Bill’s workshop was filled with sawdust and tools and finished works. In one corner was a bench, covered in gnomish crafting tools; in the other was a pile of failed attempts at sculpting, consisting mostly of shattered feet sculptures strewn about in jumbled heaps; and in the other corner was a rather large (for gnome scale) battleaxe. The axe had been passed down from generation to generation in a gnomish family for centuries and was to be handed down to the youngest child when he was born. Was to be handed down, that is, until Bill stole it after a bar fight with the former (and rightful) owner of it. A hardly legible name was carved into the axe many, many years ago, but Bill scratched it out and scrawled his own name into it, misspelled. Our gnome protagonist ambled over to said weapon and hefted it onto his shoulder, smiling wickedly. Time for some crafting, he thought, chuckling evilly. With his evil chuckling done for the day, Bill sighed and started on the rest of his routine, checking off “chuckle evilly” on his messily scribbled “To Do” list as he stalked out the door.
After a day of chopping down short, newly grown trees, Bill retired back into his workshop with some fresh lumber. He’d failed to finish his checklist for the eighteenth time that week (“chuckle evilly” having several jagged lines through it), but he was sure he’d be done with it before the year was over. Right now, though, he was only worried about getting one specific item finished and crossed from his list: chuckle evilly… no, below that: carve a life-sized, prize-winning sculpture of Sir Bill the Mighty.
Armed with nothing but a chisel and a broken mirror, Bill set to work carving a grossly embellished likeness of himself. For several hours he toiled in his dimly lit workshop, cutting and scraping and prodding and cursing, working until his hands were bloody and there was sawdust up to his knees. Finally Bill gave up, throwing his tools down and dragging his axe outside. Once in the open air he looked around warily, then burst into great whooping sobs, his life’s work still yet to be completed. “Why can’t I get this tight?” he cried, “Why can’t I just get this done?”
While away, his home had fallen into disrepair, the windows falling in and several creepy crawly animals taking residence amongst an within the assorted furniture. Bill stormed into his home, shattering the front door but becoming entangled in vines in the process, and eventually made it to his workroom. “Finally, home.” He sighed, finally feeling at rest. Suddenly there was a movement from somewhere in the gloom of the dimly lit space. “Hello?” asked Bill. “Who goes there?”
Bill crept deeper into the room. Inch by inch, the moving form slowly came into view, and Bill immediately recognized it. Covered in moss, yet still intact, was the imperfect carving of Sir Bill the Mighty. “Ye gods…” Bill muttered, surprised with himself for worrying over something as simple as- and then the statue moved. A thick, wet squishing sound emanated from the figure, and it softly leaned its weight from one foot to the other. Bill stared for a moment in an awe filled terror, and then something dawned on him. “My statue!” he shouted, “you’ve become a real boy!”
At the force of the stout gnome’s voice echoing through the small room, the heavily rotted statue (having not been weather protected) immediately erupted and caved in upon itself; filled with squirming, sightless, wood-eating insects and covered with years of moss. Bill forced down his gorge long enough to escape the confines of his house. Once a good number of feet away, he vomited a near solid stream of rancid, half-digested fungus directly between his feet. “My god! I almost kissed that thing!” he shouted disgustedly, and then dutifully retched again upon the forest floor before passing out, exhausted.
Bill awoke to find a series of bobbing lights coming towards him through the forest. “Oh no,” he whispered, “The spirits of the dead have come to take their revenge upon me! I better set an ambush.” Bill rolled over quickly and hobbled off into the nearby bushes, hiding in wait.
“Bah,” growled the accompanying police chief, “It’s probably just a leper or a lost soul or something. Now hurry up and get that sign ready.”
The official rummaged through his pockets briefly, and then pulled out a piece of paper. “Got it,” he said.
“Good,” said the deputy in his squeaking voice, catching up from further down the path. “Let’s post it and get out of here. I heard this place is full of flesh eating pixies and the such.”
“All right, all right,” the official muttered, “but don’t chicken out on us just as we’re getting to the place.”
The group slowly crept up to a large, half rotted, decrepit tree, and then posted the sign on a tiny doorframe near the tree’s base. Suddenly a large crash came from the bushes.
“I knew this place was haunted!” shouted the deputy as he ran away.
“It’s just a figment of our imaginations!” yelled the official, following close behind him.
“Yaaaaaaahh!!” screamed the chief, his flesh being torn from his bones by a ferocious pixie.