The people speak of rest. Of peace.
Of soft earth, closed eyes, and quiet ends.

But there are times when graves don’t hold.
When oaths break like rotten wood.
When the harvest is not wheat- but blood and bone.
When the dead and the damned parade through the streets, on the hunt for their tricks and their treats.

You can hear it between the flickering of flames from your torches.
The scrape of rusted steel.
The rattle of teeth in a loose jaw.
The laughter of things with no earthly voice.

In the once hallowed halls of the ancient crypt, your torch passes something carved into the wall.

A warning from previous explorers?
Ancient text, telling the story of this place?
A rune-carved magical trap?
It says simply, "No Days Off"

To wear these relics is to join the parade.
Not as prey. As witness.

The weight of candlelight in cathedral air.
The scent of pumpkins rotting under a red moon.
The echo of betrayal clinging to knight’s steel.

These pieces aren’t costumes.
They’re living memory in stitched form.

Claim your relics before the parade begins.
Or stand in silence as they march past your door.