Vergandale was a small town. A very small town. More of a street than a full-fledged settlement, and not a very crowded one at that.

The inn Stewart led them to lay just a mile before the main thoroughfare, at the base of a small hill. It was a little thing, matching the town in the distance. It looked like it was constructed with driftwood: gray, warped, and barely holding together.

Similarly gray clouds hung overhead, threatening rain, as Neil shuffled inside behind the rest of the group.

The air chilled as the sun set behind them, and clouds gathered over the valley: like stepping into a different world.

Stepping into the inn gave Neil a similar feeling.

It was warmer than he expected, and better lit. A fireplace roared against the far right wall, with blanket-lined armchairs scattered around what was essentially one very large living room.

It was empty, though not abandoned. A noise like pots and pans banging together echoed distantly from behind the front counter.

Stewart strode forward to the desk on the far side of the room, while Neil and the rest hung back, by the front door. Their guide coughed loudly and knocked three times against the wooden counter.

He frowned back at the group when no one appeared, balled a fist, and hammered the front desk with it three more times.

Sounds like distant arguing rose over the static din of pots banging together. Neil thought it sounded like a man and a woman, and he could just barely make out what they were saying.

“Ah d— ca-e wha- ki-d eh stew ye— m-k— ye daft bastard! we-r- eh bloody inn fe- Hea-en- sa—. Ge- out! Go!”

There was then a very loud banging sound, followed by a crash, like orchestral cymbals, and Neil winced.

A man, round of face and sullen of expression, walked out from the door behind the counter. He was shaved bald, with more hair on his chin and neck than anywhere else on his head.

He was more than a little on the hefty side. His eyes—gray and glazed over—resembled those of a dead fish. His mouth appeared to be his main breathing apparatus, rendering his snout-like nose entirely decorative.

“Welcome tae the Crow’s Feet, what can ah do fur ye?”

The man wiped his hands absently on the seat of his pants. His accent was thick and reminded Neil more than a little of Hanson’s.

Stewart coughed again. “The steward of Retmor sends Heroes to deal with your undead infestation.”

The man gave Stewart an open-mouthed frown. “We’ve got ah what?”

“An undead infestation,” Stewart repeated, a little louder. “The steward sent Heroes to deal with it.”

The large man looked troubled by this information. “Aye, ah moment, sair.” He pivoted on his feet, turning all the way around.

“Oi, Mary! Ah fancy-boy’s come en an’ says we’ve got ah wight problem!” He bellowed in the direction of the door he’d just come from.

“Ah what problem!” A gravelly, yet distinctly feminine voice yelled back, sounding distant.

“Ah wight problem, ye deaf bint!”

A sound of cascading thuds—like footsteps—started and stopped in quick succession. “Tha’s what eh said, ye grimy bastard!”

The woman’s voice was louder, now.

“T’ain’t!” The man shouted back.

“Well, is the fancy-boy gonnae do anything about it!”

“Eh think so!” The man turned back around and addressed Stewart in a normal-speaking voice. “Are ye gonnae do anything about it?”

The younger man appeared at a loss for words, but only for a moment.

“Well,” he started, taking a deep breath. “Firstly, it’s not a ‘wight’ infestation, only lesser undead. Secondly—”

“Fancy-boy says it’s no’ wights anymore!” The man yelled, back over his shoulder.

“No’ whats!?”

“No wights!”

“Tha’s what eh said!”

The man turned back to Stewart, giving him an expectant look.

“S-secondly, we’re here specifically to do something about it. To end it, I mean.”

The large man nodded, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “An’ a fellow named Stewart sent ye?”

“Not ‘Stewart,’” said Stewart. “The steward. From castle Retmor. I’m Stewart, but that’s not—I’m not—”

The boy looked helplessly back at the group of Heroes, a plea for help in his eyes.

“Steward,” repeated the innkeeper. “Tha’s what eh said, innit?”

“We’re here,” said Stewart, rounding on the man with newfound force in his voice. “To help. We would like to stay the night, and we would like to use this space to talk to whoever’s in charge of your undead problem. Can we please do that, sir?”

The innkeeper blinked slowly at Stewart, then leaned to look past him, at the six Heroes.

“What?” he asked, frowning. “All seven o’ ye? No’ exactly ah lucky number, eh?”

“Please.” said Stewart, iron in his voice.

“Aye,” the innkeeper shrugged. “Just ah moment, sair.”

He turned back around, and Neil was already wincing in anticipation of renewed bellowing.

What followed was a negotiation between who would sleep where, and how many beds they had in total, dealt almost entirely through a nuptial screaming match, with only the occasional interjection by Stewart.

..

..

“You’re on your own, from here,” said Stewart, when the shouting was done. “I’m… I’m gonna go to bed. The undertaker will be here any minute now, and… he can tell you everything you need to know.”

“Thank you,” said Anne, in her high voice. “You’ve done a great job.”

Stewart only nodded, and plodded off through a door on the left side of the room.

And then they waited.

The innkeeper stayed at the front desk, watching them in the common room, huddled by the fire, like a tourist watching an animal from the zoo.

On the one hand, it made Neil grossly uncomfortable. The man just looked at them, dead-eyed, breathing in and out of his mouth like a pig with sleep apnea.

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On the other hand, Neil was too tired and too sore to care. He plopped himself into a fireplace-adjacent chair and promptly melted into it.

On the other other hand, it allowed him to witness the innkeeper's reaction to the undertaker walking in.

A lanky, hooded man—dressed all in black—stalked into the inn, bringing with him the smell of rain and mud.

When it started to storm, Neil didn’t know—but it was. Rain whipped past the shadow of a man, and the fireplace spluttered in protest of the cooling breeze.

“Nicky!” The innkeeper exclaimed, mouth forming an open ‘o,’ at this new arrival. “What can ah do fur ye? Did ye hear about this undead business?”

“I heard, Angus,” the newcomer said, stomping his muddy boots on the wood floor. “An’ I heard about these so-called ‘Heroes’ sent to ‘save us.’”

“Aye,” Said the innkeeper—Angus. “Why couldnae local boy dunnit? T’ain’t exactly an ‘orde o’ bogglings, eh?”

Newcomer Nicky shrugged and walked towards the fire.

“Don’t mind him,” he said, stepping in close to the fire, and pulling back his hood. “Heroes all have to start somewhere, eh? Where better than Vergan’s Dale?”

Nicky was handsome. A symmetrical face, clean-shaven, with an angular nose and a strong jaw. His hair was a dark and untamed mess, curling in wild strands like smoke from a doused fire. If Neil had to guess his age, he’d put him in his mid-twenties.

“Where better,” June agreed, standing up to greet him. “I guess that makes us the so-called Heroes, huh?”

“It does, indeed.” The man’s smile was bright and even, and made Neil wonder if Vergandale had a local dentist, or if the man was just naturally blessed with perfect teeth.

His accent, also, was significantly easier to understand than Angus’s.

“The steward’s letter said there'd be seven of you. Am I miscounting, or…”

“Number seven’s turned in for the night,” said Jackie. “What can you tell us about the undead problem?”

“Right to the point, eh?” Nicky sank into his chair, across from Neil. “Only that it’s barely a problem. More of a generational chore, really. A handful pops up every couple of years—easy enough to deal with by myself—but every fifty-or-so we get a bumper crop.”

“This has happened before, then? Do you know what’s causing it?” Jackie pressed.

“Aye, it’s no mystery. Been happening for as long as Vergandale’s had farms: people to work them, and people to die on them. There’s no avoiding the problem, we’ve found it best to just deal with the things as they crop up.”

“‘Things’ being undead abominations.” Commented Thomas, leaning forward.

Nicky shrugged. “Not ‘abominations,’ really; they’re a part of nature too, ye know? It’s no’ like anyone’s raising them to enact any foul deeds. It’s just that the bodies get a wee bit restless, what with the dark times and all.”

“Like they’re just getting up for a snack.” Neil said in a light voice.

“Mor’en a little like it,” Nicky agreed. “All we’ve got to do is pop 'em on the head with something heavy, and they should go right back down for their final rest.”

“That’s it?” Asked Jackie. “How many undead are we talking about, then?”

“Well,” Nicky scratched the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That’s not ‘it,’ exactly. Ye can leave the grisly bit o’ cutting their hearts out to me, but I am gonna need help gathering them up before I can re-bury them.”

“I’m sorry,” said June. “You’re cutting out their whats?”

“Hearts,’ Nicky turned back to Jackie. “There shouldn’t be much more than fifty total, and we’ll need to throw them in the communal corpse heap. I’ll handle digging the actual graves myself over the next couple of weeks.”

Neil blinked at the phrase, ‘communal corpse heap,’ which seemed to go unacknowledged by the rest of the group.

Jackie had a considering look on her face. “Fifty corpses, spread out over… What, twenty square miles?”

“Closer to five,” said Nicky. “Just because the dead are walking, doesn’t mean they walk fast. I figure we can take two teams, each with a donkey cart, split up, and get this whole mess sorted by supper tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jackie nodded. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that can’t wait ‘till tomorrow,” said the undertaker. “No offense intended, but you all look a bit like the walking dead yourselves.”

“None taken.” Smiled June, in a bright voice.

“A little taken.” Neil frowned.

“Rest,” suggested the undertaker, nodding at Neil, for whatever reason. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow. I’ll see you all then.”

The tall and dark man nodded his goodbyes, and disappeared into the rain and night.

…

…

Neil lagged behind the rest when they went upstairs to their respective rooms.

He had business to take care of.

“Angus!” Neil said, smiling widely.

The large man blinked at him, head rocking back like Neil shone a light in his dark little eyes.

“What can ah do fur ye?” He said, frowning mildly.

“The steward suggested that I interview the local wizard about the varieties of undead.”

The large man blinked again. “Right, err—but what can ah do fur ye?”

‘The force does not appear to be strong with this one.’ Neil thought.

Still, he wasn't about to make Stewart’s mistake and get flustered with the poor man.

Neil raised his eyebrows. “You could… tell me where the local wizard is, or if there is one?”

“Ehh,” the man scratched at his neck stubble. “No, ah donnae think Vergandale’s had a proper wizard in years.”

“Oh,” Neil frowned. “Well… is there anyone else I could talk to about… magic stuff, or undead creatures, or anything?”

“Me wife’s ah nag, if ye think that’d help.” The bald man shrugged.

“Um,” said Neil. “No, I… wouldn’t want to bother her.”

“It's no bother,” he shifted back. “She loves talkin’ about that sortae thing. I’ll just call her.”

Neil winced. “No-no, that’s really not—” he attempted to wave the man back, but it was no use.

“MARY! Get en ‘ere! Eh guest wants tae TALK tae ye!”

Angus’s regional accent only got thicker when he yelled, Neil noticed. More than a little like Hanson, back at the castle.

“—necessary.” Neil finished lamely, letting his arms hang limply at his sides.

What followed was a chorus of thundering footsteps, and a call-and-answer of “what?” -s and “Are ye sure?” -s, before the wife herself stood in front of Neil.

She was a portly woman, looking every bit like Neil would expect of an innkeeper’s wife—from the gray streaks of hair in her messy bun, to the stained and dirty apron tied around her waist.

Neil wouldn’t hazard to say that the woman was ugly. Beyond her appearance, there was an energy about her, a brimming vitality in her eyes and cheeks that defied her apparent age.

She looked, thought Neil, like a woman who spent a great deal of her long life laughing, and had the lines to prove it.

He immediately liked her.

“What can ah do fur ye, dear?” She asked him, brushing her hands off on her apron.

“Um,” Said Neil intelligently, looking between her and Angus. “Your husband said I should talk to you about… magic?”

“Did he?” She blinked at him, before turning and smiling sweetly at her husband. “Are ye finally knockin’ some customers my way, darling?”

Angus shrugged. “He was askin’ about a wizard, so I told ‘im about ye bein’ eh nag.”

“‘Wizards,” The woman scoffed, turning her attention back to Neil. “Watcher be needin’ a wizard fur, anyway? Vergandale’s got a perfectly good ‘ag right here.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked expectantly at Neil.

“I’m sorry,” Neil said, looking carefully between the innkeeper and his wife. “Not to be rude, but you’re a what?”

“Ah nag, and I ain’t ashamed o’ it.”

Neil blinked at her. “Beg pardon?”

She blinked right back. “Ahn ‘ag. You know, a witchy woman?”

“A hag,” Neil said, comprehension dawning. “Like— a witch?”

“Tha’s what eh said,” the woman huffed. “But no, not ah full witch. I’m hardly gonnae be the next Dread Queen Mab, am I?”

“No?” Guessed Neil, slowly shaking his head. “But you know about magic stuff?”

The woman opened her mouth, sharing a practiced look at her husband.

“Yes, dear,” she said in a slow and clear voice. “Ah know about ‘magic stuff.’”

“Fantastic,” Neil smiled. “What can you tell me about the undead? Or—if you’ve got time—‘magic stuff,’ in general? I am clearly out of my depth here.”

“Oh, I’ve got nothing but time,” The woman said, smiling back. “If all you’re wanting is advice, an’ you’re already a payin’ guest, I’ll just fix us some tea and we can chat.”

And chat they did.