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*Squeak* *Squeak* -BUMP!-

"Dammit! The bloody wheel's stuck in the mud again."

A middle aged man in a long, gray cloak swore as he went off his wagon. The wagon was a simple horse drawn one made of wood and a reinforced frame of steel. His physique matched the wagon, being wide and grey.

"This job, I swear! Bad enough having to collect and smell this crap, but the job's gonna take even longer now because the rain."

The back of the wagon had some sort of rotting meat and bones sticking out, and few remains of what resembled a human being.

This was a corpse wagon, roaming the sites of forlorn battles and skirmishs for money. Each body netted the collecter a hefty sum from the church. Corpse wagons had become even more frequent in the southern district of Aarde, thanks to a sudden rise in undead attacks.

"ARGGHHAAAA!!!!!"

The man pushed on the cart, using his back for leverage. His feet sunk into the mud. It took quite a bit of effort before he found a foothold and managed to get the wheel back on the road.

"I don't wanna waste my time in the god damn rain anymore." he grumbled under his breath.

Getting back on the wagon, he whipped the reins on his horse. His wheels wouldn't hold out for much longer in this weather, so he quickened the pace. The area gave him the creeps. Once he made enough cash, he'd rush back to the bar and get wasted on some cheap barley beer.

South Aarde was known for its farm produce, a staple diet consisting of simple bread and mutton. The loamy soil provided ideal growing conditions for wheat and other plants, and the large, open ranges of grazing area made it easy to raise animals.

Despite the importance of location, roads were inconsistently managed. Rivaling lords and petty squabble was common. Roads between territories were poorly kept because it made it difficult for an invading militia to mobilise. Although the same was true for their own milita, most lords felt confident that keeping the status quo was the safest way to retain their holdings.

The man traversed such a transitionary path. Undead attacks had effectively taken the local lord out of power. Unchecked, bandits and other opportunistic criminals have made it good business to do whatever they want. 

He knew all this. it was relatively safer to travel in groups, but he decided against it. It'd attract too much attention. Besides, corpse wagons weren't a very attractive target. Who'd want to lug around the dead for a living? Not bandits, or mercs, thats for sure. That, and the man felt he was strong enough to smash a couple of heads when the situation required it.

"...back here..." a voice murmered.

"..Who the hell was that? ....Show yourself!"  The man shouted out, pulling a rusty sword taken from a long dead nobody.

He looked furiously for the source of the voice, as one could never be too careful against undead or bandits.

He looked at his surroundings. wide plains on either side of him betrayed no sign of enemies. Sighing, he placed his sword back into the scabbard.

...

...

 "I spend so much time with the dead, I'm starting to think im one of them." He said, still on edge. Dismissing the sound as a hallucination, he failed to notice a white hand arched over the edge of the cart.

The skeleton popped his little grey head out of the mountain of meat, the sound being muffled by the rain. It wore a rusted scalemail vest under an overcoat which would have been a cool blue and black, but faded to a uniform grey. In its hands was a small necklace having seen better days. It had a bright red ruby surround by silver-gray metals. Everything had been sopping wet with mud and putrifaction. Whatever loot that could be discerned under the mess wasn't worth the malady.

It just watched. All it could think of is how grey everything was. Grim winds whistled while grass, overgrown, fell back in resigned waves. The steady patters of rain washed off the caked on mud, revealing a faded black crow overtop a blue and white patterned backdrop. A faint memory emerged. One of comradery. 

He heard a voice that pulled at his conscious. It was.. a gentle voice.

Come, come! This way!.

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A stern voice.

Don't try to forget him.

A loving voice.

I really love you.

Regret rose up inside the skeleton.

What happened to him? He couldn't remember. An endless pit filled his chest.

He looked down and examined the state of his body. The bones had partially blackened from overexposure, but seemed relatively intact. A large impact had hit the skeleton in the chest, testified by a web of cracks on his ribcage, right by the heart. It seemed magic held his broken bones together and allowed him to move.

The word made his nonexistent blood run cold. Magic.

He felt disgust. Disgust at his newfound body. The weatherworn bones felt unnatural, the loss of mass caused his armour to slip off and every once in a while he had to pull it back. Catching it a second time, he looked back out to the horizon. A storm was brewing.

The middle aged man smiled once he saw a banner coupled with torchlight in the distance. He must of been getting closer to the town!

A closer look confirmed the banner to be from the militia from Res. A patrol of 8, armed with a motley array of weapons. Pitchforks, spare swords, whatever they could muster. The captain waved over the wagon. After a quick glance at the contents, he walked up to the man.

"How's it out there?" The captain asked.

"Pretty bad, lot of people just up and dying on the roadside. Just the other day, I even hosted a family reunion." The wagoneer replied.

A small chuckle escaped from the wagoneer mouth, although the patrol doesn't respond well to the joke. A few at the back look visibly paler.

"It could be your family reunion one day." He rebuked.

The middle aged man was unapologetic. "My family ran out of here way before those things could take a crack at em. As for me, It might be scary, but there's money to be made."

The captain had no stomach to talk anymore, so he signaled his companions to let the cart go.

The skeleton caught a glimpse of the standard. Another memory.

A powerful voice. 

You'll get your pay when the job is done.

An anguished voice.

I send men to their death!

A hated voice.

You did good, Lwo-

Lwon. That was his name. Former name. Right now he was just an unidentifiable wet corpse. 

Remembering someone unpleasant, Lwon had a bitter taste in his mouth. Good memories come with the bad, afterall.

Soon, light could be seen in the distance. The little light in the dark became a watchtower, standing guard the towns gate.

The guard on watch gave a quick glance in the cart before making a face and letting it through.

"Mister, can ya keep yer cart away from 'ere, That don't look safe!"  asked a little boy dressed in rags. He was a son of a guardsmen who took him to work "I saw it move."

"You got that right it isn't safe, and it doesn't smell safe either." said the middle aged man, peering over his cart. "Im hiding a monster in here ya know?"

The little boy took a brisk pace to keep up with the wagon "What kind of monster?" He asked.

The man thought for a moment

"Well, err.. its hard to explain really. Like a snake but."

The young'un sighed in relief. "I ain't afraid of no snake." 

"Lemme finish. it has a head of a snake, body of a.. skunk, human arms for arms, and legs of.. a snake."

"Whatt?? Lame!" The kid yelled.

"Aww screw off kid." He grumbled, pushing the kid away.

The middle aged man thought there was sense to put a tarp over the bodies before entering. For some reason, the boy saw something move. Just a hyperactive imagination, just like me thought the man. He'd already combed over the bodies beforehand, taking care of only smashing their heads in by the back so they could be identified.

If one were to inspect Lwon, they'd find only a small pockmark on the back of the skull.

The town of Res was surrounded by wooden fortifications. Being a former frontier town to another territory, it was well equipped in repelling invasions from undead alike. This also made it an excellent hub for different kinds of people. Merchants to sell to soldiers, adventurers who wanted a taste of brutal combat, and refugees, fleeing from the panic.

The streets were wildly empty. Rain is a good incentive to stay inside. After glancing at some of the passing buildings, he arrived at his destination.

Leaving the cart by the front, he ventured inside.

The sign on the front read 'The Ragged Rascal.'

The middle aged man spoke with an inkeep. A young man, dressed in dirty leather briefs and a ragged jacket. He was the son of the owner, with a necklace in the shape of a sleeping dog. Recognizing the middle aged man, he searched his pocket for a key.

"Its you again. Here, thought ya might want'a room." He said, handing it over to the man.

"Glad you remember me." The man replied.

"I mean, such a good customer gets good treatment, am I right?" He said as if it were a given.

"So I can count on you to get me some beer?"

"Sure thing." The man with the dog necklace replied, leading the way onto the pub.

Outside, Lwon had just lay in the dark. He appreciated the reprieve from the rush of sensory information he was getting. All he wanted to do is forget. Forget his very existence. 

He had no motivation to even get up. endlessly stewing on the voices inside his empty head. 

He remembered their faces.

One was a boy with a bun of hair on his back. The youth had eyes that look at you as if they were dreamily gazing at stars.

The other? A stern faced man who wore wrinkles from years of hardship and battle. Life had taken its toll.

Thinking about them made him incredibly tired.

Let the dead sleep.