Three children find an old book of magic, and it is up to you to show them what it does.
It is an old book, as most adventure-prompting books are, bound in leather and brass, pages worn at their edges and tarnished tan. It is held, however, in young hands; soft and supple where the book was tough and tired, vibrant and vivacious to the opposite's dull demeanour.
What is it?
A book, you dolt.
The thoughts pass effortlessly between the two minds. They do, after all, share a body. Well, not really, but the two minds do belong to twins, who look enough alike to be considered either or.
I know that, eejit, but what kind of book?
"An old one," came a young boy's voice. "That's all I can tell from the looks. Now open it, or I will."
So the book was opened. Rather unceremoniously, I must say, without the pomp that such an occasion would, in other places, merit. The book was simply knocked against the wood floor until the old hinges of brass gave way, then laid out and leafed through.
"The pages are blank," the boy's voice cutting the silence.
But while all three faces were fixed on the unfolded pages before them, shadows crept behind them, empty as the book. They dance upon the walls, like the castings of a candle, bending where they meet the ceiling, the floor. But they go unnoticed, the emptiness of the book instead enchanting the children.
It must do something.
Again, the boy, the only voice in the otherwise silent room, saying, "We'll just have to wait it out, out-wit it."
It isn't alive, you loon. Not like a magic book-
"A grimoire," came the verbal interjection.
-a grimoire or anything.
A pity, as the dance of the shadows is so much more mind-filling than the plain pages.
Until, of course, a wayward shadow limb reaches across the book, causing the quick contortion of the three bodies; three heads atop three necks twisting to view the scene as three pairs of eyes widen at the spectacle.
A pity, too, that not one saw the word that stitched itself across one such blank page after the shadow crossed it.