Bleatoven, the beloved goat of the Hollow and unparalleled master of Pan’s Flute, departed this plane in a
spectacular (and entirely preventable) explosion caused by an overzealous sniff of Taddle’s Bottled Belch No. 7

He was only 250 years old.

Composer of silence, conductor of chaos, and unchallenged bleater in the key of mischief, Bleatoven lived
not merely to graze — but to create, confuse, and inspire. His hooves knew rhythm where others found only dirt. His stare could humble mushrooms. His bleat could bring a tree to tears.

Gone too soon, but never forgotten, his spirit now echoes in the reeds and rogue chords of the Hollow’s breeze.

Scriblet’s Eulogy:

“I first met Bleatoven when he ate the corner of my first draft and left behind something better. He never claimed brilliance. He simply was — a creature in tune with the universe’s oddest notes. He saw the music between the moss and the madness, and dared to hum it aloud.

We will not replace him.
We will not try.
We will simply listen, a bit more carefully, for the bleat behind the breeze.

And when we hear it… we will nod, and write.”

– Scriblet