The harvest moon hangs low and swollen in the sky, a sullen burning orb casting an eerie light on the streets below. The dark forests that ring the town seem to loom closer than usual, the branches creaking in the restless wind. Clouds creep across the moon, briefly swallowing its glow, and plunging the town into darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a creature calls out in the dark. A warning, or maybe a welcome.

Samhain is in full swing. The streets of Hallowheim are alive with the hum of revelry. Fae and spirits mingle freely—laughing, feasting, playing games that are half carnival, half ritual. There are young fae bobbing for apples, faces painted with elaborate guises, and souls seeking fortunes told in the flicker of candlelight. Others wander through corn mazes that seemed to shift and change when no one is looking, while some ride through the night in pumpkin carriages, their wheels rattling ominously on the cobblestones. Every doorstep is lit by carved lanterns, grotesque faces hewn from pumpkins and turnips, their flickering flames meant to ward off the darker spirits. The air smells sweet like fairy floss and candied apples, roasted hazlenuts and candy corn. There are vendors selling everything from pumpkin pies to haunted objects. A ghoul with his eyeball hanging out of his head walks past you. You spot a hairy beast that looks suspiciously like a lycanthrope. A banshee is sitting under a small tent, having her palms read. "I'm afraid your love line is cut off here which indicates you will have another unsuccessful relationship this quarter" the mystic says softly, holding the banshee's dealthy pale hand in her own. The banshee leaps up and emits an ear-splitting screech, blowing the fabric roof off the tent and deafeaning a dozen people nearby before storming off. "Some people just can't handle the truth!" the mystic says loudly, massaging her eardrums.

You are approached by a tall, thin figure clad in a smartly tailored suit and shiny pointed shoes. His head, you notice, is a turnip. You attempt to not stare. Carved into the front is a leering, jagged grin. You notice the back side of his head has an scowl carved into it. "Greetings, mortals!" He welcomes you in a grand, crescendo voice. "I am Mayor Gourdon of Hallowheim. We have been expecting you."

He reaches out a long, viny hand to shake your own, but is interrupted by a scuffle near his feet. A small bat holding a drum, a black cat holding a banjo and a toad holding a little brass trumpet pop out from under Mayor Gourdon's tailcoat. They break into a ditty:

Twitch the bat says: 🎵 Welcome heroes, the veil is thin. A night of mischief soon begins!🎵

Scratch the cat replies: 🎵 Join the party, don't be shy. Tonight the dead shall come alive! 🎵

Lump the toad finishes: 🎵 Creatures lurk in the dark of night, so keep to the paths and stay within the light. 🎵

The merry little trio look like they're about to burst into another verse, but Gourdon clears his throat and steps in "Ahem, yes, thank you Twitch, Scratch and Lump." He looks apologetically at you. "Forgive their riddles - they are providing this evenings entertainment and will be helping me judge the Guising and Ghosting contests later on. Please, join the festivities. And do stay on the path and in the light. There are things in the dark that are looking for serious mischief tonight."

With that, Gourdon and the trio wave goodbye and you head into the festivities.

As midnight creeps past, the Witching Hour takes hold. A great bonfire is lit in the centre of town and Fae begin to sing and dance around the fire. The crackling flames reach high into the sky.