Wyz

Wyz the smart goblin and a dozen of his closest friends lined up for the barrowmaze, enduring the cold rain. In point of fact, only two of them were very close, the rest were near strangers. But he’d been watching them; choosing them carefully, selecting those who seemed the most competent. One in particular, a dwarven cleric of Fortuna, seemed to have actual supernatural powers. The rest would do for cannon fodder.

Wyz the goblin waited by the side of the road, wringing his hands. His friends had left for the barrowmaze that morning as many aspiring adventurers did. That was hours ago. Now the slow trudge of discouraged feet returning to town rang loudly in his ears. There had been no sign of his friends. As each new group returned. Wyz clutched at sleeves, asked for news, collected whatever tales he could of the horrors that lay beneath the earth.

Our group went out to the barrowmaze. Two of my friends, Sidney and Khezzean, stayed to dig; Xanrion the haberdasher and I went to take a closer look at a tomb where others had found a pair of nice vases. That tomb contained a wicker frame surrounding a decaying body. One of the others, actually with a sword and armor, cut off its head. I expected it to rise up and kill us, but the body remained dead.