"Rumor has it, that in the past four decades or so, people have been spontaneously reanimating into undead, and these undead cannot be put down by the normal means, even, as neither light magic nor cutting them down seemed to kill them.

I have seen one such case myself, it was a hunter who had his throat torn out by a wolf in the woods. He reanimated during his funeral procession, making horrible groans, and neither spears nor swords could stop him, nor did blasts of light from the priest. In the end, someone finally decapitated him, but his head kept moving even so, until at last we burned his corpse to ashes.

It was a miracle from the gods that none of us were hurt in that mess, to be honest." - Sandor Hererc, Adventurer based in the Elmaiya Empire, circa 70 VA.

Ashendale Village

South-Eastern Elmaiya

Second Elmaiya Empire

4th day, 2nd week, 7th month, year 75 VA.

"Not from around here, are ya, girl?" Asked Carl, the village butcher, who also doubled as the leader of the small community's militia as he chatted up the newcomer, a girl in her twenties who dressed like a traveller, with vibrant red hair.

"Been here and there, yes," replied the girl with a polite nod as the tavernkeeper dropped a wooden mug full of ale right before her. To his surprise, the girl smiled back, raised her mug to him in a toast, which he accepted, and drained the ale in a quick gulp without even pausing for breath before she lets out a satisfied sigh. "Not bad, didn't expect good ale in a small place like this~"

"Name's Carl," he said as he introduced himself, while also signaling to the tavernkeeper for more ale. The girl seated across the table from him was a pretty one, if a bit pale, and she seemed pretty receptive to his advances so far. He then extended his hand for a shake as he further elaborated. "Captain of the local militia, and you?"

"Call me Aideen," she said, as she shook his hand. He thought that her hand was a little cold, but didn't put his mind to it, instead focusing on the feel of her smooth, dainty hand in his own. Carl was a big man, easily two meters tall, and built like a brickhouse, so even though the girl before him was tall for a woman, he still dwarfed her by a good bit. "I'm a bard, been wandering around. Anything interesting happen lately?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe it, but we got one of those cases of people turning undead on their own right here, just like a few days ago, even!" Carl replied as he took another long drink from his mug, an action he was happy to see the girl followed. At this rate she might be pretty boozed up soon, and he might well have a fun night ahead of him. "Poor Jerrod, really, he just had his second child last month, and then that lizard just gutted him. It's really just adding insult that he went undead on us right while we were bringing his corpse back. Thank fuck the priest was around!"

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Carl didn't notice how the girl wasn't paying much attention to him as he regaled her of the tale how he had risked his life to keep the undead away from everyone until the priest could get there and help control it. She asked him some question about Jerrod's family after he told her how they burnt his body at the stake, despite protests from his wife.

He never noticed how the girl never seemed to get drunk even as he started slurring his speech and his cheeks reddened like beets, not did he notice her smirk when he collapsed on the table, dead drunk, and accidentally swept some of the empty mugs off the table.

To the admiring eyes of some of the other patrons of the tavern, the girl stood up, not looking even the slightest bit drunk. She paid the bartender for her share of the drink, before she left, leaving a drunk and sleeping Carl on the table they had occupied moments ago.

------------------------------

"Yes?" Asked Martha as she opened the door after she heard a knock despite the late hour. The villagewoman looked older than her thirty years, and her eyes were red, as if she had cried out quite recently. She opened the door warily with one hand, even as her other hand cradled her newborn.

As she peeked out the door, she saw two cloaked and hooded strangers waiting outside in the light drizzle that had began to fall that night. They stood a respectful distance away from the door, so Martha relaxed somewhat, until she noticed the figure to her right, a woman, place a finger on her lips, signaling her to be silent.

When the other figure came closer to the door, allowing the candlelight from inside to shine on his features, it was all Martha could do to suppress a surprised gasp, as she saw eye to eye with her late husband Jerrod, who had perished a few days ago.

The village priest had claimed that he had risen as an undead and had his corpse burned for the safety of the village, despite her protests, so she never even got to say her goodbyes properly, nor even had a grave to bring her children to. Yet now he stood before her, seemingly hale and hearty.

She took a step back as her supposedly dead husband entered the house, the cloaked woman behind him, who silently shut the door behind her. She trembled with disbelief and trepidation as her husband came close to her, looked her in the eye with that look she had missed so much, then he raised his arms…

Only to very gently embrace her, taking care not to press against the newborn baby cradled in her arm, his cheek resting against hers as he broke down sobbing on her shoulder. That broke her resolve, and she too broke down crying on his shoulder. Their cries woke the baby in her arm, causing her to cry out loudly in protest.

"It's really you, Jerrod… I'm not dreaming, am I?" Martha muttered as she sat down on a simple bench in their living/dining room, Jerrod and the woman, whose vibrant red hair made her envious now that she lowered her hood, seated across from her, while her baby was not quiet, too busy suckling on her breast to make a noise. "If this is a dream please don't wake me up oh god…"

"It's me, Martha. It's really me. I could explain, but it's a long story, and we don't have that long," Jerrod said to his wife in haste, even if he tried to be soothing with her. "We need to pack up and leave before daybreak, lest they find out I'm back. If they found me here with you… I fear what Father Francis might do to you… or the children."

To his surprise, Martha just nodded, and went deeper into the house with the babe still suckling on her breast. They heard some noises, and she returned within five minutes, half pulling along a five year old girl who was still rubbing her sleepy eyes with her.

"Papa!" Yelled the girl in joy as she saw Jerrod. She then ran and hugged him, and he lovingly hugged her back, before rising up with the girl carried in his arms.

"That was fast," said the woman with a raised eyebrow. "I had expected we'd need longer to convince you."

"I doubt there's anything in our poor peasant household worth even scheming for, lady," replied Martha with a depreciative chuckle. "All I care for is that I can be with my husband again, and my children won't grow up without their father. I'd have paid anything for that, so why would I be asking too much when it fell right into my lap?"

"You chose a very rational wife, Jerrod," said the red haired woman with a smirk on her face. "I approve. If you're all done packing let us get going. I'll tell you the whole story as we travel since it'll take a while."

"It'll be a long story anyway."