soon interrupted by Captain Jerek Stonejaw, who approached with news: Mayor Greaves requested their presence. They were escorted to a guard tower across the square from The Lone Beacon. There, seated inside one of Timberfall’s central armories—this one positioned to overlook the town square and bustling marketplace—the mayor greeted them with quiet authority.
He thanked them for dealing with the worgs that had haunted the edge of town, rewarding them each with a pouch of 100 gold. But more pressing matters lay ahead. He spoke of his predecessor—Mayor Osric Vale, missing for five months. Of basements with strange tunnels, and of several townsfolk who had vanished without a trace.
If the party could investigate discreetly, he would pay well: 250 gold each, and 1,000 more if they returned the former mayor alive.
He gave them leads. Old Bramwell, the town drunk, might know something—though he was only seen after dark, often at the Lone Beacon. He also suggested checking the old mayor’s house, and gave them directions.
One final detail stuck out—a memory, barely mentioned. A fortnight ago, Old Bramwell had stumbled into the square, raving about things “crawling everywhere.” Most had written it off as drunken nonsense. But now, with people missing and strange tunnels appearing, the words no longer felt so easy to ignore.
They visited the Lone Beacon first, but Bramwell had not yet arrived. Inside, the mood was quiet. Elysia Fairweather sang near the hearth, her voice weaving soft magic through the room. An elven ranger—Jothan—drank silently in the corner.
Seated not far away was Callas Vintree, the Merchant Prince of the Alprenia Coast. Draped in silks that shimmered like seawater, Callas sat fanning himself with his lacquered bone fan. His glance toward the party was cool and appraising, his expression unreadable. When approached, he offered polite conversation—but only in measured phrases, each word a tool, each sentence a transaction.
Always smiling. Never trusting.
His presence made the fire-lit tavern feel ten degrees colder.
The party passed the time, waiting for nightfall—and Bramwell.
When the old man finally arrived, stumbling in beside Seraphina, the party sprang into action. They bought him drinks, earned his trust, distracted Seraphina just enough to keep the bottle flowing. It became clear: Bramwell was deep in his cups more often than not, and it would take some effort to loosen his tongue.
Eventually, he whispered of a place where whispers crawled through the air and memories bled into shadows.
“The cave where whispers still crawl,” he called it.
They agreed to meet him in the morning.
Before bedding down, the party visited the former mayor’s house, nestled in a quiet, upscale part of Timberfall. The door was locked, but not tampered with. They broke it open.
Inside, the place felt abandoned—but not untouched. On his desk, they found scroll with a list of eight names—people now missing—and a chilling question scribbled beneath:
“Taken by the Children of 1000 Legs?”
They remembered the notice board in the Beacon.
A forgotten note, faded and ignored:
“1000 feet shall trample us all. Time to repent!”
The last clue was in the kitchen. The pantry had been raided. Not by thieves—but by someone packing for a journey.
And so, with dusk at their backs, the party chose to spend the night in the empty house. The wind howled outside. The house remained still.
At dawn, they met Bramwell by the Lone Beacon. He was surprisingly lucid, a man half-haunted and half-hungover, but determined. They followed him northwest, two hours into the woods, until the air grew sour and the trees twisted.
Then came the smell.
Rot. Blood. Wet death.
A small clearing opened before them, and there—two trolls, hunched over the half-eaten corpse of a horse. One tore into its belly with jagged teeth. The other cracked bone like kindling. Flesh hung from their mouths. And when they caught the scent of fresh blood—
They charged.
The battle was carnage.
Thokein, Zax, and Rithlas each fell—unconscious, bleeding, nearly lost. Costa held the line with shield and fury, fending off crushing blows. Aragon’s arrows flew true, a constant drumbeat of death. The forest shook with every strike.
But the party endured.
One troll fell. Then the other.
The clearing, once filled with snarls and screams, fell still.
They searched the trolls—but as expected, found nothing of value. Just gore, broken teeth, and torn flesh.
But the half-eaten horse told another story.
Amid the blood and entrails, they discovered a half-shredded saddlebag, one flap still buckled. Inside: a spill of gold and silver coins, and tucked into a side pouch, a single greater healing potion, miraculously unbroken.
Battered and broken, the party pulled themselves together and found cover beneath the trees. They rested for an hour, catching their breath as wounds closed and silence returned.
They had followed whispers into the dark.
And the darkness had teeth.