Five zombies stood together in a group, gossiping.

Perhaps it wasn't exactly gossiping. When they'd been normal villagers, gossip had consumed a significant part of their days. Like small town folk from anywhere else, they'd picked over the minutiae of each other's lives: which couples were having an argument, who was drinking too much, who hadn't been to temple or who'd chosen the wrong crops to plant. If they ran out of gossip about each other, they'd talk about people from neighboring villages, or the little they knew about politics. On a slow day, they could while away an hour or two just talking about the weather.

Peasants in the kingdom of Charun also had a reputation for a certain dry humor, which was subtle enough to allow them to insult the King's tax collector to his face without leaving the official any specific turn of phrase to complain about. A Charunian peasant could spend ten minutes complimenting your good lucks and intelligence, all the while somehow making it clear that you were lower than sewage slime.

All of this goes to say that the zombies hadn't quite regained their speaking abilities in full.

"Seen... shoulder? Bandage. Bitten. Tonnim." Gerril, a former miller, was one of the better-spoken of the group.

"Ughhh," grunted Darren, his former apprentice. "Bloo-- bloo--" He paused, his mouth working like he was chewing tough steak. "Bloooody."

"Devra. Say. Tonnim bit him. What you think... taste like?"

As a group, all five zombies turned to look toward Annel, who was laboring over a dead body in the distance. If the small muscles around their eyes had been functioning properly, they would have had the expressions of creeps who'd seen a little girl alone on a playground. As it was, they just stared blankly at the distant mage.

Halric was the first to turn back to the group, groaning softly. "Can't kill. Has con... control. Need other... humans."

None of the other zombies could disagree with that assessment. It wasn't that bad, anyway. The world was full of humans.

But for the moment they'd been ordered to work. They had a village to rebuild, as little as that made sense to them.

"Bors... what next?" Halric asked. The group focused on the former builder, who'd been responsible for raising both homes and barns around the area.

Like Tonnim, Bors had been a drunk, but a functional one. He'd fared poorly in the grave, though. One of his cheeks had been nearly eaten away, making his speech particularly hard to understand.

"Gatter rushes. Roofs." Bors pointed toward a pond that was hidden away in the trees. "Got tools?"

Halric grunted, nodding. "I go. Darren. Gerril. We gather rushes. No tools. Orcs stole. Or burned."

"Need new tools."

There was a general nodding and grunting of assent. Then the zombie meeting split up, each moving off to their respective tasks.

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Halric's shadow, though, acted strangely. Half of it split off, moving along with the shambling zombie. The other half drifted away in the other direction, continuing to move until it reached Annel. Once there, its flaming blue eyes flared to life, attracting his attention.

"Mom. You need something?" Annel had been sewing up multiple ragged wounds on a body. He stopped to look at the spectre.

"No. I was just eavesdropping on the others," she whispered.

"Oh? That's rude, isn't it?"

"What's the use of being a living shadow if I don't use my capability for stealth?"

"Good point. But I think you're just rationalizing acting like a gossipy old woman."

The spectre emitted a dry chuckle. "Perhaps. I was well on my way to being a gossipy old woman when I died. But what if I told you that your new zombies want to kill you and eat you?"

Annel looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "It's the nature of undeath to consume the living. An undead that does not yearn to destroy life is as unnatural as a wolf with no hunting instinct."

Devra hummed out a thoughtful sound. "Is that why the Archmages call undeath a plague? What happens if us undead are allowed to spread?"

"It's worse than a plague, from their perspective." Annel looked over at the village, gesturing at the distant zombies. "Each undead is an anchor point for the negative plane. Over time, they -- you -- release negative energy into the world. A group of undead can create conditions in which more undead rise spontaneously. An even larger mass of undead begins to permanently warp reality."

"And yet, you bring us into the world?" His mother spoke softly.

Annel nodded, then shrugged again. "Both life and undeath are superior to death alone. You were alive, now you are undead, yet in either condition you are still my mother. The zombies are... flawed, yet they are similar to who they were in life. Before, I believed what the Archmages teach. But now, I see it all as a game between the gods and outsiders. The gods allowed your death. The outsiders allow you to exist again, so I'll do their bidding."

"So what is your plan, son? To create so many undead that it gives these outsiders a toehold in the world?"

"My plan is simpler. To bring our village back. But let me show you something."

Annel had been kneeling by the dead body during the whole conversation. He jabbed the needle he was holding into its grey flesh and rose, brushing off his knees before turning to walk toward the temple.

The interior of the temple was dark, its tilting ceiling giving it a shield against the light of the cloudy day. Annel walked over to the statue of Corum, which looked over the ruined interior. He gestured up at it, then turned to look at his mother as she floated over.

"So? What am I supposed to look at?" she whispered.

"Corum's statue. Do you notice anything about it?"

The spectre floated closer, until she was nearly touching the statue. She looked it over, using all the means at her disposal.

Her ordinary sight showed her nothing in particular. The statue was made of local granite, in a dark grey color. As was customary, only parts of it had been painted: the wings jutting out of the back were a stark white, while the eyes were painted blue with a yellow center. There were some dark stains below the eyes that she didn't remember, one on either side of the nose, but she supposed that was just a sign that it needed cleaning.

Shadow-sight and her magic sense, on the other hand, told a slightly different story. Devra had to examine it closely before noticing anything, but there was a dark aura clinging to the statue. The aura hinted at greater spaces beyond, as if the statue were in two places at once.

"I see something. I'm not sure what it is," she said.

"The Arcanum doesn't like to admit it, but consecrated places like this temple have a connection to their god," said Annel. "Since I called you back from death, some other force has entered this temple. I'm not sure what, or who, it is. But it seems to be..." He trailed off, searching for a word.

"Corrupting?" suggested Devra.

"No. Fighting a battle, perhaps. And Corum is likely to resist."

"But how? 'The gods stand apart', as they always say."

Annel looked up at the statue. "The gods don't interfere directly. But they meddle. And I think we'll find out how, soon enough."