"Who, me? For centuries past have I wandered these halls, lost in thought, pondering mine own nature. What, pray, am I?"
"Two paths do my musings take: Am I a wretched spectre, cursed to linger within this tatter’d shroud? Or doth this very weave of fabric hold breath and will, given life by some fell sorcery?"
"In favor of the notion that I am naught but an enchanted rag, I do lack any memory or notion of a life prior to this accursed state…"
"Yet, should I be a phantom bound, indeed my invisible forms beareth marks of humankind!"
"I wield the sword with skill unmatched. On soot and blood-strewn stone, footprints I do leave in twain. And lo! This hood doth fall o’er what seems a skull’s peak, casting shades of nothingness where a visage should rest…"
"To Him, mine erstwhile Master, who alone didst hold wisdom in this matter, I may pose no query. His lordship hath been gone for a thousand years and more! Of him, I remember naught!"
"And lo, therein doth lie my torment! Too long have I tarried in these corridors, devoid of purpose. Master's grand library lieth in ruin; His mighty workshop a wreck. No treasure doth remain for me to guard."
"W-wait… Wha-at…" The badly wounded man on the floor suddenly interrupted the Haunted Cloak's posh monologue, coughing a spray of blood for the effort. "No treasure… left? I'm dying in this dungeon… for nothing?" He strained painfully.
"Nay! 'Twas providence that hath set thee upon my blade!" The taupe cape flourished around, scrutinizing the dying adventurer. "Long have I sought mine own truth, believing it would guide my deeds. And it had been for naught, as ne'er have I lived for mine own sake… But thou hast!"
"Heh. Well, I can't… help you with that," the man sighed, as a biting chill from the great beyond drained the last of his will. "I haven't lived much of a life myself, in the end… All I ever did was chase empty promises of fame and fortune, never to achiev–oomph!"
The heartfelt reminiscing was cut short as the Haunted Cloak drove its sword deep into the man's chest, abruptly ending his suffering. "It is decided, then! I shall pursue fame and fortune!" it quilled cheerfully. This the creature remembered from the time it had its Master: it is far easier to benefit from others' volitions than to forge one's own.
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***
The ancient lair was a formidable labyrinth, sprawling across countless underground levels, and teeming with perils both earthly and arcane.
Still, it took the Haunted Cloak but a week to complete its final janitorial rites before departing forever. Practice, as they say, makes perfect.
Its first job was to prepare the fresh corpse it had just produced for the metamorphoses to come. Even now, aeons after the undercrypt's zenith, the unholy curses once woven by its dread architect still thrummed through the stagnant air.
By pouring a circle of black salt around the body, the Cloak ensured the adventurer’s soul could not slip beyond the veil. Soon, the carcass would rise —seized by a wicked hunger for flesh— and drag itself through the narrow corridors until its stomach juices finally consumed it to the bone.
Thus, a single fallen hero increases the dungeon’s hosts by a ghost, a ghoul, an acidic slime, and a skeleton. Waste not.
The spectral minion then set out on its regular rounds.
Its tools were kept in an old chamber once furnished as the office of a Captain of the Guard, a position it imagined its Master certainly had bestowed upon it.
Aside from warding off trespassers, though, its duties were painfully menial. The Haunted Cloak commanded no one.
But it did check locks and hinges. Reloaded firing mechanisms with darts, vials of poison, or flammable oil. Rewound spike traps, collapsing floors, and swinging scythes. Cleared cobwebs from the closing-wall gearworks. Lit green-flame candles at the Fane; sweeped the Black Tile Maze; fed the Lamprey Tree… For a thousand years. And then for one last time.
With its final chores complete, the ghostly figure drifted toward the dungeon’s main gates for an unceremonious departure.
A hidden lever was pulled, and with the shuddering groan of heavy chains running against a stone groove, the massive copper doors heaved open, splitting the engraving of an Archmagus worshipping a black star in half —only for the earth itself to reclaim the hall.
A flood of dark, humid soil surged inward in an unrelenting tide, sealing the path outside behind its weight.
Clawing its way through the sunken ground, grasping at gnarled roots, the Cloak emerged at last into the open world. A dense forest loomed around, its atmosphere thick with the scent of budding herbs, moss, damp wood, and the memory of rain.
The distant clamor of a widespread brawl rang through the trees.
CODEX
Behold our most unusual hero: a sentient cloak that has spent centuries haunting the ruins of its forgotten master's dungeon. It ponders its own nature —ghost of a departed adventurer or animated object?— while dutifully maintaining the traps and terrors of its long-gone creator's domain.
That is, until a chance encounter with an unlucky trespasser resets its priorities: it will abandon post to pursue fame and fortune!
For the first time in a thousand years, the Haunted Cloak stands beneath open sky. The wind stirs its tattered edges... just as the clash of steel and cries of combat ring through the trees. Adventure calls!
What awaits this restless yard of cloth in the wide world beyond? Turn the page to Chapter 1, and let the journey begin!
CLOAK'S INVENTORY
FORTUNE: ☆☆☆☆☆
Its sword might be worth something to a collector of antiquities...
FAME: ☆☆☆☆☆
The Haunted Cloak remains unknown by the world at large.