“S-stand back!” - Crow yelled with his daggers drawn, as the old man still smiled at him. This was the worst possible outcome of the whole situation. He couldn't believe how stupid he was - falling into an obvious trap just because he wanted some entertainment in his life. Five years of peace gone in an instant for a promise of a fucking lute.

“Easy there. I'm not going to hurt you. I just felt like we should be honest with each other if we are to work together.” - Arnath said calmly, but Crow wanted nothing of it.

“Likely story!” - He hissed, assuming a defensive stance. - “But I've got to admit, this is pretty clever. Was this a long running plan in the village? You, a frail, old man, luring me in? The rest are already coming, aren't they? Pitchforks, torches and all of that stuff?”

“Luring you in?! Gods, why would I? Like you said, I'm a frail, old man! I wouldn't risk a close encounter with an undead if I didn't know he's harmless! And I definitely wouldn't let anyone use me as bait! I fully intend to make my days on Earth as long as possible.”

“Shut up!” - Crow screamed, hearing his voice creak. - “I'm not falling for this! I've had a woman pretend to be kind to me once, in Great Mills. She said she made a new scarf for me. I trusted her, so I started changing it in front of her. And it was all a ruse! Her brothers were waiting just behind the corner, with spiked fucking clubs in their hands. They jumped on me as soon as I uncovered my face!”

“I'm very sorry that this happened to you. And while I can't say it would be any different if Khaede's other citizens found out about your affliction, I'm not like them. I want to help you, Crow.”

“Help me back into the grave, you mean?!”

“Oh for the love of…” - Arnath rubbed his brows and from behind his wrinkly palm, the Undead could see his eyes glow with power. Magic. Before he could think about what spell the now very confirmed witch was casting, he felt something grasping around his wrists and ankles. He tugged forward and yielding under his inhumane strength, whatever it was tore apart. Instantly, more tendrils sprung up, grasping at him with twice the strength as before. He took a glance, finally. It was vines, impossibly thick and long, sprouting from one of the pots on the kitchen windowsill.

“We can play this tug-of-war for hours, you know? Me, growing them, you struggling yourself free, me trying to hold you down even harder.” - Said the Gravedigger. - “But there’s only two possible results to that course of action. I either grow tired and you run out of my hut, drawing tons of attention to yourself, or… I grow annoyed with the fact I can’t communicate with you, and do what I was thinking of doing when you first arrived in Khaede four years ago. Order my plants to rip your head off of your shoulders. I am yet to see an Undead who could survive decapitation, but I’m not afraid to experiment.”

“Why didn’t you do it back then?! You’re getting some twisted satisfaction from letting me feel like I was safe here?!”

“I didn’t do it, because I’ve never seen anything like you. You’re roughed up, but you’re whole. Body and spirit, still together. That shouldn’t be possible. Necromancers can reanimate the fleshy shells we inhabit, but they can’t truly bring someone back from the dead. All they do is puppeteer. And if someone was doing that to you, using your lips to speak their own words, I’d feel it.”

“Feel it?” - Asked Crow with his eyes widened, suddenly interested in the gravedigger’s words. Maybe he had some answers… - “How would you feel it, exactly?”

“The same way I’m holding you down. I’m a Life Mage, if that wasn’t already obvious. And it just so happens that I’m competent enough to recognize my own domain of magic, if it’s being cast in my proximity.”

“I hate magic…” - Crow mumbled, going slightly limp in the vines’ embrace.

“You’d make a stand-up imperial citizen, then.” - Said Arnath, putting a kettle on the stove.

“Not like them!” - Crow protested loudly. He didn’t know much about the world, but he knew the things which were imperative for his survival. And living in the Empire-sworn Perin, it was necessary to know the Doctrine. Magic was evil. A sin, the highest heresy. All but Light, that is. - “What I mean is, I don’t have a clue about how it works! But it seems dead set on making my existence harder since I woke up today!”

“You sleep?” - Arnath's whole frame perked up with curiosity. - “Interesting…”

“Yes, I sleep! I also think and feel things! Like anger! LET ME OUT, YOU OLD WITCH!”

“I just might, if you promise to behave yourself. As I already said, I want to help you. But I can't do that until we have a civil discussion with each other.” - The gravedigger said calmly, while taking out a big, porcelain mug from the cupboard and tossing some herbs into it.

“Is this some kind of a social norm that I'm not aware of? That you hold people down forcibly when you want to talk with them?! Because this has happened to me twice since the sun rose!” - Crow raged, trying to struggle out of the vines’ hold again.

“Oh? Twice, you say? Odd… Who else wanted to talk with you?” - Asked Arnath with an edge of anxiety to his voice.

“That guy.” - Crow pointed to his shadow. - “Though I wouldn't recommend spending time with him, he's a fucking asshole!”

“Asshole? Really? Maybe it's you who tries to antagonize everyone offering a helping hand to you, Crow?”

“SHUT UP ALREADY! YOU HAVE NO MOUTH, YOU SHOULD BE MUTE!” - The Undead cried out, his voice breaking into a pitiful creak. He didn't even care at this point. He just wanted all this torment to be done with.

The old man sighed with relief, however.

“Ah, so you're a Shadow Mage. That's good. For a moment I thought someone from the village was giving you trouble. Listen… I can see that you're clearly agitated…”

“The fact that you mentioned ripping my head off doesn't help, you know!”

“Sorry about that. I think I got the wrong impression about you at first. You know, a world-weary hardass, unafraid to use his daggers? I was trying to speak your language.”

“What's that supposed to mean?! It was the right impression!” - The undead squeaked again. Arnath couldn't help but giggle at how much emotion could change the man's raspy baritone. Then again, it wasn't all that weird. His vocal chords must've been worse for wear because of… well, being dead.

“Nah… I think you're a softie, actually.” - Still giggling, he finally ordered his potted ivy to release its hold. - “Here. A show of good will on my part. Will you take a seat so that I can tell you about the job I wanted you to do?” - He asked, and poured boiling water into his mug, the herbs inside releasing an earthy, sweet aroma into the air.