“If I hear one more pun about being ‘gravely’ injured, I will literally kill someone,” Thomas said, scowling at the wood ceiling of the Crow’s Feet Inn.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Said Neil, voice bloated with sarcasm. “Am I bothering you? Gosh, my behavior’s been just ghoulish, lately, hasn’t it?”

“I think you’ve been pretty ghoulish, buddy.” Pete slurred. “D’you think I’ve been ghoulish?”

He put a hand on his chest when he spoke, voice high and squeaking when he asked Neil the question.

Whatever medicine Mary gave him, Neil thought, it must have been good. Or it had hard liquor in it. Either way.

“You’ve been just ghastly, Pete.” He nodded at the younger man.

The three sat in opposing chairs, in a circle, bathing in the light and warmth of the roaring fireplace on the far wall of the common room.

“Stop it, all of you.” Mary the Hag said, in a harsh tone, tightening the bandages around Neil’s chest from behind him. “It wouldn’t kill any of ye tae suffer in silence, would it?”

“It might,” Neil muttered, tensing against his chair, and wincing.

The sting of his cuts was rapidly fading, dulling into a tight but more-than-manageable ache.

“It won’t.” Said the hag, giving him a pointed look. “And ye can cut it with the ‘ghoulish’ talk, yer no’ gonna turn intae one on account o’ ah few measly scratches.”

‘Says you.’ Neil thought but wisely did not say. The looks Nicky gave him and Peter on the cart ride back made it seem like they might turn at any moment.

The journey back to the inn was, in a word, tense. It felt good to let off a little steam with the boys.

It didn’t help that they had to share the cart with a dozen fetid corpses—and one burrow-ghoul. He’d need a change of clothes at the first opportunity. There would be no getting the smell of death out of his pants.

“Yeah.” Thomas agreed with Mary, sounding like a school-boy, as he raised his prodigiously large eyebrows in accusation.

“An’ yoo,” the hag whirled around to face the other man, lips puckering. “Coulda been outta here an ‘our ago, ye glass-ankled ninny.”

“Heh, ‘ninny.’” Peter giggled, echoing Mary.

Neil repressed a smile. Thomas, apparently, tripped over a rock earlier in the day and rolled an ankle. When he proved insufferable about it, Jackie exiled him to wait back at the inn while they finished their job.

Not that it was a competition of who had the most impressive injury.

Or—if it was—Pete was winning and too out of it to brag.

The young man’s ghoul-bitten leg was thoroughly bandaged, and currently elevated on a footstool. It didn’t appear to be bothering him too greatly at that moment, though, giggling as he was.

Mary, being a hag, was something like the Vergandale nurse. She was stocked with bandages, potions, and poultices. Though Neil still wasn’t convinced that she hadn’t just poured some kind of vodka down the kid’s throat.

“You can’t give me anything for the pain?” Thomas blinked rapidly at her.

Mary’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling and she shook her head. It struck Neil as odd, at that moment, that the generally cheerful woman was glad to be known as the local hag. She was all laugh lines, cooking stains, and matronly affection.

“Talk tae Angus.” She said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “He’ll get ye ah drop o’ brandy, and no more, got it? An’ tell ‘im we’re no’ wasting anything good on ye.”

Thomas shrugged, gingerly rising to his feet. “Got it. Thank you, Mary.”

“That’s ‘Mrs.Vergan,’ or ‘ma’am,’ tae ye.” The older woman said, crisply and deliberately annunciating each syllable.

“Thank you, Mrs. Vergan.” Thomas obliged, limping away at speed.

The hag shook her head, watching as the man went up to the counter manned by Angus.

“Eh thought your lot were supposed tae be brave.” She said, turning back towards Neil. “An’ here I’ve got three Heroes brought low by ah couple o’ wee scratches, an’ their own clumsiness.”

“I thought I was pretty brave.” Pete said, giggling ceased, sounding offended.

“Ye were so brave, dearie.” Mary crooned, walking over to the kid and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Now why dontcha take a wee rest, me brave little Hero.”

There was a sound, like someone whispering something far away, and a cool breeze blew across the room.

Pete looked up at the hag, smiled drowsily, and promptly passed out.

“That,” said Neil, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked on at the hag. “Is a pretty neat trick.”

“Ah wee spell to help nature along her course,” The hag shrugged. “Hardly even ah spell. The poor dear was practically asleep already.”

“Any chance you could show me how it’s done?” Neil asked, stretching in his chair.

He still hadn’t forgotten Argus’s promise of a book on magic. A teacher, though, would be all the better.

“Not if ye were planning on leaving in the next couple o’ weeks, no.” Shrugged the hag. “Besides, you’ll be fine tae go an’ make yerself useful in ah moment. Yer hardly any better than that one, honestly.”

She gestured tiredly at Thomas, who looked to be arguing with Angus, as the bald man scratched his head in confusion.

“I can deal with the pain.” defended Neil, trying not to sound disappointed.

“The possibility of infection, though…” he shook his head. “I’m not gonna lie, it doesn’t thrill me.”

Neil would admit that his scratches were hardly life-threatening. It might’ve looked like he was mauled by a mountain at first glance—at Neil’s, that’s exactly what it looked like—but the wounds didn’t bleed, really. They wept thin lines of crimson into the tatters of his cotton shirt, but no more than a few drops, in total.

He was fine. The shirt, however, was a lost cause.

“Ye’ll be alright, love.” The hag shook her head. “All ye needed was a bit o’ the marshmallow, and your scratches’ll be gone by morning.”

“Marshmallow?” Neil blinked.

“Aye, tha’s what eh said.” the hag quirked an eyebrow. “Mallow o’ the marsh? The paste I put on yer bandages?”

“Oh.” Said Neil, touching the ribbon of gauze his chest was wrapped in. “Marshmallow. Sure.”

It was a bitter-smelling greenish substance that tingled coolly against the scoring on his chest. It didn’t look particularly appetizing, but Neil endeavored to not confuse it with the snack.

“Wards away infection, and some lesser curses tae boot. More ‘en enough fur whatever ah wee burrow-ghoul might inflict ye with.”

Neil mentally filed this information, even as he wondered what the hell a ‘mallow of the marsh’ actually looked like. Even if the hag wasn’t going to teach him anything, that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn anything from her.

“‘Ah wee burrow-ghoul.’” He imitated. “You almost make it sound cute.”

“It might not be an ‘andsome creature.” The hag allowed. “But ye didnae have to kill the poor dear. They’re mostly ‘armless, and they’re good fur the land.”

“So you’ve said,” Neil frowned. “Tell me again how the mutated corpse of a grave robber is good for the environment?”

“I wouldnae want to bore ye with the finer points o’ farm-lore, dear.”

“Try me,” Neil said, slumping back into his chair. “I know a bit of ‘farm-lore’ myself.”

He was almost through A Definitive Guide To Farming In the Eastern Planes. He wasn’t sure how much of it he retained, but he knew enough that hags were generally trusted as experts in agriculture.

The ‘definitive’ part of A Definitive Guide was essentially a lie. What it meant was something along the lines of: ‘You don’t have to know everything, but do please listen to the people around you who sound like they know what they’re talking about.’

Sound advice, Neil thought, for any of life’s endeavors.

“Vergandale’s a farming community, firstly.” Said the hag. “We’ve no’ got many workers, but Mavith Valley is Enkyria’s breadbasket. If ye’ve ever had ah turnip, chances are we grew it ‘ere.”

Neil had never eaten a turnip, to his knowledge, and he’d certainly not eaten one since his arrival there. Still, he nodded.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“We’ve what’s called ah five-field rotation.” She continued. “Know what that is?”

“Um.” Said Neil, blinking. “That’s about… two more fields than the system I’m familiar with, but sure, I can guess.”

She gestured for him to please do so.

“Um,” Neil said again, not expecting a test. “Two… three of your fields are dedicated to some kind of fodder crop that’s good for the soil, and you switch out which fields grow what every year to keep the land healthy.”

‘Although,’ Neil thought with a frown, ‘Five?’

“Close enough.” Shrugged the hag. “But one of the fields stays fallow for decades before it’s thrown back in the mix. Care to guess which?”

“Err— I don’t actually know what you grow here…” Neil shifted in his seat, thinking hard. “Turnips, you said, and… I don’t know… barley, wheat, and some kind of legume? A fruit?”

He threw a hand in the air, signifying that he did not know, and could not guess.

“I should think ye’d know, considering it’s where ye’ve spent most of the day.” She smiled coyly.

Neil blinked. “The graveyard?”

“The grave field.” The hag corrected. “We keep the bodies as spread out as they are for a reason, ye know.”

The crackling roar of the fireplace, and the snoring of Pete, were the only sounds in the room as comprehension dawned on him.

Neil blinked again. Slowly, a frown spread across his face.

“You… wait.” He shook his head. “You're using human corpses as fertilizer?”

“With the help o’ the burrow-ghouls and a wee bit o’ magic, yes.” The matronly woman nodded with a friendly smile.

“And you eat the crops you grow with it?” Neil’s expression shifted steadily into one of mild horror.

“Everybody eats the crops.” The hag said, tilting her head to the side. “We’re a farming community, tha’s the whole point, innit?”

Neil’s expression shifted once more, into outright horror. “But that’s— that’s—”

His eyebrows furrowed downwards, and he shook his head—as if he could rattle an appropriate response out of his brain. When he couldn’t, he said the first thing that came to mind.

“That’s fucking gross, though!”

“There’s no need for that kinda language.” Mary frowned, folding her arms in front of her.

“I beg to fucking differ!” Neil raised his voice, more than a little outraged. “That’s—that’s—”

He shook his head again, blinking rapidly.

“That might not technically be cannibalism, but it’s pretty damn close!”

“It’s no’ cannibalism.” Mary scowled. “Calm down. The burrow-ghouls eat the corpses, then fertilize the land. It’s no’ like we’re eating them ourselves.”

“In what world is that not fucking gross?” Neil shook his head again, baffled. “And, yeah, it’s a little bit like you are eating them yourselves.”

“We’ve been doing it this way for centuries.” Mary’s scowl deepened, along with her accent. “Ah didn’t take ye fur a fancy-boy ‘at’d faint at the sight o’ sausage gettin’ made.”

“I didn't take you for a cannibal,” Neil said, face scrunched in confusion and disgust.

“Ahm no’ gonna sit here and argue with ye, when ahm clearly right.” The woman huffed and stood up.

Neil stared after her as she left, face still scrunched in disgust.

…

…

Ghoulish revelations aside, there was still a job to be done. Neil, being the least exhausted, least injured member of the team, was stuck doing the king’s share of it.

It was then that Neil was shown the most disturbing thing he’d ever seen.

The compost heap.

“There’s no need for that kinda language.” Frowned Nicky, wearing an all-black butcher’s apron.

There was more than a need, thought Neil. There was an imperative. A physical compulsion. Neil didn’t have the vocabulary to quite describe his emotional at that moment, but he was more than willing to bet that a combination of swear-words might get him somewhere in the vicinity.

The sky was an impenetrable mask of dark gray clouds, and a stiff wind rustled the field of open grass behind Nicky and Neil. The town, as gray as the clouds overhead, laid in the distance, and what Neil now knew to be the grave field lay behind them.

The undertaker’s barn was painted entirely black. It was hot, it was humid, and the smell inside struck Neil with such a force that he was sent stumbling back from the doors when they opened.

“I’ve already got the corpse-carts inside, I just need some help getting them into manageable pieces.” The undertaker lifted two tools from behind the barn door, and presented them to Neil.

“Do ye want the bone-saw or the ax? Guest’s privilege, but I’d recommend the saw, personally.”

The man looked entirely earnest when he said this. A little tired, maybe. Bored, certainly. Like he was about to engage in a perfectly normal, if tedious, chore.

“I’m in hell.” Neil declared, feeling the blood drain from his face to stir trouble in his stomach.

“Ye’re in Vergandale.” Nicky corrected, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me ye’re gonna be sick, are ye? If ye’ve got to vomit, go behind the barn, okay? I don’t wanna smell that while I work. It’s bad enough as it is.”

Neil, feeling numb, did so.

“City boys. No stomach for an honest day’s work.” He could barely hear Nicky over the rising wind, but he could hear him.

…

…

The inn was far from quiet, when Neil returned. Pete was awake, Stewart was down, writing something in what looked like a diary, with seven chairs pulled into a circle in the common room.

The fire was still roaring in the rightmost wall, bathing the room in warm orange light.

June, not part of the circle, was sitting at the bar.

Neil sighed, set his jaw, and walked over to her.

“You’re back late.” June said, raising an eyebrow. “Talk about ‘graveyard shift,’ huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Neil said, flatly. “What are you drinking?”

“Shitty beer.” She raised a dark wooden tankard, with what looked to be a copper handle bolted on. “But I’m not really a beer drinker, generally. It was this or whisky, and Angus’s only mixers are ice, or water.”

“Can I try?”

“Sure.” She shrugged, handing it over.

Neil, not being much of a beer drinker himself, liked it well enough. It almost surprised him how much he liked it.

But then, he thought, as long as it served to take the taste of death out of his mouth, it was good enough for him.

He handed the tankard back to June.

“Wow.” She said, voice dry as sandpaper. “Saved me a whole sip, huh?”

“I’ll get you another one.” Neil promised. “It’s on Argus’s tab, right?”

“I— yes?” June said carefully, frowning.

“Fantastic.” Neil smiled, clapping his hands together. “I’ll just go talk to Angus, shall I?”

Before she could respond, he turned to hunt the piggish man down. He bumped into Mary first, for which he profusely apologized. He then proceeded to apologize for his behavior earlier in the day, agreed that ghoul fertilizer wasn’t cannibalism, and could she pretty please point him in the direction of Angus, please?

She blinked at him, open mouthed. “Are you feeling alright, dear? You look a little pale.”

“I’ll be fine.” Neil smiled. “Where did you say your husband was?”

She frowned at him, but pointed, and Neil thanked her profusely.

He returned to June with a fresh tankard in one hand, and a glass bottle in the other.

“Thanks.” She said, gingerly accepting the drink. “What’s with the bottle?”

“Whiskey.” Neil informed her. “Mind if I…” He gestured to June’s empty tankard, which she surrendered to him.

“How ya feeling, bud?” She asked delicately, watching Neil pour himself a shot.

He threw the drink back: A precarious task, given the awkward shape of the tankard. He managed, though it was a somewhat greater obstacle that he’d accidently poured himself more than he’d intended, and was forced to drink something closer to double.

“Agh.” Neil cleared his throat, shivering at the taste.

“Better,” He gasped in a rough voice, slamming the tankard back down on the bar. “Whew. If you thought the beer was bad, this…”

He let the statement hang as he poured himself another shot, much more careful of the amount, now.

“…This is not better.” He shivered, breathed deeply, and swilled it down.

If he focused hard enough, he thought, he could actually feel the fumes burning the ends of his nose-hairs.

“Wow.” He coughed. “Mind if I use your beer as a chaser?”

“Um,” June said, blinking at him. “Is that a… good idea?”

“Not as good as Coke, or even Pepsi—bleh—but unless you’ve got a lemon wedge hidden somewhere on you…” Neil shrugged. “‘Needs must,’ you know?”

“I really don’t, no.” June said, frowning. “If I told you to knock yourself out, would you take that literally?”

“Never.” Neil smiled warmly, head light and buzzing already.

“Alright,” She said, sliding the tankard carefully towards him. “Please don’t knock yourself out, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dare.” Smiled Neil, before taking a hefty sip.

“Mmh,” He hummed consideringly as he slid the tankard back. “Thank you, but that was a truly disgusting combination. Horrifying, really. I don’t recommend it.”

“Neil.” Said June, lowering her voice. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Said Neil, rubbing his hands together. “Some food would be great though. What’s on the dinner menu?”

“Beef stew.” June frowned. “There was this whole bit with Angus and Stewart… I kept making jokes, but Pete was still unconscious, so the only one who’d play along was Thomas, and… you should have been there, you’d have loved it.”

Neil frowned. “Do you think they have anything without meat in it?”

“Angus and Stewart got into an argument about beef stew.” June repeated, staring at Neil. “Nothing? That doesn’t do anything for you?”

“I’m really not in the mood.” Said Neil, standing up from his seat. “Not for anything with meat in it, at least. I’ll just go and check the bread-and-cheese situation, maybe get my hands on one of those turnips Mary was raving about. Back in a sec.”

He stalked off.

“What’s your beef with stew, Neil?” June called behind him. “What’s your beef with stew!”

He didn’t look back at her.