Probably the worst thing you could’ve been born as, living in the woods surrounding Khaede, a small village near the southern border of the human kingdom of Perin, was a deer. Wolves were aplenty there and shadowcats stalked the forest as well. And if you got lost and stumbled into a place where the greenery suddenly changed into an unsettling, red hue, you were dead before you could even think to run.

But the worst thing of them all, was the monster. From afar, you could easily mistake him for a human - he walked upright, and his silhouette didn’t differ from theirs. But up close? His eyes glimmered with an unearthly purple glow, his skin was gray and his chest didn’t rise and fall like a breathing being’s should. And he never finished his chase without catching his prey. You could try to run, but it was for naught. He never tired. You could try to charge at him with your antlers, too. He would grab you by them, raise you high up in the air and then slam you hard against the ground, breaking your neck. Whatever you tried, once he set his sight on you, it was already over.

The monster’s name was Crow, and perhaps surprisingly, he held no ill feelings towards the local fauna. As a man of very few talents excluding his speed and strength, he was just trying his best to survive and earn himself a warm bed in the local inn. And it just so happened that Tedrick, its owner, had lost his best hunter in an imperial raid a few weeks before Crow arrived in Khaede. And so, for the last five years Crow had where to sleep, Tedrick had something to put on his tables and the deer had someone to be afraid of.

It was a good arrangement, Crow thought to himself, while carrying the corpse of what you, dear reader must’ve been afraid would be the protagonist of this story. Don’t you worry - this tale isn’t about the trials and tribulations of being born as a member of the cervidae family.

Anyway, the innkeeper was nice to Crow. He let him have a room that was almost rat-free, he never complained that the game he brought back from the woods was too skinny and most important of all, he didn’t ask questions. Like where did Crow come from, why was he named after a blackbird or why he never removed the tattered black scarf that he kept wrapped around his face. Other people usually did soon after the man decided to settle somewhere for longer than a week and their incessant curiosity always led to him being chased out of the towns and villages which he tried to make his home in the company of torches and pitchforks.

Why? Because once somebody inevitably decided to pull away his scarf against his desperate wishes, a rather disturbing thing would become apparent to everyone who looked at him. Crow was an undead. The sunken, hollow cheeks, blackened eye bags, and sickly grayish skin could belong only to someone deceased. He was a good undead, though, he liked to think. After all, he never ate anyone. And he was polite, too! Whenever the innkeeper’s adorable little children brought him sweet buns that their mother baked, he always thanked them warmly, even if he couldn’t enjoy them. In truth, any kind of food was completely useless to Crow. Trying to ingest some would only end in having to throw it up. As such, he would take the treats offered to him, stash them in his room, and feed them to Tedrick’s chickens under the cover of the night. He also mastered the art of watering plants with his beer when nobody was looking to perfection, although in the last year or two the innkeeper’s wife was becoming more and more suspicious of the fact that her flowers were not able to survive more than a month if moved next to Crow’s favorite table.

He’d have to find another tactic of getting rid of his alcohol soon, he thought, as he entered the inn through the back door. He forced himself to pant a little - he learned quickly enough that to avoid suspicion, he should at least try to look tired after bringing in a whole deer from the woods. And so, every time he came to the kitchens, he did some theatrics that would make him seem more normal to the cook. The plump man, named Yvor, whistled contentedly as he saw Crow and the catch of the day.

“My, my, boy! That’s a huge one! No wonder you’re so tired.”

“Yeah. It gave me a run for my money.” - Crow lied, having found out over the years that complaining about his job was one of the best strategies to fit in with… Well, almost anyone.

“I bet it did!” - The cook replied with a grin. - “Place it outside, I’ll flay it in a moment. You should get yourself cleaned quickly by the way. I heard a visitor came to the inn looking for you.”

“For me?” - Crow scratched his head, his hand tangling in his messy, black hair. - “Are you sure? I’m not exactly the most sociable of people.”

“It’s Arnath the Gravedigger, Crow. Said he has a job for you.”

The undead frowned underneath his scarf. Among all the people living in Khaede, the mortician was the one he tried to avoid the most. The village folk often visited him for help with their ailments and plagues that harmed their crops. And he certainly was quite educated - both in the matters of the physical world and the arcane. Witches were usually women, at least according to legends, but Arnath seemed to care little about gender norms. And what could be more dangerous for a man like Crow than someone familiar with both death and forbidden magic? However, he had little choice about meeting the man. Arnath was revered among the villagers, rumored to be Khaede’s oldest inhabitant. And he was definitely the wisest, too. So, with a heavy heart and an equally heavy sigh, he proceeded to clean his bloodstained hands in the kitchen’s water barrel and then entered the main hall of the inn. It was quite busy at this time of the day, another thing that Crow would rather avoid. He usually only came in there late at night, when the only remaining patrons were the local drunks, far too intoxicated to notice flies drowning in their drinks, much less anything weird about the undead.
At least there was a bard on the stage, he thought. The man was playing a soothing, melancholic song that filled Crow’s heart with longing. He loved music and rarely having the chance to hear it was definitely a big disadvantage of his current state. One day, he always told himself, he would buy himself a lute of his own and then he’d have the instrument’s sound always with him. Alas, for now, it was way beyond his financial reach as Tedrick only paid him with the access to his room… And the food and drinks that were of no use to him, of course.

Arnath was waiting for him at Crow’s favorite table. He must’ve been watching him unnoticed to know which one that was. Not good, not good at all, he thought, as he took a seat in front of the elderly man.

“Ah, Crow! So nice to finally meet you in person!” - He said with warmth in his voice that immediately put the undead on edge. No sane person would be this happy to meet the village’s token mysterious weirdo. - “I’ve heard many good things about you from Tedrick.”

Crow frowned at the mention of his employer’s name. And he thought he was relatively safe under his roof… Turns out he was a tattletale after all.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries and cut straight to the chase, eh? Yvor said you had a job offer for me?” - He was usually nicer, as another thing that he learned over the years was that needless assholery tended to draw unwanted attention to him. This time, however, he simply wanted the conversation with the he-witch to be over as soon as possible.

“A man of few words, then.” - The undertaker chuckled. - “More action oriented, judging from how much game you bring here? I can respect that. The people I work with usually don’t talk that much either.” - He winked playfully and Crow’s whole body stiffened. Was that a thinly veiled threat? Being compared to Arnath’s “clients” definitely didn’t sound accidental to him…

“Hilarious. I see why the village folk love you so much. Dark humor is truly timeless.” - He grumbled, hoping that a little display of snark would make him seem more like a grizzled war veteran than a monster from a grim fairytale.

“In all seriousness, though… A silent type is exactly what I was counting on.” - Arnath’s smile dropped and he lowered his voice to a whisper. - “I have a rather delicate matter to handle and you seem like someone who can keep a secret.”

“What gave you the idea?” - Crow rolled his eyes. Becoming the gravedigger’s confidante was the last thing he needed. Deepest hells, he just wanted to be left in peace…

“You always sit here alone, people seem to know you, but none of them admit to being your friend, and you’re private enough not to reveal your name and face. Textbook example of an antisocial recluse if I’ve ever seen one. I bet that even if you wanted to gossip, you wouldn’t have anyone to do it with.” - Arnath’s upbeat demeanor was back now and he was giving Crow a huge grin. A grin that the undead definitely didn’t like. He wasn’t a loner by choice, after all! It was a necessity! And the man’s words were slightly hurtful.

He must’ve noticed his furrowed brows, because when he next spoke, his voice became more pleading.

“I’ll pay you handsomely.”

That made Crow hesitate a little.

“Will you pay me enough to, I don’t know… Buy a lute, for example?” - He heard himself say before he thought better of it.

“A lute?” - Arnath scratched his chin. - “You drive a hard bargain, my good sir. Instruments ain’t cheap.”

The undead huffed in annoyance.

“Handsomely or not? Make up your mind, old man.” - He stood up from his chair, readying himself to leave, to get his point further across.

“Hey, hey! No need to walk out on me. Fine. Equivalent of one lute in gold it is. But a regular one. Nothing fancy with ornaments on it, or something like that. I’m not some rich lordling, you know?”

“Acceptable.” - He sat back down. - “What’s the job, then?”

“Now, I would not want to speak of it right here. It might seem like nobody’s paying attention to us in this crowd, but I bet there are some prying ears hidden in the room. Come to my hut first thing in the morning and I will give you all the details.”

"Then I reserve the right to back out of it once you explain more." - Caution, Crow thought to himself. The word must've been important to him in his previous life, because it was tattooed in glimmering purple ink into the skin of his left wrist. He had no recollection at all of who he used to be before awakening in this accursed state, but he often suspected he was someone not very wise. After all, a warning to be cautious etched into a dead man’s body sounded quite ironic. Well… He was trying to listen to it better now. It was pretty safe to assume he would not get a third chance at life.

“No fun at all…” - Muttered the elderly man. - “But I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to force you to do something you know nothing about. Fine.”

“See you at the break of dawn, then.” - Crow replied and for the second time that eve, stood up from the table. For the second time as well, he was stopped.

“Don’t you want to raise a glass to the prospect of our fruitful cooperation?” - Arnath asked with a smirk.

Shit, Crow thought and rubbed his eyebrows.

“I don’t drink on weekdays.” - He tried to salvage the situation.

“You’re wasting your life away, then!” - Arnath laughed. - “But, eh, who am I to judge?”

“Can I finally go now? I should probably help Yvor with the deer I brought in today. This inn is still my main workplace, no matter if you promise me a lute or not.”

“Of course, of course. Something tells me you can make work of game much quicker than our dear cook. Especially with those.” - He motioned to the daggers on Crow’s hips, making the undead feel a shiver of dread.
Red flag, he thought. He’ll probably want him to use those for whatever “job” he had prepared for him. Deepest hells, what was he getting himself into? The lute, though… He hated being torn apart like this. His existence was so boring… But at least it wasn’t pure, unadulterated shit anymore since he settled in Khaede. Was he really willing to risk it all for some entertainment? For nothing more than a silly instrument? He glanced at the bard, who was now singing a rather crude rendition of “Pyres of Atawa”. Yes. Yes, he was going to take the fucking risk. Just to see if he could perform that song better. Because it was a gods-damned masterpiece and it deserved proper treatment. So, in a surge of determination, he looked Arnath dead in the eye and said:

“Aye. Much, much quicker.” - His voice was deadpan and threatening. And then, he left the man without another word.

When he entered the kitchens again, Yvor was glancing at him curiously.

“And? How did it go?”

“Decently. Can you tell Tedrick that I will be taking a day off tomorrow when you see him? The deer I brought in today should suffice for the next few days anyway.”

“Sure it will. No need to hunt for things that will only spoil just to show that you’re working.”

Crow allowed himself a small chuckle.

“You say that, but Tedrick might have a different opinion on the matter. But I’d rather ask for his forgiveness than permission. So it’ll be nice not to break the news myself.”

“Wise words, my friend.” - The plump man laughed back. - “You’ll owe me, though.”

“I’ll get right to paying you back and butcher the deer, then. If you haven’t done it yet, that is.” - Said the undead, thinking that Yvor wouldn’t be so quick to call him “friend” if he knew what he really was. In fact, he was quite convinced that if something happened to his scarf, the cook would be one of the first people to grab a pitchfork. The word was an empty pleasantry. Crow knew he had no one in the world who actually cared for him.

“I’m not that fast, boy. It’s outside, all yours.”

Crow nodded and went out to make work of the meat. And as the poor deer’s bones cracked in his deadly grasp, he thought that some things he just can’t escape. He was an undead. A monster. And the only thing he was good at was killing things that were alive.