A Splintermaw Tale: "The Drum That Followed"

The village of Rindle's Hollow had always respected the Terithor Forest.
 
Each year, they sent a small party into the woods, taking only what the trees had already offered, fallen branches, dead trunks, and limbs cracked in storms. The wood was dried and blessed, then carved into homes, tools, and heirlooms. That year, however, their care and reverence were repaid with flame and blade.
 
A group of bandits, six in number, descended on the village like a storm. They burned houses, killed three villagers, and fled with the Terithor wood the village had spent all season collecting.
 
They laughed as they dragged the carts into the trees, blood still dripping from their blades.
 
The laughter didn’t last.
 
That night, the sound began, thock, slap… thock… slap-slap… crack… thock.
 
The men paused by their fire, blades drawn. “Just a deer,” one muttered.
 
Then a shape appeared just beyond the firelight, bent, human-shaped, and swaying strangely. Its silhouette was blurred by the heat shimmer, but the rhythm it made as it stepped closer was unmistakable. Thock. Slap. Slap. Thock.
 
“Who goes there?!” one called.
 
The figure said nothing.
 
It moved closer: one foot, one hand, another foot. Never the same order twice. That twisted, percussion-like rhythm rattled the bandits more than any scream might have.
 
Then it lunged.
 
Two men were torn apart before the others even had time to scream. The thing’s torso split like a cabinet bursting open, flaying the closest one into bloodied ribbons. Its limbs bent the wrong way. It crawled over one man not like a predator, but like a nightmare puppet trying to understand how flesh works.
 
The others fled, into the woods, into the dark.
 
One man made it to the river. He didn’t stop running until he reached a hunter’s camp two days away. He tried to tell them, through panting breath and broken sobs, what had happened. They didn’t believe him.
 
But the hunter paused and tilted his head. "You hear that?" he asked.
 
Thock… slap… thock… crack…
 
Something was coming. And it never missed a beat.....
 
----------------------------------------------------------------
The fire burned low in the Whispering Hearth’s cellar, casting flickers of gold and shadow across the rough stone walls. Kaelyn sat on a crate, elbows on knees, staring at the dancing embers. He had just finished recounting the tale of the Splintermaw — every jagged detail, every gory flourish. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was waiting.
 
Above him, a soft rustle of wings broke the stillness. Ahiah descended from the ceiling rafter and landed soundlessly on the edge of the crate beside him. Her star-dappled wings folded neatly, shimmering faintly in the firelight. Her gold eyes studied him, patient, unblinking.
 
“You told it well,” she said, her voice calm and melodic in his mind. “Too well.”
 
Kaelyn gave a tired exhale. “It has to be believable. That’s the point.”
 
Ahiah tilted her head, the celestial glow in her fur pulsing with subtle movement. “And the point is… fear?”
 
“I want them afraid,” Kaelyn muttered. “The ones who torched homes, who murdered people who had nothing to do with anything. They took what wasn’t theirs. They made people bleed for it. So now they’ll believe the forest itself is watching.”
 
Ahiah was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You hope they believe.”
 
He looked over at her. “What are you saying?”
 
“You’re not wrong to want consequences.” Her gaze never wavered. “But you’re weaving fear and truth together so tightly, Kaelyn, even you might not see where one ends and the other begins.”
 
Kaelyn leaned back, jaw tight. “It’s just a story.”
 
“Is it?” Ahiah’s wings lifted slightly, the star patterns rippling. “You plan to leave behind real blood, real splinters. This isn’t just myth-making. This is performance. And you're counting on it echoing.”
 
Kaelyn was silent, frowning at the fire. The tension in his shoulders finally slackened.
 
“…Maybe they deserve to be afraid.”
 
“Maybe,” Ahiah agreed gently. “But just remember — fear spreads faster than fire. Once lit, it rarely stops where you planned.”
 
She stepped forward, her delicate claws clicking faintly on the wood, and rested a wingtip lightly on his hand. “Whatever story you tell… make sure you can live with what it becomes.”
 
Kaelyn didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t pull his hand away either.
 
The fire crackled.
 
Above them, the stars waited.
 
-----------------------------------------------------
Splintermaw
 
Physical Description
From afar, a Splintermaw might pass for a ragged, hunched vagrant—its silhouette stooped and humanoid. Standing roughly six feet tall, it appears to be made of salvaged wooden remnants. Closer inspection reveals its truly unsettling nature: its body is not carved but grown, composed of warped branches, splintered beams, cracked floorboards, and aged toy parts bound together by sinews of root and resin. Some limbs bear the smooth finish of polished dolls, others the scorched and nail-pocked texture of ruined furniture.
 
It walks in a sick parody of human motion. Rather than a normal gait, it cycles through a broken rhythm of stepping—foot, hand, foot again—never repeating the same sequence. This results in an unpredictable, percussive cadence: thock, slap, thock, scrape, echoing like a drunken drummer fumbling for rhythm. Its limbs always seem just a heartbeat behind its will, creating a lagging, uncanny quality to its movements.
 
Its bark-mask face is frozen in a gnarled grimace. Splintered "teeth" jut out from a jaw that unhinges far too wide, revealing inner hollows bristling with slashing wood and twisting vines.
 
Combat
When enraged, the Splintermaw strikes with terrifying efficiency. It lunges forward, seizing victims with unnatural strength. Once grappled, its torso splits open with a creaking moan, revealing an array of internal blades—shards of wood and jagged limbs—which spin and flay in a storm of motion. Victims are shredded in moments before the maw closes with a splintering snap.
 
It is resistant to conventional weapons and fire due to its dense damp wooden body, but vulnerable to holy magic. Its erratic, unpredictable movements make it difficult to target, and the sound of its approach alone is enough to instill dread.
 
Its presence is preceded by an unnatural drumming—its limbs creating chaotic rhythms against the ground, like warped percussion echoing in the woods.
 
Habitat / Society
The Splintermaw has no known society and does not communicate. It is rarely seen unless provoked. It is believed to dwell deep within the Terithor Forest, camouflaged among dead trees and piles of discarded wood. When dormant, it folds its limbs tightly and becomes indistinguishable from fallen timber.
 
It does not hunt for food or territory. It awakens only when a specific offense occurs—when blood is shed to steal Terithor wood that was respectfully gathered by others. Then, and only then, it emerges, driven by an inexplicable compulsion to punish.
 
Ecology
Scholars speculate that the Splintermaw is either a cursed guardian or a manifested forest wraith. Some say it is a punishment given form, others believe it was created by druids in forgotten ages. Its body contains fragments from many eras: ancient beams, ruined toys, and scorched relics from forgotten fires. It does not feed. It does not rest. It simply waits—dormant and listening—for the rhythm of betrayal.