I think I did that right but I still don't get how to post a picture? I've found the insert image but i think I'm missing something.
Ok, so you have the insert/edit image button (picture frame) and clicking that should give you a pop up box. Into the Source box on that you want to put the image address. Basically right click the image, select Copy Image Address and then past that into Source... Then click OK. That should insert the image and you can change the size by dragging the little points on the corners or sides...
I think I did that right but I still don't get how to post a picture? I've found the insert image but i think I'm missing something.
Ok, so you have the insert/edit image button (picture frame) and clicking that should give you a pop up box. Into the Source box on that you want to put the image address. Basically right click the image, select Copy Image Address and then past that into Source... Then click OK. That should insert the image and you can change the size by dragging the little points on the corners or sides...
Also we do have our 6, so we’re gonna be doing this pretty soon!
when we do get to final character reveal, I’m interested in what accent or vocal comparison your characters sound like. Any voices you all picture for them?
when we do get to final character reveal, I’m interested in what accent or vocal comparison your characters sound like. Any voices you all picture for them?
add a magic item of your choice, try to keep it at the rare level. Aka +1 stuff
Was so very tempted to choose something from Crooked Moon. The items are very fun and flavorful. Alas, went a different way which'll hopefully help full realize the character as I envision...
I think the closest I could come up with would be a mix of Louis B Armstrong, Tom Waits and Shane McGowan... His speaking voice is rough and sounds like he hasn't cleared his throat in about a dozen years, but his singing voice is a thing of beauty and when he tells a story, his narrative is smooth and you forget that it is him telling the story and you just get lost in it and his voice adapts to the different characters.
I think I did that right but I still don't get how to post a picture? I've found the insert image but i think I'm missing something.
Ok, so you have the insert/edit image button (picture frame) and clicking that should give you a pop up box. Into the Source box on that you want to put the image address. Basically right click the image, select Copy Image Address and then past that into Source... Then click OK. That should insert the image and you can change the size by dragging the little points on the corners or sides...
Swapped Rooty's sword and shield for a greataxe. He'll mainly be using the shovel but I like having Bludgeoning, slashing, and piercing options just in case.
I think we’re coming up on the hour. Is everyone set with characters? Any last questions? Are you prepared?
COMFORT AND SAFETY
Many of the themes and topics core to Folk Horror can be deeply distressing for some. While the most disturbing elements of the genre have been greatly diminished, much of the content within The Crooked Moon deals with serious and potentially unsettling themes that should be considered with care and caution to ensure the comfort and safety of everyone at the table. To achieve this, be sure to approach the following topics during your group’s Session Zero:
Content Warnings. The Crooked Moon contains elements of graphic and gory violence, depictions of mental health issues, cultural and religious conflict, endangerment of children and animals, grotesque body horror, family trauma, allusions to suicide, and more. Ensure that all players are aware of what awaits them so you can gauge everyone’s comfort levels.
Establishing Boundaries. Solicit the themes and topics that each player does not wish to engage with in the game. Once established, these boundaries should always be honored and considered hard lines that are never crossed.
Safety Tools. Utilize safety tools that are understood by everyone at the table, empowering players to safely flag when they’re uncomfortable without judgment and enabling the GM to change topic, pause the scene, fade to black, or otherwise steer the game away from the source of discomfort.
Regular Check-Ins. Make sure that all players check in regularly to gauge ongoing comfort levels and establish open and active communication to ensure that everyone feels heard.
Rattington "Reaper" Fieldsquire came into the city as one of the lowest of the low. I quickly learned how to lift just enough to keep me alive and out of sight of the city guard. As my skills grew, I learned new targets for acquiring the luxuries of life and how to turn a quick coin. As I grew more successful, I realized that staying in one city for too long would lead to my capture. I always left my hideouts or dens in the hands of those who were clawing their way up from the muck or to protect those innocents who could survive no other way. It made me popular with the common people as I never took anything from those who could not afford it, and ensured that I always heard if a competitor tried to take over my turf. My competitors found that those who crossed me either disappeared or were more likely to find their way into the cells of the city guard. Currently, I am following the trail of a Noble who finds game in murdering those of the less fortunate of the towns he visits.
Rooty Riperind trudges through the mist-wrapped fields and crumbling hamlets of Druskenvald, a solemn figure of stitched burlap and old iron, his jack-o’-lantern head glowing faintly in the gloom like an autumn moon. Each step he takes leaves behind the scent of turned earth and dry hay, his skull-lantern swinging gently at his side, casting long shadows across forgotten graves and broken stones. By day, he mends collapsed fences around burial grounds and reburies the restless dead with careful hands. By night, he walks the crooked roads and bramble paths, following whispered rumors of hauntings or revenants. He does not seek coin nor praise—only quiet, for the land and for the souls who once called it home.
Mirella Tallow—known as Mossgrinto those few she calls friends—was taken as an infant from a storm-lashed village in Enoch, spirited away by the ancient forest witches of the Umbral Glade. Raised by Sister Nightmare, she was steeped in the forgotten arts: reading omens in spilled ash, speaking to rootbound spirits, and bartering with things that never bore names.
In time, the wilds grew tight around her throat, and she fled—though the woods never truly let her go. Wandering alone, she followed the River of Reembrace until she came upon a woman dancing along its moonlit banks: Catrina, a relic-born noble of strange grace and radiant joy. Drawn to her spark, Mirella lingered.
Now, she drifts among the revels and riddles of the Crescent Court, half-witch, half-wanderer, waiting for the next tale to find her.
About her: She is quietly intense, observant, and speaks as if every word carries weight. She often stares too long and listens too well. You’d feel her presence before she speaks. Her silence challenges you to explain yourself. There’s something unspoken in her stillness—a patience born from listening to things others flee from.
Appearance: A cross between a Harvestborn and Threadborn. Straw makes most of her body save her face, which is cotton. She is quite fond of her appearance.
Tarn Quickroot moves where footprints vanish—along knotted trails and animal roads long since lost to memory, much like the land he left behind. He rides atop Craghoof, a hulking goat with storm-lit eyes and horn-runes that hum when curses stir. They never separate. They never need to. Together they walk the edges—between village and thicket, breath and burial. Where Hollowborn beasts stir, warped by grief or hunger older than names, Tarn finds them. He reads their silence, calls them by names they forgot. He soothes what can be soothed. He lays to rest what cannot. He leaves behind offerings of antler and feather, bones wrapped in vine, and lullabies hummed low in the tongue of beasts. Each act is a rite for the Green Man— an old god of wild balance. When the lost stray too far, or too close to cursed paths, it is Tarn who greets them. He leads those who ought to survive… and misleads those who shouldn’t. Tarn isn’t chasing glory or redemption—his purpose is quieter, older, and far more enduring. He’s trying to preserve balance.
About Them:Tarn carries a quiet confidence—the kind earned from walking where others won’t. He’s observant, deliberate, and speaks with the weight of someone who listens first. There’s humor in him too, dry as cedar smoke, often shared with beasts before people. He doesn’t waste words, but when he speaks, they land true. Tarn moves through the world with purpose, not pride, and judges by instinct rather than appearance. Those who travel with him sense they’re being watched—not in suspicion, but with a deep and measured care.
Craghoof is presence made manifest—silent, towering, and unshakably calm. He doesn’t bray, buck, or plead. He decides. Every tilt of his head or stomp of his hoof feels intentional, even ritual. There’s an intelligence behind those storm-dark eyes, unreadable to most but familiar to Tarn. Some claim Craghoof understands more than beasts should. Others say he remembers more than some gods. Either way, his loyalty is absolute, and his stillness often speaks louder than Tarn’s voice ever could.
Appearance:Tarn wears a patchwork of forest hues—his mithral armor hidden beneath layers of bark-dyed cloth and thorn-stitch hide. It moves silent as mist, but gleams faintly beneath moss and weather when the sun catches him sideways. He’s slight, barely three and a half feet tall, with amber-shadowed eyes and a beard braided like roots around old secrets. He carries the scent of pine, ash, and something fainter—like memory.
Craghoof is all weight and wordlessness. A strong mountain goat with curled, rune-etched horns and a coat thick as bramble. His hooves strike stone like prophecy, and moss sometimes grows where he stands too long. Where Tarn blends, Craghoof looms. Together, they move like the forest remembering its shape.
Greel vaguely remembers his previous life before he was reborn into the Druskenvald province of Syndramas as a Graveborn. He'd worked as a mercenary, but in this new world hunger he had for wealth was joined by a hunger for flesh and he put his skills as a cook to good use coming up with increasingly morbid recipes. He joined up with a Syndramas military unit, but chafed at the discipline and restraint required along with the lack of quality food and eventually left.
Now able to live as he sees fit Greel seeks to taste all of what Druskenvald has to offer. Greel is cheerful, friendly, and always on the lookout for new ingredients. The only thing he loves more than eating is eating with friends, and he'll often offer to share his food with whoever he's traveling with. Becoming a Graveborn has expanded his definition of what "edible" means, so those partaking of his cooking should ensure they know what went into the meal before they eat.
Right now he's just traveling along the road, taking on mercenary work or the occasional chef job where he can find them or scraping by on what he can forage (or whoever makes the mistake of crossing him). His most recent acquisition is the hide of some great beast, which he wears as a cloak to take advantage of the magical properties it has.
"Reaper" Fieldsquire is a 6-foot, whip-thin rodentoid who is usually dressed in a mottled grey cloak. His movements are swift but purposeful. He quietly melds with the shadows and almost seems to disappear even when in plain sight. Those looking beyond his hood see a pair of black eyes and a brindled fur. His whiskers droop into almost a moustache normally, but fan out and quiver when he is alarmed.
Reaper keeps mostly to himself, watching what is happening. While his larcenous tendencies are under control when he is with the party or amongst the common folk, passing merchants or nobles may find that they have been relieved of their excess wealth. Careful observation will find him overpaying the common folk for their wares. In a fight, a creeping misasma overtakes him, and he can pass the plague from his heritage on to those attacking him. His aim when attacking can be devastating.
Rattington did well to honor those who helped those around him. Once paranoia set in, they decided it was time for a change of pace.
Reaper, you had left one hideout for another. Town to town, following leads to put an end to this Terrible Nobleman who has seen nearly the same amount of kills as your own.
its in one of these moves that you find yourself along a long dark trail that seems to drift to and end point in the shadows of the trees of the surrounding area that strangle out the remaining light of sunset. Drifting from blues to pinks and purples, to finally black midnight sky overhead, if you could see it through the canopy, is there a canopy still?
Mist fills the area around you, only obfuscating the darkness even more, as you start to notice the sounds of the woods that you are accustomed to, the things you mimic to hide yourself when needed, have all fallen away. All you can hear now is the sound of your footfalls.
you focus to suss out if it is indeed the same trail you had intended, listening to each step you make———
Toooot. The silence seems to have lifted? What was that? Tooooooooooot. You hear once more, but louder, closer, followed by a gentle rumble. The sounds grow, as if you were to conduct thunder to your will to harmonize and syncopate into a rhythm you can hear now. The rhythm links up to your very heartbeat, that you can feel in your clenched fists of one hand on your items and one on a weapon as you hear, TOOOOOOOOOT!! PhsssSSSHH!!As you see a beam of pale, sickly green light pierce this veil of mist not but 50 feet of you.
Now you see it. What’s been causing all this noise and you can feel the thundering chug of this thing in your feet as what materializes seemingly with the screeching of metal on metal, a nearly luminous, blackish green, Coal driven Locomotive.
PshhhPshhhh psssssssssssss. Directly in front of you, Rattington, not but 15 feet away,the train comes to a final soft polished screech as what is indeed a passenger locomotive. You can hear the soft clangs of gears engaging, and the constant soft hiss of steam pressing escaping at all the proper safety points. This is indeed well kept. The polished black metal reflecting that pale green, making it glow.
as you have a moment to gather that you are not under any attack, and start to assess the situation, the entrance door is slid open and a quick “Clang-clang” of a brass hand bell, and a voice that seems very expectant, “All aboard, Sir. Ya are indeed Mista’ Fieldsquire, are ya not? The Druskenvalds have a need for ya, son, an’ they sent me on out to pick ya up.” The voice calls to you with its heavy southern accent, and pleasant bass rumble, revealing that it is a Frogman, or Bullywug to some.
you see his head poke out of the side of the train, a few cars behind the Engine. He is smiling warmly, but only those who are looking for comfort in the dark would be looking to find it here. He wears the tattered garb of a vagabond, complete with a wide-brimmed hat where he always keeps three railroad spikes. Is is not dirty, though his clothes have seen use and have been mended over the years.
”I got me a list ‘ere, and you’re on it friend. What do ya say, you coming along on the
CHAPTER ONE:
Ghostlight Express
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Ok, so you have the insert/edit image button (picture frame) and clicking that should give you a pop up box. Into the Source box on that you want to put the image address. Basically right click the image, select Copy Image Address and then past that into Source... Then click OK. That should insert the image and you can change the size by dragging the little points on the corners or sides...
Legend.
Also we do have our 6, so we’re gonna be doing this pretty soon!
when we do get to final character reveal, I’m interested in what accent or vocal comparison your characters sound like. Any voices you all picture for them?
Interesting question! I never really thought about it, but found a good match pretty fast: Thiollier from the Elden Ring Dlc, example here: https://youtu.be/1y9XGclC8Ho?si=AMPqTmdwPAtAOoxo
Was so very tempted to choose something from Crooked Moon. The items are very fun and flavorful. Alas, went a different way which'll hopefully help full realize the character as I envision...
Voice... Hmmm...
I think the closest I could come up with would be a mix of Louis B Armstrong, Tom Waits and Shane McGowan... His speaking voice is rough and sounds like he hasn't cleared his throat in about a dozen years, but his singing voice is a thing of beauty and when he tells a story, his narrative is smooth and you forget that it is him telling the story and you just get lost in it and his voice adapts to the different characters.
Thank you, I'll try that out.
A deep rumbling voice rasps from Rattingtons throat, he does not talk much but is always listening.
Out of my mind, be back shortly.
Swapped Rooty's sword and shield for a greataxe. He'll mainly be using the shovel but I like having Bludgeoning, slashing, and piercing options just in case.
One of us in the group had brought up Dark Bargains, I’ll post the link for that below, but they are exactly what you’d think.
I think it would be fun to keep them secret until relevant if you do choose to have one.
if you do, just let me know so I can plan!
https://www.dndbeyond.com/sources/dnd/tcmp1/dark-bargains
I think we’re coming up on the hour. Is everyone set with characters? Any last questions?
Are you prepared?
COMFORT AND SAFETY
Many of the themes and topics core to Folk Horror can be deeply distressing for some. While the most disturbing elements of the genre have been greatly diminished, much of the content within The Crooked Moon deals with serious and potentially unsettling themes that should be considered with care and caution to ensure the comfort and safety of everyone at the table. To achieve this, be sure to approach the following topics during your group’s Session Zero:
Content Warnings. The Crooked Moon contains elements of graphic and gory violence, depictions of mental health issues, cultural and religious conflict, endangerment of children and animals, grotesque body horror, family trauma, allusions to suicide, and more. Ensure that all players are aware of what awaits them so you can gauge everyone’s comfort levels.
Establishing Boundaries. Solicit the themes and topics that each player does not wish to engage with in the game. Once established, these boundaries should always be honored and considered hard lines that are never crossed.
Safety Tools. Utilize safety tools that are understood by everyone at the table, empowering players to safely flag when they’re uncomfortable without judgment and enabling the GM to change topic, pause the scene, fade to black, or otherwise steer the game away from the source of discomfort.
Regular Check-Ins. Make sure that all players check in regularly to gauge ongoing comfort levels and establish open and active communication to ensure that everyone feels heard.
I think it's worth discussing/deciding on if our characters already know each other or are meeting for the first time for this campaign.
If it's the former then I think coming up with a shared backstory makes sense.
When you are ready, tell us about your character, and what they are doing in their current state/day to day life, and we will start from there.
You will be starting separately.
Rattington "Reaper" Fieldsquire came into the city as one of the lowest of the low. I quickly learned how to lift just enough to keep me alive and out of sight of the city guard. As my skills grew, I learned new targets for acquiring the luxuries of life and how to turn a quick coin. As I grew more successful, I realized that staying in one city for too long would lead to my capture. I always left my hideouts or dens in the hands of those who were clawing their way up from the muck or to protect those innocents who could survive no other way. It made me popular with the common people as I never took anything from those who could not afford it, and ensured that I always heard if a competitor tried to take over my turf. My competitors found that those who crossed me either disappeared or were more likely to find their way into the cells of the city guard. Currently, I am following the trail of a Noble who finds game in murdering those of the less fortunate of the towns he visits.
Out of my mind, be back shortly.
Rooty Riperind trudges through the mist-wrapped fields and crumbling hamlets of Druskenvald, a solemn figure of stitched burlap and old iron, his jack-o’-lantern head glowing faintly in the gloom like an autumn moon. Each step he takes leaves behind the scent of turned earth and dry hay, his skull-lantern swinging gently at his side, casting long shadows across forgotten graves and broken stones. By day, he mends collapsed fences around burial grounds and reburies the restless dead with careful hands. By night, he walks the crooked roads and bramble paths, following whispered rumors of hauntings or revenants. He does not seek coin nor praise—only quiet, for the land and for the souls who once called it home.
Mirella Tallow—known as Mossgrin to those few she calls friends—was taken as an infant from a storm-lashed village in Enoch, spirited away by the ancient forest witches of the Umbral Glade. Raised by Sister Nightmare, she was steeped in the forgotten arts: reading omens in spilled ash, speaking to rootbound spirits, and bartering with things that never bore names.
In time, the wilds grew tight around her throat, and she fled—though the woods never truly let her go. Wandering alone, she followed the River of Reembrace until she came upon a woman dancing along its moonlit banks: Catrina, a relic-born noble of strange grace and radiant joy. Drawn to her spark, Mirella lingered.
Now, she drifts among the revels and riddles of the Crescent Court, half-witch, half-wanderer, waiting for the next tale to find her.
About her: She is quietly intense, observant, and speaks as if every word carries weight. She often stares too long and listens too well. You’d feel her presence before she speaks. Her silence challenges you to explain yourself. There’s something unspoken in her stillness—a patience born from listening to things others flee from.
Appearance: A cross between a Harvestborn and Threadborn. Straw makes most of her body save her face, which is cotton. She is quite fond of her appearance.
D&D since 1984
Tarn Quickroot moves where footprints vanish—along knotted trails and animal roads long since lost to memory, much like the land he left behind. He rides atop Craghoof, a hulking goat with storm-lit eyes and horn-runes that hum when curses stir. They never separate. They never need to. Together they walk the edges—between village and thicket, breath and burial. Where Hollowborn beasts stir, warped by grief or hunger older than names, Tarn finds them. He reads their silence, calls them by names they forgot. He soothes what can be soothed. He lays to rest what cannot. He leaves behind offerings of antler and feather, bones wrapped in vine, and lullabies hummed low in the tongue of beasts. Each act is a rite for the Green Man— an old god of wild balance. When the lost stray too far, or too close to cursed paths, it is Tarn who greets them. He leads those who ought to survive… and misleads those who shouldn’t. Tarn isn’t chasing glory or redemption—his purpose is quieter, older, and far more enduring. He’s trying to preserve balance.
About Them: Tarn carries a quiet confidence—the kind earned from walking where others won’t. He’s observant, deliberate, and speaks with the weight of someone who listens first. There’s humor in him too, dry as cedar smoke, often shared with beasts before people. He doesn’t waste words, but when he speaks, they land true. Tarn moves through the world with purpose, not pride, and judges by instinct rather than appearance. Those who travel with him sense they’re being watched—not in suspicion, but with a deep and measured care.
Craghoof is presence made manifest—silent, towering, and unshakably calm. He doesn’t bray, buck, or plead. He decides. Every tilt of his head or stomp of his hoof feels intentional, even ritual. There’s an intelligence behind those storm-dark eyes, unreadable to most but familiar to Tarn. Some claim Craghoof understands more than beasts should. Others say he remembers more than some gods. Either way, his loyalty is absolute, and his stillness often speaks louder than Tarn’s voice ever could.
Appearance: Tarn wears a patchwork of forest hues—his mithral armor hidden beneath layers of bark-dyed cloth and thorn-stitch hide. It moves silent as mist, but gleams faintly beneath moss and weather when the sun catches him sideways. He’s slight, barely three and a half feet tall, with amber-shadowed eyes and a beard braided like roots around old secrets. He carries the scent of pine, ash, and something fainter—like memory.
Craghoof is all weight and wordlessness. A strong mountain goat with curled, rune-etched horns and a coat thick as bramble. His hooves strike stone like prophecy, and moss sometimes grows where he stands too long. Where Tarn blends, Craghoof looms. Together, they move like the forest remembering its shape.
How I imagine he would sound lol. https://youtu.be/LHOWq636CXo?feature=shared
Greel vaguely remembers his previous life before he was reborn into the Druskenvald province of Syndramas as a Graveborn. He'd worked as a mercenary, but in this new world hunger he had for wealth was joined by a hunger for flesh and he put his skills as a cook to good use coming up with increasingly morbid recipes. He joined up with a Syndramas military unit, but chafed at the discipline and restraint required along with the lack of quality food and eventually left.
Now able to live as he sees fit Greel seeks to taste all of what Druskenvald has to offer. Greel is cheerful, friendly, and always on the lookout for new ingredients. The only thing he loves more than eating is eating with friends, and he'll often offer to share his food with whoever he's traveling with. Becoming a Graveborn has expanded his definition of what "edible" means, so those partaking of his cooking should ensure they know what went into the meal before they eat.
Right now he's just traveling along the road, taking on mercenary work or the occasional chef job where he can find them or scraping by on what he can forage (or whoever makes the mistake of crossing him). His most recent acquisition is the hide of some great beast, which he wears as a cloak to take advantage of the magical properties it has.
"Reaper" Fieldsquire is a 6-foot, whip-thin rodentoid who is usually dressed in a mottled grey cloak. His movements are swift but purposeful. He quietly melds with the shadows and almost seems to disappear even when in plain sight. Those looking beyond his hood see a pair of black eyes and a brindled fur. His whiskers droop into almost a moustache normally, but fan out and quiver when he is alarmed.
Reaper keeps mostly to himself, watching what is happening. While his larcenous tendencies are under control when he is with the party or amongst the common folk, passing merchants or nobles may find that they have been relieved of their excess wealth. Careful observation will find him overpaying the common folk for their wares. In a fight, a creeping misasma overtakes him, and he can pass the plague from his heritage on to those attacking him. His aim when attacking can be devastating.
Out of my mind, be back shortly.
Rattington did well to honor those who helped those around him. Once paranoia set in, they decided it was time for a change of pace.
Reaper, you had left one hideout for another. Town to town, following leads to put an end to this Terrible Nobleman who has seen nearly the same amount of kills as your own.
its in one of these moves that you find yourself along a long dark trail that seems to drift to and end point in the shadows of the trees of the surrounding area that strangle out the remaining light of sunset. Drifting from blues to pinks and purples, to finally black midnight sky overhead, if you could see it through the canopy, is there a canopy still?
Mist fills the area around you, only obfuscating the darkness even more, as you start to notice the sounds of the woods that you are accustomed to, the things you mimic to hide yourself when needed, have all fallen away. All you can hear now is the sound of your footfalls.
you focus to suss out if it is indeed the same trail you had intended, listening to each step you make———
Toooot. The silence seems to have lifted? What was that? Tooooooooooot. You hear once more, but louder, closer, followed by a gentle rumble. The sounds grow, as if you were to conduct thunder to your will to harmonize and syncopate into a rhythm you can hear now. The rhythm links up to your very heartbeat, that you can feel in your clenched fists of one hand on your items and one on a weapon as you hear, TOOOOOOOOOT!! PhsssSSSHH!! As you see a beam of pale, sickly green light pierce this veil of mist not but 50 feet of you.
Now you see it. What’s been causing all this noise and you can feel the thundering chug of this thing in your feet as what materializes seemingly with the screeching of metal on metal, a nearly luminous, blackish green, Coal driven Locomotive.
PshhhPshhhh psssssssssssss.
Directly in front of you, Rattington, not but 15 feet away,the train comes to a final soft polished screech as what is indeed a passenger locomotive. You can hear the soft clangs of gears engaging, and the constant soft hiss of steam pressing escaping at all the proper safety points. This is indeed well kept. The polished black metal reflecting that pale green, making it glow.
as you have a moment to gather that you are not under any attack, and start to assess the situation, the entrance door is slid open and a quick “Clang-clang” of a brass hand bell, and a voice that seems very expectant, “All aboard, Sir. Ya are indeed Mista’ Fieldsquire, are ya not? The Druskenvalds have a need for ya, son, an’ they sent me on out to pick ya up.” The voice calls to you with its heavy southern accent, and pleasant bass rumble, revealing that it is a Frogman, or Bullywug to some.
you see his head poke out of the side of the train, a few cars behind the Engine. He is smiling warmly, but only those who are looking for comfort in the dark would be looking to find it here. He wears the tattered garb of a vagabond, complete with a wide-brimmed hat where he always keeps three railroad spikes. Is is not dirty, though his clothes have seen use and have been mended over the years.
”I got me a list ‘ere, and you’re on it friend. What do ya say, you coming along on the
CHAPTER ONE:
Ghostlight Express
