Don’t be fooled. Behind that unassuming furry exterior and the constant motion of a wagging tail, dogs are vile creatures. Any Lich worth their weight in bone knows to stay a good distance away (preferably behind a legion of undead or at the very least a gaggle of revenants), or risk becoming a living, breathing, chew toy. The dog is likely the greatest weapon in the arsenal of a well-equipped paladin because, unlike a paladin, dogs are equipped with keen intelligence.

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Arm wrestling can teach a man a lot about himself. For Azog, the barkeep, it taught him that he was about as strong as four Orc’s with overlapped hands, tied together snugly with thick rope, and pulled by an oxen. Arm wrestling taught me that I wasn’t too good at arm wrestling and, more importantly, that I was about to become professionally jobless.

“That's thirty to nil. You should rethink challengin' me. I’ve got a reputation to uphold and endless casks of beer to keep my energy up.” Said Azog, the sensible. Sticky ale dripped from Azog’s beard, as the beer convinced his muscles that motor skills were overrated.

“One more.” I grunted, sliding my left hand into position. My right hand enjoyed the much needed break. Twenty of my bouts, I'd thrown my left hand under the wagon that was Azog’s meaty palms. This was blatant favoritism and if hands could speak it would call me out on my bullshit. However, most hands don't speak, often relying on sign language to convey their thoughts instead. I didn't know sign language, so I couldn't have understood my hand even if it attempted to beg for mercy. My bruised hand interlocked with Azog’s much larger, more muscular hand.

“That pathetic attempt will not be enough for a reputable apprenticeship from the Mudville's Mud Hut Maker’s guild, I’m afraid. All of 'em can make my hand move when I'm easin' up like I did. What apprenticeship are we trying to get this time?”

“Rumor has it that the Diggers' Collective for Digging Holes is low on diggers. The demand for holes far out-supplies shovelers. They’ll admit anyone who has a pulse.” I responded.

“Hmm. About one-fourth of my strength oughta do it. If you can make it budge, I’ll be surprised. You better rethink this; once you start putting on pressure I gotta protect my honor.”

“I can make you budge.” I delusionally lied.

My flimsy hand slammed onto the bar counter. I grimaced in pain and I nursed my crooked pretzel-like fingers. Azog handed me a tankard, I took a swig as I hunched over the stool I was perched on top of. With that swig, I had resigned myself to being the sole fifteen year old in the entire world without an apprenticeship. Maybe that was the melodramatic fifteen year old in me, but more than likely it was the undeniable and completely factual truth.

I looked around The Coward’s Brew to distract myself from the existential dread slowly creeping up on me.

Nicks and cracks covered the few tables strewn haphazardly within the Coward’s Brew. Mismatched chairs for misfits like myself and tables of dubious quality were the hallmark of extravagant cost cutting. If there was a coin to be saved, Azog would find a way to save it. This was not a place for Kings or proper Ladies. It was a place for broke men and cheap booze.

The Coward’s Brew wasn’t warm. The occasional wind would seep through the cracks in the poorly built walls. The whistling and rattling of the wind was a constant reminder of the bleak frigid winter. Candles flickered, making the already dim bar dimmer. Azog tapped my shoulder; I swiveled around.

“Say Arthur, have you tried all of the girly skill based apprenticeships? While it ain’t pretty pickin' flowers for the Botanist, it is an honest ladies work. I know deep down the skirts keepin' you from testin' your metal on them flowers, but we’ve got kilts just like ‘em in the Isles.” reasoned Azog, the jerk.

“Every. Last. One. Please, shut up” I pleaded.

“I’m just sayin'. No human born of bone and flesh will end up doing nothing. That’s what the elves do. You’ll find your calling and pick up one of 'em apprentices sooner or later.”

“Are you trying to rub it in? Not one taker, not a single fucking taker in this village. A barkeep like you sure knows how to make a man feel better.”

I knew this wasn’t the case. This was just Azog. He was a foreign man from the Isles of Alcar, an eccentric barkeep whose morals and strange thoughts were so alien to the respectable people of Nosterdam. To him, there was nothing wrong with wearing skirts and prancing about like a possessed dirt eater. My mother was the reason I was unhirable. Not having an apprenticeship was the reason I chose to be a fool drinking terrible Ale in Azog's cold inn.

“You’ll feel better when you get yourself a proper apprenticeship,” Azog reassured me.

“No apprenticeship wants me, I spoiled my last chance after the bread incident. Yeast is not the answer!”

“Just because the baker-”

“Don’t talk about the bread incident. Not today! I’m not in the mood.” I shouted.

Azog wisely shut his mouth and turned to clean one of his many dented tankards with his ragged cloth. The bit of rag looked small in his large hands. Unwisely, he decided to open his mouth moments later. He was a fool, after all.

“Did you hear the rumors?”

“What rumors?”

“The high cleric of Nosterdam is traveling to our village.”

“Why? There’s nothing here besides hefty amounts of cow shit. He’ll only find misery and sadness in this little town.”

“Not everyone in this town is sad, including you some days. Hear me out.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Fine.”

Azog leaned in, making sure to look both ways to make sure there weren’t any patrons around. There weren’t. The Coward’s Brew was the least popular tavern in the entirety of Mudvale.

“Rumors has it, one of ‘em evil necromancers is lurking among us. The holy order is sending one of their best undead smiters to smite this necromancer.”

“Do you smite the necromancer or the undead he raises? Surely, the necromancer is a living breathing being.”

Azog scowled.

“That is what most people think, but I’ve heard of great tales of mythical undead necromancers. Golag the Benevolent would suck the souls of the livin', and feast on their bad dreams.”

“Golag the Benevolent doesn’t sound too benevolent.”

“Well, that was what he was called. I don’t make the rules. The half-gnome tellin’ me that story was drunker than an Orc. All I’m sayin' is that there’s more to the dark arts than the clergy will have you believe.”

“Yeah, ok. Angels are evil and demons are my friend. Got it.”

Azog narrowed his eyes.

“Is that sarcasm I’m hearing come out of your mouth, Arthur? I’m dead serious when I say that the world ain't as black and white as this kingdom wants you to think. I heard many stories working as a barkeep, all full of nuance. It’s dangerous being a sheep Arthur, and those who take the King’s words to heart are gullible fools at best, at worst they’re dangerous devotees. Always keep your eyes peeled and think for yourself.”

“Maybe. But there must be some merit to what the King says, or else why would he and the church try to smite them at every opportunity?”

“Only the King and his fancy pants council knows. I wouldn’t put too much faith in them. Look at what they’ve done for our village.”

“Done what?”

“Exactly. They’ve done nothing for us.”

Thunk! The tavern doors flung open and in walked an old fellow. Something was off about this decrepit old man. Maybe it was his crooked eyes that didn’t quite sit right on his face, or maybe it was that his nose looked like it had been bludgeoned, straightened out, and then bludgeoned again. A raggedy gray cloak hid the rest of his figure, matching his dreary gray eyes. His wispy hair and stern expression made me want to look away, but there really just wasn’t much else to look at in the tavern.

The old man crept forward, dragging his old body until he found himself sitting next to me. In my humble opinion, he was too close. There were plenty of open stools along the bar; he didn’t need to sit right next to me. I was too polite to give him a piece of my mind, however.

“Grave Digger George! What brings you here?” hollered Azog.

“Booze.”

“Of course, of course. I’ve got plenty of that. Say, how have you been doing lately?” Azog asked.

“Rotten.”

Azog was taken aback. You weren’t supposed to answer that question truthfully. You were supposed to lie about how fine you were. This was not the island of Sarr where the islanders vowed to only tell the truth or else face the chopping of the tongue. No, this was Nosterdam, a cesspit built on quality lies and following social norms. Even people from the foreign Isles of Alcar lied.

“How so?”

“I just got word that a nosy Cleric is going to be digging around my graveyard. I’m afraid he’ll find something that’ll just make my job much harder.”

“An upstandin' man like you has nothing to worry about. Make yourself comfortable. Arthur doesn’t bite, although he does smell.”

“That’s alright. My nose doesn’t work too well anymore,” responded George.

“Hey! I don’t smell that much!” I protested. ‘

“Are you sure about that? Why do you think I added all those herbs to your ale free of charge?”

“I thought you were being generous and felt some empathy for my plight. It’s good to know you’re a cold hearted sociopath.”

Azog snorted.

“Well, George, as an expert on the dead, mind tellin' us what you think about the dark arts?”

George stiffened.

“I don’t know anything of the sort. I’m just a grave digger, is all,” muttered George.

“Oh, I wasn’t calling you the necromancer or anythin'. Arthur and I were having a little difference in opinions and were wondering if you could resolve our little mental tussle.”

George looked around to make sure there weren’t any patrons around. There weren’t. It couldn’t be stated enough that the Coward’s Brew was the least popular tavern in the entirety of Mudvale.

“I suppose I can give my two senses as a humble gravedigger. What exactly was the argument?”

“That the dark arts isn’t as immoral as the crown makes it out to be.”

“It’s the user that makes the magic. That’s what my great grandad always said. Over my years, I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. If they were used for a good purpose, I’d think they could do some good instead of being lazy layabouts.”

“They’re dead, George. The dead are hardly layabouts,” I said.

“What would you know about that?” George snapped, his voice unnervingly angry. “They just sit in their little graves and don’t do anything. A bit of gumption and building themselves up by their bootstraps would be appreciated.”

Azog and I shared a strange look.

“Well, don’t worry George. We believe you,” Azog spoke for the both of us. This was not the case, but it was better to agree with crazy lunatics than risk angering their demented minds, especially shady gravedigger lunatics.

George mellowed out a bit.

“I’m just tired of grave digging, is all. I used to have dreams of doing something great, something not grim like playing around with the dead. I guess I just have regrets,” confessed George.

“It’s never too late to turn your life around,” I lied. It was a baseless claim that went against all the evidence I’d witnessed during the short span of my mortal life. The lie was more to myself than anyone else, a last bastion of hope. My life had not been turned around, flipped, warped, or even slightly touched. My trajectory remained the same.

George chuckled. “You think so?” he asked if I had said the funniest thing in the world.

“Well, yes. Life isn’t over until you die.”

“I suppose so. You remind me of my younger self, Arthur. I too was once filled with hope, but that’s not what fate has planned for men like us.”

“Men like us?”

“Dregs of society. The people who scrape the bottom of the barrel; people who were born at the bottom to serve the needs of the powerful. Don’t be like me. Find satisfaction in serving those who are meaningful. That is the calling we’re cursed with.”

As the sun was gobbled by darkness, I stumbled through the streets drunker than anyone should ever be. Dark thoughts rattled around in my head as I contemplated ways to avoid becoming like George. I was not like him. I wouldn’t become him. My life was not over the moment I was born.

Unfortunately, my memories of what happened that night evade me. Sadly, the minds of the living are fickle and even my earliest memories aren’t perfect. Only later would I solve this dilemma. I remember waking up slumped on the floor of a grave in the town's cemetery. It was cold, and the grogginess from the previous night lingered. I wondered how I ended up there.