Snow whips through the air, settling over the small town of Arfall. In the spring they grew some hardy plants, but in this harsh winter, they were lucky to get by with hunting the sparse wildlife and ice fishing. Near the center of town, along the main road that was hidden by snow, was a tavern. The Frost Stop was not known for anything in particular.

The doors to the tavern open and a man walks in, he has a green cloak, brown pants, and bits of metal armor on. From pauldrons to greaves, bracers, gauntlets, and a helm covering his face. Only his eyes peered through. They were the bright eyes of a young man, yet his gaze shifted from figure to figure in the room.

Over his shoulder was a blunderbuss, unlike the one’s used in the guard regiment. This custom firearm had a space in the stock where he loaded alchemical cartridges. There was no black powder or grapeshot involved.

He made his way to the bar, pulled himself into a seat, and placed a single horn on the counter. The bartender looked down at the horn and then up at the armored hunter. His eyes shifted across the room, he patted his belt, finding a coin purse, and placed the purse on the counter.

“You killed it?” The bartender asks in a hushed tone as he wipes his brow.

“You already hired my replacement. Didn’t you?” The hunter grabs the coin purse and pockets it.

“It had already been a week. I assumed you were dead.” The bartender’s voice grates the hunter's ears.

“Then who do I need to talk this out with?” The armored hunter turns around to scan the bar.

“Burkwood!” A man stands almost a foot taller than the hunter. He wears a leather cuirass and has a longsword on his hip. His red hair is wildly long and braided, tattoos cover his bare arms. Standing on either side of him is another armed figure.

To the left is a dwarf with light brown hair and a short well kept beard. He is holding two hammers, gritting his teeth, staring the armored hunter down. To the right of the dwarf is a black-furred ratfolk. Standing four feet tall, just a smidge shorter than the dwarf, wearing some leathers, and wielding a crossbow.

“My name precedes me?” Burkwood, the armored hunter, asks seemingly confused.

“You’ve stolen hunts from me before. Not this time.” The red-haired Viking slams a fist against his chest.

“The beast is dead. Go home.” Burkwood pushes off his seat and step forward.

The Viking steps into Burkwood’s space, forcing him to step back into the chair, knocking it over.

“Hand over the coin, and I will.” The Viking growls.

“Yeah sure.” Burkwood shrugs and puts the coin purse in the Viking’s hand.

“Wasn’t hard at all, was it?” The Viking smiles, slams a hand down on Burkwood’s shoulder, before stepping out of the way.

“It’s Erevan Burkwood, by the way.” The armored hunter says as he walks towards the front door of the bar. “If you can remember that, you dull, dense mother fucker.”

“What!” The Viking storms after Erevan, drawing his longsword, following the armored hunter out the front door.

The red-haired man steps out into the whipping winds and snow. His eyes reflexively close, but he quickly opens them looking forward. Erevan stands before him, next to a sled with a yeti corpse on it, and a ballista set up on the front of the sled.

Erevan waves his hand, the ballista spins around to face the man, as if it has a mind of its own, and fires. The bolt sails through his head, destroying it on impact in a shower of gore, and flying through the door of the tavern. The bolt slams into the bar and sticks up out of the countertop. Screams and yells of fright echo from inside.

The dwarf and the ratfolk both look out the door, blinking, and recovering from the instant shock. The dwarf snaps to action first, flexing his arms, curling his fists tight around his hammers, and charging with a roar.

Erevan pulls out his blunderbuss, loads a slug cartridge in, and aims at the dwarf. The ratfolk fires his crossbow first, the bolt slams into Burkwood’s shoulder, and the hunter staggers backward.

The dwarf reaches him, sweeping a hammer low, slamming Erevan’s legs out from under him. The hunter hits the snow, the other hammer raises up, and swings down at Erevan. The hunter raises his blunderbuss and fires before the hammer connects. A slug of metal blasts through the dwarf’s chest.

Erevan rises slowly, pulling the crossbow bolt of his shoulder right under his pauldron, and he presses the hot barrel of the blunderbuss to the wound. There is a sizzle, accompanied by the smell of burning flesh, and the ratfolk's eyes go wide as he reloads his crossbow.

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The hunter stalks towards the ratfolk as he notches the bolt, he begins to crank the bolt back as Erevan steps through the doorway and storms towards him. The ratfolk raises his crossbow and fires as Erevan knocks the bolter to the side. The enemy squeaks before the butt of the gun slams into his temple.

The ratfolk drops to the floor planks unconscious. Erevan turns and leave the bar. He stops at the Viking’s body. He removes his leather cuirass and tosses it onto the sled. He takes the coin purse back, tosses it through the doorway of the tavern, and then continues back towards his sled. Only stopping to take the hammers from the dead dwarf and collect the shell of the alchemical cartridge he used.

“Burn the corpses. Wight’s have been around.” The hunter calls back to the occupants of the bar. Erevan grabs the reins of the sled and start pulling it along the road, heading out of town.

The hunter pulls his sled over hills, through whipping snow, and down around a ridge coming to the mouth of the cave. He sets the sled to the side before walking directly in front of the cave. He puts his hands around his mouth, letting out a deep sigh, before yelling.

“Hvardrik! I have come to bargain.” Erevan watches as the ground at the cave mouth shifts.

An arm shoots out of the ground on the left. A pair of legs kick up out of the earth on the right. Two undead, wights, drag themself out of the ground. Just as a man in a black robe steps out from the shadows of the cave. He has silver eyes, black hair, and tattoo’s across his face that give him a skeletal appearance.

“What have you brought me, Burkwood?” The necromancer, Hvardrik, asks with slow paced words.

“A yeti corpse, minus one of its horns.” Erevan waves to his sled.

“You work efficiently. A bolt straight to the heart. I’ll take the body.” Hvardrik waves and his two wights collect the yeti’s corpse and drag it back into the cave.

“My payment?” Erevan asks.

“Another magical tattoo perhaps?” The necromancer walks around Erevan. “For one who won’t have his face marked by the cities, you sure do enjoy the arcane markings.”

“No, I require hemomancy.” Erevan states, staring forward as Hvardrik walks around him, studying him.

“Blood magic? What for?” The necromancer raises his brows.

“I want to find out if I have any family. Any Kin on this plane.” Erevan says with little emotion.

“Lonely? Family is never good to keep for us Crows.” Hvardrik stops in front of the hunter and clicks his tongue against his teeth. “If you follow me I will test your blood. See who your next of kin is.”

Erevan follows the necromancer deeper into his cave. Torches light across the walls as they walk further in. There are dozens of undead milling about inside, mining out more tunnels, widening the main tunnel. They bring the stone deeper into the cave to a large natural cavern. Inside the undead piece together and mold a keep made of the stone. A few undead mix ingredients to make an adhesive for the stone work.

“You are making this place more homely.” Erevan mutters.

“Well since you saved me from the adventurers in The Withering Gate, I’ve had to slum it for quite some time with the underground troglodytes. They have gone deeper, giving me the entrance as a place to set up my base. Plus it took a while to get all this undead man power.” The necromancer waves to his keep and the undead push open heavy stone doors for him to enter.

They walk inside, currently there is just one large room with pillars, as no rooms have been designed. A sleeping bag, a table, and some alchemical supplies are all that is in here. Hvardik walks over to some beakers, he quickly dumps some gunk out of them, waves his finger, and makes the messy glass clean with a simple spell.

“I’ll need some blood.” Hvardik picks up a curved black dagger.

“I know.” Erevan pulls his glove off and hands him his hand.

The necromancer cuts a tiny scratch on the tip of one of Erevan’s fingers before swishing his hand. The blood flows out far more than it should, but it twists through the air, rises, and deposits itself into a beaker.

Hvardrik adds a dash of liquid silver and drops some crumbling leaves of some herb before mixing the concoction together. It turns a sickly blue color before the Necromancer pours the liquid into two shot glasses. He hands one to Erevan and raises the other.

“Down the hatch.” Hvardrik says.

The two drink the potion. Erevan stumbles back, holding his head, as a searing pain shoots through his head. Hvardrik waves his hand and two undead pull chairs up for Erevan and the necromancer. The hunter sits and holds his hands up to his helmet, gripping the holes he sees out of.

Images flash before him. A snow covered city, a sprawling metropolis in the North along the coast. A massive castle overlooking the grand city. A crow flies from the castle down towards the city. It flies to the darkest, grimiest side of the town stuck in the shadow of the castle close to the docks. The houses are small, poorly made, bunched together by the hundreds. The crow lands on a window sill. Inside is a woman with a wrinkled face and brunette hair in a bun.

“My mother.” Erevan whispers.

“You aren’t an orphan. Good for you.” Hvardrik smiles.

The door to the house opens, a man tosses in a frail young woman. She has a tattered dress on, black hair, tears in her eyes, and tattoo’s of straight black lines running from her eyes across her face.

“And a sister.” Hvardrik gasps.

“A Crow.” Erevan mutters.

The hunter rips his helmet off. His shaggy black hair falls around his face. A black scar runs from the bridge of his nose across his cheek towards the outside of his face. A mark on his pale skin.

“Let go of the whole crow thing.” The necromancer sighs as he sinks into his seat.

“They treat us like slaves! WHY! Because of black hair! Because of some stupid prophecy! If they think we are an omen of death then I will bring it to them.” Erevan huffs.

“Well.” Hvardrik waves around the room at his undead companions.

Erevan deflates letting out a long sigh.

“You’re a bad influence on me.” The hunter smiles.

“Yeah, are you staying the night?” Hvardrik asks.

“One night, then I am moving on.” Erevan says, shrugging. “But I swear to the gods if you scare me with a corpse again, I’m killing all your undead.”

“That’s really rude.” Hvardrik says, smiling.