The scene opens into a busy marketplace, bustling with crowded storefronts spilling over themselves as they jockey for visual position amongst the throng of people browsing. The view pans upwards, past the faded awnings before settling on a towering, resplendent alabaster wall casting its gilded shadow down upon the rabble. The beautifully pruned limbs of all manner of trees peek above the pristine crenelations, bowing under the weight of their plump fruits.

Over the wall, the dissonant sounds of the marketplace die down, replaced by the joyous chirps of happy birds. Dressed in long, tailored robes, an older couple sits underneath a burgeoning pear tree, sweet juice running lazily down their chins as they enjoy their treat.

A man walks past them. He is dressed in a fine, buttoned cloak with intricate filigree woven along its edge. Elaborate golden epaulets, shaped like spreading wings, adorn his shoulders. Atop his well-groomed, flowing hair sits a lavish hat decorated with mismatched feathers from a variety of creatures.

As he strolls past the bench, the couple shares a quick whisper accompanied with concerned expressions. One of the men gets up and walks in the opposite direction as Barnaby stops to admire a particularly round apple. The man returns a minute later with another man covered from head to toe in ornamental full plate, polished to a mirror-like sheen. A crossed sword and hammer is emblazoned in bright red across the cuirass. The guard walks up to Barnaby Daryngton, hand on the hilt of his longsword, and lifts his visor.

“Mornin’ sir. Fine day for a walk, eh?”

“Good Morning ol’ chap. Every day’s a fine day for a stroll when you’re in the Orchards, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m afraid I’ll need to see your documents. Valid travel permit, work visa, writ of patronage. I can’t allow unauthorized persons in the Orchard, you understand.”

Barnaby reaches into his coat and pulls out a tightly furled scroll. He removes the yellow ribbon and hands it over to the guard. A few moments pass as the man examines the parchment, holding it up towards the sun and running his gloved fingers over the wax seal.

“My apologies, Sir Daryngton.” He hands the papers back to the gnome, along with a small bronze medallion. “Please enjoy your time in Talthos . I hope it is enjoyable for a knight of the Golden Aerie.You shouldn’t have any more trouble here.”

“It’s no trouble at all! I’m glad to see you’re doing you’re part to keep out the riff-raff and hooligans - they can be such a nuisance, can’t they?”

Barnaby bows a deep bow and continues...

Barnaby continues walking along the path before turning behind a well-built garden shed. With a quick look over his decorated shoulder, he pulls a faded leather portfolio from his satchel. As he opens it up, we see a stack of official-looking documents with a manner of seals and calligraphy. Barnaby nestles the unfurled scroll back amongst the others before adjusting the epaulets on his shoulders. Closer inspection reveals small inconsistencies between these and the official uniform of the Golden Aerie.

After depositing the portfolio back into his pack, Barnaby takes out a small piece of paper.

Prepare yourself Barnaby! It reads. I’ll meet you in the villas of Sweet Orchard in a fortnight’s time. And then, we hunt the Ebon Spider! - Akrosi.

With a disappointed frown, Barnaby rolls the paper back into his pocket. His demeanor improves, momentarily, as he spies an unbroken peacock feather lying on the ground. He plucks it up delicately, inspects it, and places it in his cap before walking towards the candlelit villas tucked behind the manicured greenery of the Orchard.

The days pass quickly and there’s no sign of Akrosi. Eventually, Barnaby gets up, fastens his gear, and passes underneath the alabaster arches, flashing his medallion. Once he’s beyond the Talthos gates, he ferries across the Shallach River and hikes until he reaches the Ackleberry Forest. He waits until he’s a few miles into the underbrush before removing his epaulets. He references Father Sun’s position in the sky, and moves through the brush.

Even though it’s midday, the forest is dark. And quiet. Barnaby presses onwards, pulling out his scimitar. Several of the trees cast ominous shadows, and the gnome’s normally bold, confident demeanor slowly shifts to paranoia. He grits his teeth, but the shadows dance across his darting eyes.

Suddenly two of the trees swing their limbs towards Barnaby, knocking him backwards. Before he has time to react, the thornbeasts are on top of him. Splinters spray in all directions as the creatures lash out with their tendrils.

Barnaby flips to his feet, jumping over a thrust before twirling his blade at the closest enemy. Confidence returns to his eyes and a faint smirk crosses his lips. Shards of wood protrude from his skin and the resulting blood flicks off his face as he spins in a rhythmic dance.

WHACK! CRACK! THWACK!

The broken wood punctures Barnaby’s armor but he continues the onslaught. Eventually, both thornbeasts lie in shattered heaps on the ground. Barnaby is left panting for breath, bloody, but alive. Wearily, he continues forward.

After another hour, he stops. Overhead, a gossamer thread the diameter of his thumb connects a pair of rotting branches together. Even in the low-light conditions, it seems to glimmer.

“Your days of tormenting innocents are coming to an end, my dear spider. Soon enough you’ll be caught in MY web.”

Night begins to fall and the darkness becomes too obscuring for Barnaby to press much further. In his weakened state, he slowly unfurls his bedroll and bandages his wounds before laying down and falling asleep in utter exhaustion.

Barnaby is awakened in the middle of the night by firelight flickering across his face. Groggily, he lifts his head, letting out a small gasp as his pain reminds him of his fight with the thornbeasts. He locates the source of the light; a large campfire burns brightly a hundred meters to the west. Quickly, Barnaby grabs his scimitar, gets to his feet, and approaches. He is stealthy and silent as he nears.

Barnaby steps into the clearing; but nobody is here. There is no sign of anyone ever having been here, apart from the fire. The fire is roaring but something is off. It burns without logs, without fuel.

Instantly Barnaby is on edge and he holds his scimitar as high as his weakened arm can manage.

“If this is one of those fey tricks, it doesn’t frighten me! After all, my name’s Barnaby Daryngton, and I dare you to beat me in a scuffle! Let’s make it a fair fight, none of this nonsense!”

As if punctuating his challenge, the campfire is immediately extinguished, leaving nothing but small embers behind. Faint laughter echoes throughout the clearing, shrill and demeaning.

“Barnaby, Barnaby

Far from home

Weak of head and

Weak of bone

Broken and bent

By wooden jacks

Fails to cover

Tiny tracks

Faux disguise

Deceit and lies

No one to hear

His fatal cries

This cozy fire

Is cold and dark

A gnome scorched

A charcoal mark!”

With that, the remaining embers fly up from the ground in four directions before materializing into flaming humanoids who surround Barnaby. Their laughter rings out as the flames lick the gnome and the acrid smell of burning flesh stings the air.

Beads of sweat drip from Barnaby’s face as he yells out in fury and bodyslams the nearest elemental to clear an escape route. His skin begins to blister as the flaming beings give chase, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. A short creature with mottled red skin steps out from behind one of the trees on the other side of the clearing, a wicked grin stretched across its face as it watches Barnaby run.

Barnaby passes his belongings but doesn’t have time to grab them. He runs and runs and runs, the flaming elementals in hot pursuit. The gnome doesn’t have the strength, but pulls from deep within, knowing that to stop means to die.

One of the elementals catches him and Barnaby thrashes his scimitar about wildly. His skin blisters and bubbles as the flames connect, and he screams out in pain. Finally, one of his strikes cuts the creature in half, and it collapses in a heap of smoldering ashes.

After hours of running, he reaches the river and quickly boards a wooden raft. As he pushes off the shore, the remaining elementals hiss and curse. When Barnaby is halfway across, the short, devilish man appears from the trees, still grinning as the elementals swirl around angrily. He’s carrying the leather portfolio.

“I will remember your name, Barnaby Daryngton.” The figure calls out. “Just remind me - is it Barnaby Daryngton, Lieutenant of the Archons? Or is it - let me see here - Sir Barnaby Daryngton, Second Scourge in the Order of the Rack? Or perhaps - ah yes - Captain Barnaby Daryngton, Hand of the Horned One?”

Barnaby is silent as he drifts across the water.

“You have many names, Barnaby, and I shall collect all of them from you. Your hunt has only just begun! Hahahahaha!”

The laughter echoes and the man retreats back to the seclusion of the treeline.

Barnaby, battered, burnt, and bruised, limps back to Talthos. Guards rush to his aid after he reveals his bronze medallion at the gates, and they carry him past the gathering crowds to the villas. He passes out.

Days later, he is roused awake by an enthusiastic Akrosi Foxglove.

“Sorry I’m a bit late! Every year the Guild of Liars gathers at the House of Lies in Gaudiguch to tell the most magnificent of stories. I’ve always wanted to go and it was on the way...I figured you could relax here in the meantime, and it looks like you really went on a bender. That’s the Barnaby I met at university!

I heard the most interesting tale about Ebon Spiders at the Flame, I’ll regale it on the way. Of course, I won’t do it justice, but it’s just so fascinating!"