I took a sip of my tankard of ale and leant back, glanced at the bartender then wished I hadn't. Ugly balding bastard with a milky white orb in one eye socket and a limp jaw. The smell of sweet root permeated the air, it did little to mask the odour of rotting cadavers. I cautiously looked around the bar.
"Bitch is late again." Mumbling into my ale, that god awful smell assaulting my nostrils. I could see one a few tables away. A living dead person. Ever since the turning the dead stopped dying, they were still dead just not dead. Walking talking luke warm corpses. Rotting on their feet, God knows how they keep going but they do, some hellish set of circumstances. From what they tell the dead can feel their dead they can feel parts of them rotting away, things growing on em, in em. To keep from turning into a rotting corpse that can do nothing but rot and be in pain the dead need strong magics. Without it they can last a few months before being beyond... repair? Word is even once the bodies are gone entirely they linger on as ghosts. I'd not seen any mind. I had seen one's guts fall out and he scooped them up and carried them off like they were his long lost baby, almost made me sick.
This one only had one arm left, looked like a proper shambler, jaw barely staying in its socket eyes all jaundiced, bits of flesh hanging off of anywhere exposed. It was hard not to stare at the thing.
The door opened and someone came in, shady looking with a cloak and a club foot. He looked around, saw me and nodded. I met him and we sat at a table.
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