Private Tales Grave Turning

[Méchanteau]

The masked leper carried by whispers and rumors against biting winds and beasts was not exactly who he appeared to be. He was a thin man, skin and bones, diseased enough in appearance to look deceased. He wore a mask to hide the ravage of leprosy, and his hands and arms were layered twice over in fragrant linen, he wore them to protect others from infection and certain death, and against the cold he protected himself with simple hides and furs of creatures common in that area. This man was marked, on his clothes and slanted mask were signs of the Blight, warnings that he was not one to be approached, touched, embraced... Yet, he could still be conversed with, and some offered aid to this poor soul with bread and water and bed, only to be refused with jests. This was no common leper, no man so close to death had the right to that lightness of speech, of step! What's more, he also inquired after the weirdest things, mostly tales, of ghosts, wights, skeletons, monsters of that ilk. The people soon grew wary of him, and so he left for another settlement, to again ask for more tales and accounts, from drunkards and children and superstitious widows, everything he was told, he already knew, and he was certain of his destination.

The leper's journey ended at the top of a glacial burial mound, where great warriors of some other era long past were entombed in stone, iron and ice. The leper cackled, removing his mask, and from his flaming eye sockets came a mist that stilled the air, turned the snow to water, revealed the granite and treasure underneath all that ice. Méchanteau congratulated himself on his clever disguise as frozen bodies splashed all around him in the pool that was once their tomb. Perhaps their shared burial was a celebration of some martial brotherhood, but that mattered little to the Lich, he wanted only their bodies to puppet, and their souls to devour. Their treasures were also nice.

 

[Draegan the Undying]

It almost felt as though he were back in his adventuring days. Draegan chuckled to himself. He had been spending a good amount of time in the settlements along Eretejva’s coast. Getting to know the people, establishing himself as a wandering knight for hire. Draegan wanted to be someone that the people felt that they could rely on. Even if he wasn’t what he appeared to be. So he had been doing a few odds and ends. Nothing difficult for him. He had been hanging around in a tavern when he heard the rumor of an odd leper who refused aid and asked of tales of the undead. It was a bit unsettling, to be honest. What with Magnan and the whole Eternum taking refuge here. He had decided to investigate on behalf of the villagers, much to their relief. Some were just worried about a sick man wandering into the wilderness alone. Others were wary of him. Whatever the case, Draegan felt that there was something not quite right, and if something smelled, there was usually a reason why.


That was why he was out here, following the leper in question as discreetly as one could in full plate armor. Luckily, the padding that he used for his disguise dampened the sound, so it wasn’t so loud and terrible. But, to be safe, Draegan followed at a considerable distance, but close enough to help the man if need be. He wasn’t sure himself of the man’s circumstances. When the two of them reached what appeared to be a graveyard, Draegan worried. This man’s obsession with the dead was concerning. That was the lot of necromancers and their ilk. He heard a wicked cackle and saw fog emerge from the man’s body and that was all he needed to see. His hand on his blade, Draegan stepped out from behind his meager cover and approached the man from behind.


“Halt where you are! What business have you in the place where the dead- Oh gods…”


As he drew near, Draegan saw the true nature of this leper. Not a leper at all, but an undead like him. Before him a great hole in the ice and snow where it had liquified. Grave robbing. He had thought that might have been more the purview of the unscrupulous living. Well, the undead’s dubious reputation had to come from somewhere. Draegan had a feeling it was fellows like this man. Steeling his resolve, he drew his sword.


“I shall not allow you to defile this place.”

 

[Méchanteau]

Méchanteau was on his literal knees, raking with his spindly greedy fingers coins and baubles closer to himself, up to his eyes so he could watch their glimmer. He was happy. Genuinely, thoroughly, happy. But it was not to last, during this last stretch of his enterprising voyage he had been followed and didn't even notice it! Curses! He turned his head around to face the music, only to be surprised by what he saw. A skeleton, much like himself, animated through some magic or patronage or ritual. It appeared to be aware of its own existence, surroundings, but not the danger he had just put himself under. Marvelous.

A single green spark flew from the fire in his eyes, followed by many - were they tears? "Defile, dear stranger?" He stood up, dropping the riches all at once, his clothes damp and heavy with water "How dare you." He pulled a body from the water, propping it up, returning it to life "This is my brother Savanir the Younger, felled by the Yuv tribe." he picked another at random, a burly man with a beard braided with fine copper rings "This is my uncle Savanir the Elder, felled by the Yuv tribe." he picked a rusty sword and began pummeling the runny ice with its pommel until a squashed nose emerged "This... Might be one of the Yuv, actually, they buried themselves along with..." he threw the sword away, uncovering the rest face with his own hands and then punching it into a frostbitten pulp with surprising might "THEIR ENEMIES! MY TRIBE! MY FAMILY! THOSE ANIMALS, BEASTS, DEMONS IN THE SHAPE OF MEN, MAY THE YUV BE FORGOTTEN BY THE FIRST MOTHER, THE MOUNTAINS, AND THOSE ABOVE!" The Captain turned to the two defrosted undead, who looked at him with glassy stares, too frozen to even speak the lines Méchanteau was feeding them. So, he embraced them, tightly "I'm sorry I took so long. So sorry." The older-looking corpse began patting the lich's back while the younger one gave Draegan a cold, disapproving, but mostly cold look.

Méchanteau was truly without shame. Hell, he was finding this little theater extremely amusing!